Frequent readers, whom I certainly appreciate because they give me the attention I so richly desire, may have noticed a memeticism cropping up here once or twice.
Or perhaps way more often than that.
To whit, my remembered fondness for eating meals with one other person, because sharing food is an intimate and joyous act.
Sacramental, rather than sensual.
Breakfast, however, has never been part of it. Some of us are not even fully awake yet at that ghastly hour, while others are just bounding with energy, and full of piss and vinegar.
THE BREAKFAST CULTURE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnydFmqHuVo.]
Say what you will about coffee, but it's a godsend.
Tea and Coca Cola work nearly as well.
Anything caffeinated.
Philosphically, I approve of the stereotypic American breakfast, which is buckets of stimulating beverages washing down all kinds of fried sh*t and starchy compost, plus sugar up the wazzoo.
I won't eat any of that, but I'll enjoy my hot beverage while watching someone else do so. I maintain that bacon is strictly for dinner.
In another five hours I may be snarfing a Danish.
And that's the extent of it.
I'm having coffee right now.
Mercifully alone.
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Sunday, March 20, 2016
Saturday, March 19, 2016
LIKE CAKE TO THE HUNGRY
Dogs, cats, and pigeons like me. The dog and cat thing I already knew. The pigeon thing is something I only recently became aware of, when a pigeon landed on my knee in a park, and would not leave. Every time the bird slid off, because my smooth textured pants did not provide a surface to grip, it flew up and landed in the exact same spot ......
And slid off again. After a few further attempts, it sat next to me on the bench and happily scratched itself.
I do not find this disconcerting at all. If it had been a street person doing exactly the same thing, it would have been extremely unwelcome, but a small filthy feathered friend acting like this is quite okay.
Its companions did not fear me either.
One perched on my shoulder.
They came back several times in the next half hour.
When the time came, I was loathe to leave.
When little kids do stuff like that, it's because to them I look like a harmless old cooz, and they probably doubt that I can effectively chase after them if they poke me with a broom handle. One cannot assume such evil conspiritoriality from a bird. For one thing, a broom handle is something they might sit upon if it were angled just right -- unlike, for instance, a human knee clad in smooth pants -- and for another, their minds do not think that way.
As I see it, the only benefit to little children is that one does not have to worry about them defecating on one's clothes beyond a certain age.
Unfortunately, with birds it's different.
My old friend on Stockton Street came out to be petted. He lives in a store where they sell dried seafood and herbal stuff, along with odd ingredients like monkey head mushrooms and tofu twig. When I asked what his name was, the shop lady said she didn't know.
Perhaps they simple call him 'cat'.
I had not seen him for several months, and I feared that he had passed away. Old animals do that. But I'm happy to see that he is still with us, and enjoying the warmer weather.
For a scruffy old chap he has the sweetest temper.
Just keep scratching my head, smelly human.
Feel free to smoke that stinky pipe.
But keep petting me.
The dogs came today. They recognize me as the source of biscuit.
After just one they are certain that I am biscuit dude.
They are simple minded, and trusting.
Perhaps I should start carrying snacks in my pocket for the birds and cats on my days off. The birds would make suitable snacks for the cats, one supposes, but it seems kinder to keep them apart. Sometimes one set of friends should never be introduced to another set.
With such personality-differences, feathers might fly.
Possibly I smell warm, bestial, and comforting.
That doesn't explain the kids, though.
I am not a nice person.
Boo.
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And slid off again. After a few further attempts, it sat next to me on the bench and happily scratched itself.
I do not find this disconcerting at all. If it had been a street person doing exactly the same thing, it would have been extremely unwelcome, but a small filthy feathered friend acting like this is quite okay.
Its companions did not fear me either.
One perched on my shoulder.
They came back several times in the next half hour.
When the time came, I was loathe to leave.
When little kids do stuff like that, it's because to them I look like a harmless old cooz, and they probably doubt that I can effectively chase after them if they poke me with a broom handle. One cannot assume such evil conspiritoriality from a bird. For one thing, a broom handle is something they might sit upon if it were angled just right -- unlike, for instance, a human knee clad in smooth pants -- and for another, their minds do not think that way.
As I see it, the only benefit to little children is that one does not have to worry about them defecating on one's clothes beyond a certain age.
Unfortunately, with birds it's different.
My old friend on Stockton Street came out to be petted. He lives in a store where they sell dried seafood and herbal stuff, along with odd ingredients like monkey head mushrooms and tofu twig. When I asked what his name was, the shop lady said she didn't know.
Perhaps they simple call him 'cat'.
I had not seen him for several months, and I feared that he had passed away. Old animals do that. But I'm happy to see that he is still with us, and enjoying the warmer weather.
For a scruffy old chap he has the sweetest temper.
Just keep scratching my head, smelly human.
Feel free to smoke that stinky pipe.
But keep petting me.
The dogs came today. They recognize me as the source of biscuit.
After just one they are certain that I am biscuit dude.
They are simple minded, and trusting.
Perhaps I should start carrying snacks in my pocket for the birds and cats on my days off. The birds would make suitable snacks for the cats, one supposes, but it seems kinder to keep them apart. Sometimes one set of friends should never be introduced to another set.
With such personality-differences, feathers might fly.
Possibly I smell warm, bestial, and comforting.
That doesn't explain the kids, though.
I am not a nice person.
Boo.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 18, 2016
I WANT JOHN CLEESE TO SING!
Sometimes, in the evening, I pause for a little while near a doorway in Chinatown. Down the steps in the basement beyond, opera aficionados revive the arias they love, frequently whole scenes from classic works.
Opera, in the modern world, is no longer as popular as it once was, and now has to compete with movies, rap, video games, and karaoke.
Given that most of the time karaoke is "performed" by somewhat ("very") intoxicated young white people, who know that everything they do is brilliant, you can understand why I am not fond of that artform.
Their song choices leave much to be desired.
As does their behaviour at the time.
And their singing ability.
"NOT THE EAGLES, MAN, I HATE THE EAGLES!"
I'm having a rough night, Jesus, could you change the damned channel?!? Overly prosperous white jugend drinking Irish Whiskey and Tequila is a recipe for disaster.
Opera speaks of a more human time. Not necessarily anything more rational, certainly not normal events, but musically altogether more interesting and enjoyable.
In the peaceful area near the doorway, one can imagine romances and tales of bravado, military exiles in the far north among the Turkic barbarians, officials sent south to die of tropical agues, virtuous young ladies killing themselves in righteous protest, indignant old grannies, and great events of the past. The dulcet female lead sings an interior monologue, the wooden clackers mark a change of mood, then string fiddle and moon guitar pick up the pace. Suddenly a scholar appears!
The smoke from my cigarillo drifts, like a mildly obnoxious incense, down the street; it is a lingering presence, but mercifully brief. Sometimes a languid pajama-clad figure comes down from the apartments above to contemplatively enjoy a last cigarette before sleep, or a huddled blanket across the way grunts and wriggles in its slumber.
There are no screeching recent college graduates here.
What DO they teach those people nowadays?
Other than beer and pizza?
At the corner of the next block, the extremely short girl who works at the tea place is visible, having a smoke while reading her text messages. It is too distant to mark the details, she's only recognizable by the hue of her hair (which is dyed blonde, or blondish straw). Sometimes there are other youngsters around too; her friends and classmates. They cannot be heard, as they are fairly quiet, and well-behaved.
I am sure that when they sing karaoke, it is much better.
More restrained, not like egomaniacs.
And not The Eagles.
It isn't that I am an impossible old grouch, but that I very much prefer people who are calmly giddy on tea and sugar to those who are loud, and obnoxiously crazed on beer and hard liquor.
Yes, that IS a little old-fashioned.
Monty Python songs -- now THAT would make great karaoke!
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Opera, in the modern world, is no longer as popular as it once was, and now has to compete with movies, rap, video games, and karaoke.
Given that most of the time karaoke is "performed" by somewhat ("very") intoxicated young white people, who know that everything they do is brilliant, you can understand why I am not fond of that artform.
Their song choices leave much to be desired.
As does their behaviour at the time.
And their singing ability.
"NOT THE EAGLES, MAN, I HATE THE EAGLES!"
I'm having a rough night, Jesus, could you change the damned channel?!? Overly prosperous white jugend drinking Irish Whiskey and Tequila is a recipe for disaster.
Opera speaks of a more human time. Not necessarily anything more rational, certainly not normal events, but musically altogether more interesting and enjoyable.
In the peaceful area near the doorway, one can imagine romances and tales of bravado, military exiles in the far north among the Turkic barbarians, officials sent south to die of tropical agues, virtuous young ladies killing themselves in righteous protest, indignant old grannies, and great events of the past. The dulcet female lead sings an interior monologue, the wooden clackers mark a change of mood, then string fiddle and moon guitar pick up the pace. Suddenly a scholar appears!
The smoke from my cigarillo drifts, like a mildly obnoxious incense, down the street; it is a lingering presence, but mercifully brief. Sometimes a languid pajama-clad figure comes down from the apartments above to contemplatively enjoy a last cigarette before sleep, or a huddled blanket across the way grunts and wriggles in its slumber.
There are no screeching recent college graduates here.
What DO they teach those people nowadays?
Other than beer and pizza?
At the corner of the next block, the extremely short girl who works at the tea place is visible, having a smoke while reading her text messages. It is too distant to mark the details, she's only recognizable by the hue of her hair (which is dyed blonde, or blondish straw). Sometimes there are other youngsters around too; her friends and classmates. They cannot be heard, as they are fairly quiet, and well-behaved.
I am sure that when they sing karaoke, it is much better.
More restrained, not like egomaniacs.
And not The Eagles.
It isn't that I am an impossible old grouch, but that I very much prefer people who are calmly giddy on tea and sugar to those who are loud, and obnoxiously crazed on beer and hard liquor.
Yes, that IS a little old-fashioned.
Monty Python songs -- now THAT would make great karaoke!
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 17, 2016
CONGRATULATIONS TO ALL DRUNKEN CELEBRANTS!
Contrary to most people in this great country of ours, I do not celebrate festivals of mass insobriety. On the other hand, I do enjoy taunting people with hangovers, so it's a win-win. At present I can hear sounds of revelry from Polk Street, as well as honking and the screeching of tires, plus peculiar noises that may be internal organ activity writ large.
But I do not join such seasonal jollification.
Nor do I eat pickled horsemeat and boiled cabbage.
What kind of cuisine bases itself on just two ingredients? And those two, cooked in that way? Are they daft? Oh wait, they also add a potato or two to the pot. Yes, surely that makes it all better.
It explains those internal organs.
And their peculiar noises.
I haven't had "corned beef" (!) and cabbage in very many years. And, even though it's only served once every twelve months -- because nobody likes it the rest of the time, and it takes intoxication to tolerate -- there has never been a moment when I've had the urge to punish myself and revisit that one time at the hoffbrau, where they had run out of roast beef, English curry, bratwurst, lamb chops, that Italian soup, meatloaf, gekochter shinken auf schwarzbrot mit rettich-schmier und (scharfen) senf (und kleine gurken), Swedish meatballs, piroshki, chipped beef on toast, and cheese.
And I needed something to absorb the steam beer.
I think I'd rather wrestle a yeti.
That's one heck of a buggered up national dish y'all got there, gentle persons. Or at least almighty peculiar. Wouldn't you far rather have some smoked sausage on a bed of kale and potato mash?
We've got hot sauce ......
If y'all don't cease that infernal racket, I'm going to throw crap at you.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But I do not join such seasonal jollification.
Nor do I eat pickled horsemeat and boiled cabbage.
What kind of cuisine bases itself on just two ingredients? And those two, cooked in that way? Are they daft? Oh wait, they also add a potato or two to the pot. Yes, surely that makes it all better.
It explains those internal organs.
And their peculiar noises.
I haven't had "corned beef" (!) and cabbage in very many years. And, even though it's only served once every twelve months -- because nobody likes it the rest of the time, and it takes intoxication to tolerate -- there has never been a moment when I've had the urge to punish myself and revisit that one time at the hoffbrau, where they had run out of roast beef, English curry, bratwurst, lamb chops, that Italian soup, meatloaf, gekochter shinken auf schwarzbrot mit rettich-schmier und (scharfen) senf (und kleine gurken), Swedish meatballs, piroshki, chipped beef on toast, and cheese.
And I needed something to absorb the steam beer.
I think I'd rather wrestle a yeti.
That's one heck of a buggered up national dish y'all got there, gentle persons. Or at least almighty peculiar. Wouldn't you far rather have some smoked sausage on a bed of kale and potato mash?
We've got hot sauce ......
If y'all don't cease that infernal racket, I'm going to throw crap at you.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
TEA, FOR THE YOUNG PEOPLE
After my second pipe I went to a bubble-tea place to enjoy a passion fruit green tea beverage; medium sweet, no additions, tapioca bubbles, grass jelly squigglies, pudding slivers, or toppings of any kind.
Sare, spartan, altogether almost Calvinistically austere.
I enjoyed my own abstemiousness immensely.
And patted myself on the back.
Deservedly.
百香果綠茶[凍]
Actually, what I enjoyed most was the contortionism of the tea girl.
You see, she's short. Very short. She is not the smallest person who works there -- one of them is only four feet and a few inches - but she cannot be taller than five feet. Industrial equipment and heavy soda fountain machinery are calibrated for people of normal height. That is to say, normal white persons height. Which means that simply scooping up crushed ice requires calisthenics, and even vigorous exercise; what she lacks in leverage she makes up for by sheer effort. She's been working there long enough that I would not dare arm-wrestle her.
And she's full of beans.
I am a middle-aged coot with grey in my beard, she is probably not even twenty and quite utterly chock full of energy. You can imagine what that makes me feel.
Envious does not even begin to describe it.
No, I didn't stare at her obsessively, or even look in her direction, generally speaking. I contented myself with the rarest glance, and listening to the frequent beverage-related racket she made.
Mostly, I looked out the window at the intersection.
Had I been intently observing her, it would have creeped her out.
Females radiate disquiet and evil intent when you do that.
The anthropologist is often found dead.
He disturbed the women.
It's almost always time for tea.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sare, spartan, altogether almost Calvinistically austere.
I enjoyed my own abstemiousness immensely.
And patted myself on the back.
Deservedly.
百香果綠茶[凍]
Actually, what I enjoyed most was the contortionism of the tea girl.
You see, she's short. Very short. She is not the smallest person who works there -- one of them is only four feet and a few inches - but she cannot be taller than five feet. Industrial equipment and heavy soda fountain machinery are calibrated for people of normal height. That is to say, normal white persons height. Which means that simply scooping up crushed ice requires calisthenics, and even vigorous exercise; what she lacks in leverage she makes up for by sheer effort. She's been working there long enough that I would not dare arm-wrestle her.
And she's full of beans.
I am a middle-aged coot with grey in my beard, she is probably not even twenty and quite utterly chock full of energy. You can imagine what that makes me feel.
Envious does not even begin to describe it.
No, I didn't stare at her obsessively, or even look in her direction, generally speaking. I contented myself with the rarest glance, and listening to the frequent beverage-related racket she made.
Mostly, I looked out the window at the intersection.
Had I been intently observing her, it would have creeped her out.
Females radiate disquiet and evil intent when you do that.
The anthropologist is often found dead.
He disturbed the women.
It's almost always time for tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
YOUR INNER GEEK IS CAUSING TROUBLE
Sofar, the best line on Facebook this morning was "My inner geek just turned into a 13 year old schoolgirl!" This was written by a fellow pipesmoker on one of the forums, reacting to a handcrafted piece of smoking equipment, precisely pictured from several angles.
One can imagine what the writer of that is like.
Or, one might prefer not to.
Unlike him, I seldom, if ever, imagine myself as a 13 year old school girl. Although yesterday evening, before heading over to North Beach like I do every Tuesday, I did imagine myself as a crow. The flying part was, probably, the hardest thing about that.
"My inner geek just turned into a 13 year old schoolgirl!"
I really do not know what to make of such a declaration. Logically, the 13 year old schoolgirl is a very distant third party, seeing as she is only his alter ego's alter ego. That he has an inner geek lurking within is already slightly disturbing, but a giggly teenager (he also specified that she was "giggling") hiding inside the geek is far, far worse.
He's a pipesmoker, but he has issues.
If he had merely said that he, but not his inner geek, had become like a thirteen year old schoolgirl (why a 'schoolgirl'?), it would have cocked an eyebrow plenty. Now, both of the eyebrows are tensely erect.
And poised for flight.
I'm not sure that other pipe smokers can be comfortable with any of this.
Most of us shy firmly away from thirteen year old schoolgirls.
We've read enough literature to know the dangers.
Even if we've never met any live.
Romeo And Juliette is as good an illustration of the danger of thirteen year old girls as anything. A three day hormonal crush resulting in several brutal murders, and priestly meddling ending in a double suicide.
Far better a thirty one year old than Juliette.
Please, get rid of the inner child.
She'll ruin your life.
At the age when I became a pipe smoker, there were many thirteen year old schoolgirls whom I thought quite charming indeed, and it is highly likely that at opportune times they giggled, though I cannot remember that. But in those years, pipes and fine tobacco were well within reach ("do-able") whereas my classmates seemed entirely off-limits.
Had it been otherwise, I probably still would have ended up smoking pipes, seeing as when I was a teenager I always treated young ladies as equal albeit disturbingly different, and never asked anyone out on a date.
Everything I had read up to that point did not prepare me for dealing with the other gender in anything even remotely approaching a realistic fashion. Not my favourite children's books, and certainly nothing by Shakespeare.
Absolutely zip diddly in Chaucer, Piers Plowman, Beowulf, or Hengist, nor The Pearl Manuscript, Elegast, and Parsifal. And let's just say that Vladimir Nabokov, even at his very sanest, provided totally useless road maps.
Saki, Kipling, and Georges Simenon were no help either.
Science Fiction? Hah! Forgeddaboutit!
Asterix and Obelix?
Nope.
If I had been relying on any of that stuff, or even been looking for clues, the results would have been frightening. Good thing I always read for mental stimulation rather than practical instruction.
It's probably a pity that my mother did not allow a television into the house, and consequently I had a lot of catching up to do when I came back to the United States.
I've been smoking a pipe since I was fourteen. And thinking about girls for nearly as long. But never, even in my wildest moments, have I considered the giggly teenager within.
I'm rather jealous. She sounds like fun.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
One can imagine what the writer of that is like.
Or, one might prefer not to.
Unlike him, I seldom, if ever, imagine myself as a 13 year old school girl. Although yesterday evening, before heading over to North Beach like I do every Tuesday, I did imagine myself as a crow. The flying part was, probably, the hardest thing about that.
"My inner geek just turned into a 13 year old schoolgirl!"
I really do not know what to make of such a declaration. Logically, the 13 year old schoolgirl is a very distant third party, seeing as she is only his alter ego's alter ego. That he has an inner geek lurking within is already slightly disturbing, but a giggly teenager (he also specified that she was "giggling") hiding inside the geek is far, far worse.
He's a pipesmoker, but he has issues.
If he had merely said that he, but not his inner geek, had become like a thirteen year old schoolgirl (why a 'schoolgirl'?), it would have cocked an eyebrow plenty. Now, both of the eyebrows are tensely erect.
And poised for flight.
I'm not sure that other pipe smokers can be comfortable with any of this.
Most of us shy firmly away from thirteen year old schoolgirls.
We've read enough literature to know the dangers.
Even if we've never met any live.
Romeo And Juliette is as good an illustration of the danger of thirteen year old girls as anything. A three day hormonal crush resulting in several brutal murders, and priestly meddling ending in a double suicide.
Far better a thirty one year old than Juliette.
Please, get rid of the inner child.
She'll ruin your life.
At the age when I became a pipe smoker, there were many thirteen year old schoolgirls whom I thought quite charming indeed, and it is highly likely that at opportune times they giggled, though I cannot remember that. But in those years, pipes and fine tobacco were well within reach ("do-able") whereas my classmates seemed entirely off-limits.
Had it been otherwise, I probably still would have ended up smoking pipes, seeing as when I was a teenager I always treated young ladies as equal albeit disturbingly different, and never asked anyone out on a date.
Everything I had read up to that point did not prepare me for dealing with the other gender in anything even remotely approaching a realistic fashion. Not my favourite children's books, and certainly nothing by Shakespeare.
Absolutely zip diddly in Chaucer, Piers Plowman, Beowulf, or Hengist, nor The Pearl Manuscript, Elegast, and Parsifal. And let's just say that Vladimir Nabokov, even at his very sanest, provided totally useless road maps.
Saki, Kipling, and Georges Simenon were no help either.
Science Fiction? Hah! Forgeddaboutit!
Asterix and Obelix?
Nope.
If I had been relying on any of that stuff, or even been looking for clues, the results would have been frightening. Good thing I always read for mental stimulation rather than practical instruction.
It's probably a pity that my mother did not allow a television into the house, and consequently I had a lot of catching up to do when I came back to the United States.
I've been smoking a pipe since I was fourteen. And thinking about girls for nearly as long. But never, even in my wildest moments, have I considered the giggly teenager within.
I'm rather jealous. She sounds like fun.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 15, 2016
THE SCOTTISH ARE THE NEXT INDIANS
This blogger cannot help but feel that, instead of the huge number of very fine Indian gentlemen like Apu Nahasapeemapetilon running convenience stores and small late night groceries in the United States, what we really need are Scotsmen. I came to this conclusion after a reader called me to task for describing the Scots as blazingly queer, as well as "hairy balled", and a "depressing lot, daft and angst-ridden", in previous essays here.
Apparently I do not respect the Scots.
I thought I was in a position to judge, seeing as there are one or two kilt-wearing deviants deep within the family woodpile.
You know. Calvinists.
Unfortunately, being mostly of Dutch-American ancestry, I could have been mistaken. The Dutch compete with the Scots in all those areas and many others, so there may be a certain jealousy going on.
Although we do have far better gin.
As everyone agrees.
But anyhow, back to the idea of Quick-E-Marts. The Dutch are a nation of shopkeepers, but in my estimation, the Scots are just plain better at it.
Which the authoritative video below demonstrates.
NO BUNS FOR YOUR WIENER
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-CmKPYzUIw.]
Now that is mercantile talent, mate. The dashing proprietor shows a gift for his trade, as well as the remarkable ability to satisfy exactly the right element. He will provide the cheerful young lady with rolls, but NOT the dour, depressing, daft, and angst-ridden hairy-balled savage.
One must be selective about one's rolls.
Your typical Dutchman, faced with this situation, would have simply said "here's your roll, that will be ten pounds". Where's the education in that?!?
The reason why it should be a Scotsman, and not an Indian, running the neighborhood store, is because it all sounds much better with a Jock accent, than if Apu Nahasapeemapetilon was saying it.
"I am sorry, at this time we are having no rolls of any kind whatsoever, what were you thinking you very stupid person, now go away and stop irritating me with your silly sausage problem!
Thank you please come again!"
See? It's wrong.
Scots would also make better computer help-desk representatives than the Indians, except that they might be too dim.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Apparently I do not respect the Scots.
I thought I was in a position to judge, seeing as there are one or two kilt-wearing deviants deep within the family woodpile.
You know. Calvinists.
Unfortunately, being mostly of Dutch-American ancestry, I could have been mistaken. The Dutch compete with the Scots in all those areas and many others, so there may be a certain jealousy going on.
Although we do have far better gin.
As everyone agrees.
But anyhow, back to the idea of Quick-E-Marts. The Dutch are a nation of shopkeepers, but in my estimation, the Scots are just plain better at it.
Which the authoritative video below demonstrates.
NO BUNS FOR YOUR WIENER
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-CmKPYzUIw.]
Now that is mercantile talent, mate. The dashing proprietor shows a gift for his trade, as well as the remarkable ability to satisfy exactly the right element. He will provide the cheerful young lady with rolls, but NOT the dour, depressing, daft, and angst-ridden hairy-balled savage.
One must be selective about one's rolls.
Your typical Dutchman, faced with this situation, would have simply said "here's your roll, that will be ten pounds". Where's the education in that?!?
The reason why it should be a Scotsman, and not an Indian, running the neighborhood store, is because it all sounds much better with a Jock accent, than if Apu Nahasapeemapetilon was saying it.
"I am sorry, at this time we are having no rolls of any kind whatsoever, what were you thinking you very stupid person, now go away and stop irritating me with your silly sausage problem!
Thank you please come again!"
See? It's wrong.
Scots would also make better computer help-desk representatives than the Indians, except that they might be too dim.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
DUTCH DRUGGED OUT OF THEIR MINDS
According to a recent report from the European Monitoring Centre for Drugs and Drug Addiction (EMCCDA), the capital city of the most civilized country in Europe is tops in recreational drug ingestion. What this means is that Amsterdam is ahead, way ahead, of all other European cities.
More marijuana and ecstasy use than any where else.
Second to London for Cocaine.
See here: PDF - Assessing illicit drugs in wastewater.
Three other cities where Dutch or some variant thereof are spoken also rank very highly: Eindhoven, Utrecht, and Antwerpen.
[Note: natives of Eindhoven and Antwerpen speak dialects of Netherlandish, that while quite intelligible to the unbiased ear come across as strange and outlandish to Amsterdammers, who themselves have strong accents and extremely peculiar speech habits.
Evenso, the Dutch linguistic web and woof unites us.]
As a Dutchspeaker, of largely Dutch ethnic derivation, I do not quite know what to make of these findings.
Pride, I suppose; we're number one! Yay!
Still, I have this nasty suspicion that the figures are influenced by all those foreigners -- Americans, British, German, French, Scandinavian, Eastern European, Caribbean, Muslim, et autres -- who flock to the Netherlands to enjoy the blessings of civilization. Only one of which is the wide availability of illicit substances.
We also have museums, you know.
Famous art and stuff.
Tell you what; we'll gladly distribute all the substances you crave, in your own countries, for a modest profit of course, provided only your sane and sober citizens come and visit the museums. That way you can keep the addicts, AND show your best faces when we see you in Amsterdam.
We'll also send Heineken.
Win-win.
==========================================================================
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More marijuana and ecstasy use than any where else.
Second to London for Cocaine.
See here: PDF - Assessing illicit drugs in wastewater.
Three other cities where Dutch or some variant thereof are spoken also rank very highly: Eindhoven, Utrecht, and Antwerpen.
[Note: natives of Eindhoven and Antwerpen speak dialects of Netherlandish, that while quite intelligible to the unbiased ear come across as strange and outlandish to Amsterdammers, who themselves have strong accents and extremely peculiar speech habits.
Evenso, the Dutch linguistic web and woof unites us.]
As a Dutchspeaker, of largely Dutch ethnic derivation, I do not quite know what to make of these findings.
Pride, I suppose; we're number one! Yay!
Still, I have this nasty suspicion that the figures are influenced by all those foreigners -- Americans, British, German, French, Scandinavian, Eastern European, Caribbean, Muslim, et autres -- who flock to the Netherlands to enjoy the blessings of civilization. Only one of which is the wide availability of illicit substances.
We also have museums, you know.
Famous art and stuff.
Tell you what; we'll gladly distribute all the substances you crave, in your own countries, for a modest profit of course, provided only your sane and sober citizens come and visit the museums. That way you can keep the addicts, AND show your best faces when we see you in Amsterdam.
We'll also send Heineken.
Win-win.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, March 14, 2016
WE ARE SO HAPPY!
In a stunning and revolutionary move, North Korean strongman Kim Jong-un (金正恩) has replaced his entire cabinet with seasoned military men more adaptive to his style.
This per respected European North Korea expert Signor Lorenzo de Castro, in the Strategic Intelligence Department of the Scuola Internazionale di Grafica Venezi.
Mister de Castro released the top secret photo below.
[Venue: 人民大學習堂 ("big study hall").]
Supreme Leader Mr. Kim Jong-un (最高領導人金正恩先生), according to the data analysed by Mr. de Castro and his capable staff, claims to be "having a great time with my new friends".
This was immediately followed by "smile, bitches."
As well as "bring me some cheese!"
And, cryptically, "or else."
It is not known in what way precisely this remarkable change in the Pyongyang (平壤) inner circle relates to threats the North Korean government issued pursuant the recent wargames in the South.
Kim Yong-un clearly has the camp advantage.
A very disturbing development.
East Asia is on edge.
Now we dance.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This per respected European North Korea expert Signor Lorenzo de Castro, in the Strategic Intelligence Department of the Scuola Internazionale di Grafica Venezi.
Mister de Castro released the top secret photo below.
[Venue: 人民大學習堂 ("big study hall").]
朝鮮民主主義人民共和國最高的官員
[Copyright: Lorenzo de Castro. Photo used for medical and industrial purposes only.]
Supreme Leader Mr. Kim Jong-un (最高領導人金正恩先生), according to the data analysed by Mr. de Castro and his capable staff, claims to be "having a great time with my new friends".
This was immediately followed by "smile, bitches."
As well as "bring me some cheese!"
And, cryptically, "or else."
It is not known in what way precisely this remarkable change in the Pyongyang (平壤) inner circle relates to threats the North Korean government issued pursuant the recent wargames in the South.
Kim Yong-un clearly has the camp advantage.
A very disturbing development.
East Asia is on edge.
Now we dance.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A CONFLICTED FEELING
Perhaps girl-scout cookies are meant as lures for girlscouts. Not as snacks for humans.
I say this because I ate an entire box of them for dinner last night.
They were Samoas.
All hail the girlscouts, who are females with strong stomachs.
I guess I've never thought about it, but I may have assumed that they ate roots and grasses, and the occasional bug or grub for protein.
But obviously they live on cookies.
One box is too much for an old guy like me.
One whole box. Without thinking.
Little girls are evil.
I used to be a boy scout. Where were the girlscouts then, when I could have used them?
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==========================================================================
I say this because I ate an entire box of them for dinner last night.
They were Samoas.
All hail the girlscouts, who are females with strong stomachs.
I guess I've never thought about it, but I may have assumed that they ate roots and grasses, and the occasional bug or grub for protein.
But obviously they live on cookies.
One box is too much for an old guy like me.
One whole box. Without thinking.
Little girls are evil.
I used to be a boy scout. Where were the girlscouts then, when I could have used them?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 13, 2016
RAINY WEATHER
Oh what fun it is to be young enough to go out and get smashed, then spend all day hungover, with rumbly guts and severe lassitude! Which does not describe me, but perfectly encapsulates my coworker today. Who was already fairly hammered last night when a friend dragged him out of the house for drinkies.
After two (more) rum and cokes, they went to another bar further up the street from the first. Two drinkies later, back to the first. Then two more drinkies, and back to the second place, because maybe the young ladies there were no longer dancing with the same guys. Well, that wasn't the case, so they went back to the first (after two more drinkies), where a third friend soon arrived, all depressed and gloomy because he and his significant other had recently broken up. Let's do shots!
They stayed at the last bar till closing time.
He woke up this morning belatedly realizing that the time had changed and he would be late unless he got out of the house immediately, without bathing, and foregoing breakfast.
He whined that he was hungry for over two hours, then discovered a bag of peanut-butter bites.
"Wait, is this dogfood?!?"
No dude, it's junkfood. Oh, okay. A few minutes later he lit his first cigar of the day. Then spent an educational amount of time in the bathroom, and warned me not to go in after he came out.
Perhaps I should mention that the dear boy has gastritis, and his doctors have told him to lay off the junkfood. And the greasy crap. And stomach-stressing stuff like cookies, bread, roasted meats, fries, sodas, coffee, crispy snax, fatty bits, burritos, wings, burgers, dogs, spicy food.....
And hot sauce, which makes eating in Marin bearable.
And definitely, boyo, NO! MORE! LIQUOR!
He was sorely afflicted all day.
Nothing stayed in.
I, on the other hand, had a splendid day. Smoked several pipes plus the odd cheroot, buffed a number of pieces of briar as well as the carbon rubber stems belonging to them, dumped hot sauce all over my cheap sandwich, twitted cigar smokers gibbering in the lounge and gloated about the rain.
I exemplify good clean living. Very little booze, ever, and an abstemious approach to cigars. It's darn-well saintly of me.
And I rather like rainy weather.
It is peaceful when it rains.
Except for Scotsmen.
MILDEW ON THE SADDLE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feRBILhdXLQ. ]
The Scots are a depressing lot, daft and angst-ridden.
Some of them are queer as blazes.
Haggis and sh*t.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
After two (more) rum and cokes, they went to another bar further up the street from the first. Two drinkies later, back to the first. Then two more drinkies, and back to the second place, because maybe the young ladies there were no longer dancing with the same guys. Well, that wasn't the case, so they went back to the first (after two more drinkies), where a third friend soon arrived, all depressed and gloomy because he and his significant other had recently broken up. Let's do shots!
They stayed at the last bar till closing time.
He woke up this morning belatedly realizing that the time had changed and he would be late unless he got out of the house immediately, without bathing, and foregoing breakfast.
He whined that he was hungry for over two hours, then discovered a bag of peanut-butter bites.
"Wait, is this dogfood?!?"
No dude, it's junkfood. Oh, okay. A few minutes later he lit his first cigar of the day. Then spent an educational amount of time in the bathroom, and warned me not to go in after he came out.
Perhaps I should mention that the dear boy has gastritis, and his doctors have told him to lay off the junkfood. And the greasy crap. And stomach-stressing stuff like cookies, bread, roasted meats, fries, sodas, coffee, crispy snax, fatty bits, burritos, wings, burgers, dogs, spicy food.....
And hot sauce, which makes eating in Marin bearable.
And definitely, boyo, NO! MORE! LIQUOR!
He was sorely afflicted all day.
Nothing stayed in.
I, on the other hand, had a splendid day. Smoked several pipes plus the odd cheroot, buffed a number of pieces of briar as well as the carbon rubber stems belonging to them, dumped hot sauce all over my cheap sandwich, twitted cigar smokers gibbering in the lounge and gloated about the rain.
I exemplify good clean living. Very little booze, ever, and an abstemious approach to cigars. It's darn-well saintly of me.
And I rather like rainy weather.
It is peaceful when it rains.
Except for Scotsmen.
MILDEW ON THE SADDLE
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feRBILhdXLQ. ]
The Scots are a depressing lot, daft and angst-ridden.
Some of them are queer as blazes.
Haggis and sh*t.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT
Many years ago I visited Canterbury. I do not remember it as being filled by big bold men with hairy balls. What I do remember is the smell of a leather tannery, pints of black ale, the taste of fresh butter, and a lovely hotel surrounded by green lawns, the Abbots Barton.
Tea trays at six in the morning, left outside your door, with a discreet knock to alert you to your wake-up beverage, are a smashing idea.
Big bold men with hairy balls making a racket perhaps far less so.
FILMED FROM THE WRONG ANGLE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRVS4XxSn9Q.]
If I seem fixated on the bigness, boldness, and hairy balledness of it all, that's because I did not get a wake-up pot of tea this morning, and I've just hit replay for the third time. Scots do not wear boxers underneath their woolen kilts. All I can think of is velcro.
I presume that Scots have hairy balls, but I do not know.
Finding out if they do is not on my bucket list.
Confirmation is not required.
Nor wanted.
The status and condition of the representative Caledonian scrotal ensemble is far from a subject of abiding interest.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tea trays at six in the morning, left outside your door, with a discreet knock to alert you to your wake-up beverage, are a smashing idea.
Big bold men with hairy balls making a racket perhaps far less so.
FILMED FROM THE WRONG ANGLE!
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRVS4XxSn9Q.]
If I seem fixated on the bigness, boldness, and hairy balledness of it all, that's because I did not get a wake-up pot of tea this morning, and I've just hit replay for the third time. Scots do not wear boxers underneath their woolen kilts. All I can think of is velcro.
I presume that Scots have hairy balls, but I do not know.
Finding out if they do is not on my bucket list.
Confirmation is not required.
Nor wanted.
The status and condition of the representative Caledonian scrotal ensemble is far from a subject of abiding interest.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 12, 2016
DONALD TRUMP: ANOTHER TERM FOR OBSCENITY
This blogger, and I probably speak for many, sincerely wishes that Donald Trump would visit San Francisco, so that we can trash the dumbass inbreds and trailer park wreckage crawling out of the woodwork to worship him.
This, pursuant riots that shut down his hatefest in Chicago.
And also pursuant the internet comments by his low-life supporters.
"The peace loving Obama-ites in Chicago have taken to the streets, outraged that Donald J. Trump decided to hold a rally in their wretched city.".
------a slightly incoherent true believer for Trump
"Fuck You Greg you stupid cock sucker! Trump is going to be POTUS move to Canada Fag!"
------an utterly typical stormtrooper for Trump
"Punch him in the face!"
-----Donald 'unnaturally tiny hands' Trump
Now let's see .... Trump and his idiot fanclub truly hate Mexicans, Muslims, Blacks, Native Americans, Liberals, Gays, plus the values of modern cities and relatively non-illiterate people.
Some more quotes:
"I'd like to punch him in the face, I'll tell ya."
"Knock the crap out of 'em, would ya, seriously."
"They'd be carried out on a stretcher, folks."
-----Donald 'really small ugly' hands' Trump
Despite the endorsement by Ben Carson, Trump has failed to gain traction among Black Americans, because they recognize what Dr. Carson does not: Trump is a barely varnished old-school bigot.
As well as an instinctively thuggish brute.
This naturally also calls into question the sanity of the Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, and Jews, who nevertheless support that man.
Turkeys for Thanksgiving, in a way.
A LOUDLY STRIDENT "SILENT" MAJORITY
From The Hill: "Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton was quick to denounce the violence that occurs at Trump rallies, and his GOP rivals also expressed concerns at Thursday night's GOP debate."
Rather hypocritical of his rivals, as they and their party are responsible for the polarization of this country, the renaissance of racial hatred, and the very creation of Trump the monster.
At an earlier rally in St. Louis, foaming-at-the-mouth re-pub Trump hooligans picked fights with protesters, yelled threats and crude insults, and called various women whores for not supporting Trump.
Then they ganged up on an African American and pounded his face.
This is what the Republican Party has become.
Sociopaths.
PS.: Most San Franciscans have normal hands. Some of us have large hands. Large and very firm hands. Please come and see our hands.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This, pursuant riots that shut down his hatefest in Chicago.
And also pursuant the internet comments by his low-life supporters.
"The peace loving Obama-ites in Chicago have taken to the streets, outraged that Donald J. Trump decided to hold a rally in their wretched city.".
------a slightly incoherent true believer for Trump
"Fuck You Greg you stupid cock sucker! Trump is going to be POTUS move to Canada Fag!"
------an utterly typical stormtrooper for Trump
"Punch him in the face!"
-----Donald 'unnaturally tiny hands' Trump
Now let's see .... Trump and his idiot fanclub truly hate Mexicans, Muslims, Blacks, Native Americans, Liberals, Gays, plus the values of modern cities and relatively non-illiterate people.
Some more quotes:
"I'd like to punch him in the face, I'll tell ya."
"Knock the crap out of 'em, would ya, seriously."
"They'd be carried out on a stretcher, folks."
-----Donald 'really small ugly' hands' Trump
Despite the endorsement by Ben Carson, Trump has failed to gain traction among Black Americans, because they recognize what Dr. Carson does not: Trump is a barely varnished old-school bigot.
As well as an instinctively thuggish brute.
This naturally also calls into question the sanity of the Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, and Jews, who nevertheless support that man.
Turkeys for Thanksgiving, in a way.
A LOUDLY STRIDENT "SILENT" MAJORITY
From The Hill: "Democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton was quick to denounce the violence that occurs at Trump rallies, and his GOP rivals also expressed concerns at Thursday night's GOP debate."
Rather hypocritical of his rivals, as they and their party are responsible for the polarization of this country, the renaissance of racial hatred, and the very creation of Trump the monster.
At an earlier rally in St. Louis, foaming-at-the-mouth re-pub Trump hooligans picked fights with protesters, yelled threats and crude insults, and called various women whores for not supporting Trump.
Then they ganged up on an African American and pounded his face.
This is what the Republican Party has become.
Sociopaths.
PS.: Most San Franciscans have normal hands. Some of us have large hands. Large and very firm hands. Please come and see our hands.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 11, 2016
IT'S FULL OF EELS!
All I want to do today is recover. Oh, my head. This is the inevitable result of a meeting of the local pipe club, which necessitated smoking eight bowls full yesterday, instead of my normal three or four. Eight bowls. My nipples do NOT explode with excitement, to misquote the Hungarian gentleman from the famous Monty Python tobacconist sketch.
Yandelavasa gudenwi struvenka.
Many of us at the meeting were of an age, and much was discussed; the present derivation of Latakia tobacco, classic English shapes, garlicky hummus, and Japanese robotic progress, which last subject must inevitably lead to perversion, because they are making them look more and more like normal receptionists.
Additionally, most of us agree that now is the time to lurk around playgrounds luring in another generation of smokers, so that when we are old and decrepit, there will be nursing home staff willing to roll us out to the designated smoking area five blocks away in the rain.
"Come here, little person of whatever gender, would you like a fine Nicaraguan? It is made by a hip and well-respected company!"
At least, I think most of us agree. Too many of us have jobs that require our presence during normal playground hours, so maybe not.
And some of us melt in the rain.
Besides, we do not really know what pipe tobacco miss Hello Kitty favours.
It probably is NOT the horrible ghastly fruit-loop aromatic that Steve had in his pipe later, when we were enjoying a drink at the Oxxy. Conversations suddenly fell silent, and shock and horror spread, when the loathsome aroma made itself known. He apologetically explained that someone had offered him a sample, and, without even knowing what it was, he promptly loaded a pipe for later.
Everyone nearby remonstrated with him. Dude, unless you want us to think that you have short stumpy fingers and Nazi tendencies, you will pronto stop smoking that. Here, have something with Latakia instead; it will counteract the sleazy odeur.
I felt particularly vexed, because I vett these people before letting them loose on the unsuspecting innocents at the Oxxy. And I had indeed warned him about their disdain for perfumed dreck. But I'm sure it was an honest mistake, he had naively assumed clean habits and sound morals from a fellow pipesmoker.
Which is wrong.
Both Frank Sinatra and Hugh Heffner smoked Mixture 79.
Some people are right nasty swine, despite appearances.
If your grandpapa smoked cherry blend, good riddance.
Boys and girls, if someone EVER offers you Lane's 1Q, Molto Dolce, or Dan Tobacco's Blue Note, do not take it. Stuff like that gives you diseases, and leads to moral turpitude.
Only classic Latakia blends and fine Virginia-Perique mixtures are worth smoking; when one of us offers you some, accept gracefully and light up.
Irrespective of the horrid weather, I will be heading down to a convenient playground later in the day to enjoy a pipe or two on the periphery after lunch. If any of the usual healthy lads and lasses are playing volley ball there in the rain, I shall make encouraging noises from the sidelines,
and beckon invitingly with my umbrella.
No, I will not have my Hello Kitty backpack with me.
That only gets used on work days in Marin.
But I will have extra tobacco.
A rubbed flake.
Despite her personal preference in perfume, Ms. Kitty probably likes conservative English mixtures. Something by Samuel Gawith, or Greg Pease's Westminster, which is the very epitome of what a Londonian pipe tobacco should be. Balanced, civilized, and highly recommended.
Min luftkussens-fartsug es fuld mit aler.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Yandelavasa gudenwi struvenka.
Many of us at the meeting were of an age, and much was discussed; the present derivation of Latakia tobacco, classic English shapes, garlicky hummus, and Japanese robotic progress, which last subject must inevitably lead to perversion, because they are making them look more and more like normal receptionists.
Additionally, most of us agree that now is the time to lurk around playgrounds luring in another generation of smokers, so that when we are old and decrepit, there will be nursing home staff willing to roll us out to the designated smoking area five blocks away in the rain.
"Come here, little person of whatever gender, would you like a fine Nicaraguan? It is made by a hip and well-respected company!"
At least, I think most of us agree. Too many of us have jobs that require our presence during normal playground hours, so maybe not.
And some of us melt in the rain.
Besides, we do not really know what pipe tobacco miss Hello Kitty favours.
It probably is NOT the horrible ghastly fruit-loop aromatic that Steve had in his pipe later, when we were enjoying a drink at the Oxxy. Conversations suddenly fell silent, and shock and horror spread, when the loathsome aroma made itself known. He apologetically explained that someone had offered him a sample, and, without even knowing what it was, he promptly loaded a pipe for later.
Everyone nearby remonstrated with him. Dude, unless you want us to think that you have short stumpy fingers and Nazi tendencies, you will pronto stop smoking that. Here, have something with Latakia instead; it will counteract the sleazy odeur.
I felt particularly vexed, because I vett these people before letting them loose on the unsuspecting innocents at the Oxxy. And I had indeed warned him about their disdain for perfumed dreck. But I'm sure it was an honest mistake, he had naively assumed clean habits and sound morals from a fellow pipesmoker.
Which is wrong.
Both Frank Sinatra and Hugh Heffner smoked Mixture 79.
Some people are right nasty swine, despite appearances.
If your grandpapa smoked cherry blend, good riddance.
Boys and girls, if someone EVER offers you Lane's 1Q, Molto Dolce, or Dan Tobacco's Blue Note, do not take it. Stuff like that gives you diseases, and leads to moral turpitude.
Only classic Latakia blends and fine Virginia-Perique mixtures are worth smoking; when one of us offers you some, accept gracefully and light up.
Irrespective of the horrid weather, I will be heading down to a convenient playground later in the day to enjoy a pipe or two on the periphery after lunch. If any of the usual healthy lads and lasses are playing volley ball there in the rain, I shall make encouraging noises from the sidelines,
and beckon invitingly with my umbrella.
No, I will not have my Hello Kitty backpack with me.
That only gets used on work days in Marin.
But I will have extra tobacco.
A rubbed flake.
Despite her personal preference in perfume, Ms. Kitty probably likes conservative English mixtures. Something by Samuel Gawith, or Greg Pease's Westminster, which is the very epitome of what a Londonian pipe tobacco should be. Balanced, civilized, and highly recommended.
Min luftkussens-fartsug es fuld mit aler.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 10, 2016
HOME STYLE SOY SAUCE CHICKEN: 家庭豉油雞
It's very comforting! And tasty, too! Plus soy sauce chicken is so easy to make that one has to wonder why one does not make it more often. With some bokchoi on the side, and rice, it's a delicious meal.
The recipe below is a Cantonese version; people in the north also do something they call soy sauce chicken, but it is oddly unappealing.
豉油雞
SI YAU KAI
One whole chicken, about four pounds.
Two cups soy sauce.
Half a cup sherry or rice wine.
Six TBS cane sugar.
Six slices of ginger.
Three garlic cloves, whole.
Three scallion, sectioned.
Three star anise pods.
One piece of dried tangerine peel (陳皮 'chan pei').
One dried honey date (金絲蜜棗乾 'gam si mat jou gon').
Half a stick cinnamon or less.
Eight cups water.
Rinse your chicken well, and trim flaps.
Gild the ginger, garlic, and scallion with a little oil in the bottom of a large stockpot, adding the ginger first, then the garlic cloves and scallion sections. Seethe with the sherry, then add everything except the chicken and bring to a boil. Simmer a few minutes, then submerge the chicken, rump upwards. Bring back to a boil, turn low, and poach for a scant twenty minutes. Turn off heat, cover, and let stand for an hour or so.
Remove chicken and drain.
Bring pot back to a boil and reduce liquid over fifty percent.
Strain and cool.
Chop the chicken into large pieces. Arrange on a platter and spoon some of the liquid over.
Reserve the rest of the liquid for other uses.
Some folks swear by rose-flavour wine (玫瑰酒 'mui kwei jau') as the liquor, claiming that it adds an ethereal je ne sais quoi. But unless you have any other reason to use it, such as curing little pork sausages (臘腸 'laap cheung'), it's rather a waste. Sherry is my preferred cooking hooch.
I add tangerine peel and honey date for their perfume instead.
The point of the dish is NOT strongly overflavoured chicken, but a bird which still has natural sweetness and is softly savoury-fragrant.
Gentleness is the trick.
Note that chicken wings and chicken drumsticks can be done similarly; an entire bucket for a party, for instance. I never have sports fans over, and consequently seldom do that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The recipe below is a Cantonese version; people in the north also do something they call soy sauce chicken, but it is oddly unappealing.
豉油雞
SI YAU KAI
One whole chicken, about four pounds.
Two cups soy sauce.
Half a cup sherry or rice wine.
Six TBS cane sugar.
Six slices of ginger.
Three garlic cloves, whole.
Three scallion, sectioned.
Three star anise pods.
One piece of dried tangerine peel (陳皮 'chan pei').
One dried honey date (金絲蜜棗乾 'gam si mat jou gon').
Half a stick cinnamon or less.
Eight cups water.
Rinse your chicken well, and trim flaps.
Gild the ginger, garlic, and scallion with a little oil in the bottom of a large stockpot, adding the ginger first, then the garlic cloves and scallion sections. Seethe with the sherry, then add everything except the chicken and bring to a boil. Simmer a few minutes, then submerge the chicken, rump upwards. Bring back to a boil, turn low, and poach for a scant twenty minutes. Turn off heat, cover, and let stand for an hour or so.
Remove chicken and drain.
Bring pot back to a boil and reduce liquid over fifty percent.
Strain and cool.
Chop the chicken into large pieces. Arrange on a platter and spoon some of the liquid over.
Reserve the rest of the liquid for other uses.
Some folks swear by rose-flavour wine (玫瑰酒 'mui kwei jau') as the liquor, claiming that it adds an ethereal je ne sais quoi. But unless you have any other reason to use it, such as curing little pork sausages (臘腸 'laap cheung'), it's rather a waste. Sherry is my preferred cooking hooch.
I add tangerine peel and honey date for their perfume instead.
The point of the dish is NOT strongly overflavoured chicken, but a bird which still has natural sweetness and is softly savoury-fragrant.
Gentleness is the trick.
Note that chicken wings and chicken drumsticks can be done similarly; an entire bucket for a party, for instance. I never have sports fans over, and consequently seldom do that.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, March 09, 2016
BEAN FERMENT, FIRED LOINS, AND RICE: 豆腐火腩飯
Early dinner yesterday was excellent; tofu and roasted pork loin, sauced together, and served with a mound of rice. I had gone to a chachanteng, and even though that was a lunch option (lunch ends at three o'clock), I asked if it was still possible to have it. They had no issue with that request, despite the late hour, and I ate well.
I also got to observe two tourists become totally baffled at the menu, because a chachanteng is not your mother's Chinese restaurant.
Baked spaghetti? Grilled salmon? Toast?
The typical chachanteng is strictly Hong Kong, meaning that whatever can be cobbled together into a hot or fast meal is offered, including tinned luncheon meat and tomato sauce over macaroni, odd noodly combos, bland Western soups served alongside plate lunches, snacks, casseroles, and high fat high carb hotch-a-potches, all with cups of either hot strong milk-tea or coffee and milk-tea combined, your choice.
Oh, and some typical Cantonese dishes, mostly home style.
No kung pao, no general Tzo, no shrimp Rangoon.
Not an egg roll on the premises.
No sweet'n sour.
Tofu combined with fire-loin (火腩 'fo naam'; very nearly the same as 燒肉 'siu yiuk'), in almost any form, is both home cooking and conveniently fast restaurant chow.
The fired loin is roast pork with the crust all nice and crunchy, bought from a local siu-mei vendor (燒味店), the tofu is fried chunks available at any grocery. Just some assembly and saucing, and it's done.
And it's stupendous.
Here are two recipes that show how easy it is. Use both or either as guides, come up with your own variant.
火腩炆豆腐
FO NAAM MAN DAU FU
Half pound of fire belly pork (火腩), chunk-chopped.
One tub of firm tofu, sliced into two, flat-wise.
Ten cloves garlic, left whole.
One onion, chopped.
Three slices of ginger.
One TBS soy sauce.
One TBS Shaoxing rice wine (紹興酒).
One Tsp. oyster sauce (蠔油).
One Tsp. sugar.
A dash of sesame oil (麻油).
One Tsp. cornstarch dissolved in a tablespoon of water.
Lightly dust the tofu with cornstarch and a pinch of salt on all sides, fry in hot oil till golden brown. Remove, drain, and cut into large chunks.
Gild the ginger slices and whole garlic cloves. Reserve to a saucer.
Sauté the chopped onion, add the fire belly pork. When the edges turn golden add the soy sauce, Shaoxing rice wine, and a splash of water, plus the garlic and ginger. Simmer a few minutes, then put in the tofu, and stir the cornstarch solution in. Add a dash of sesame oil, serve.
[NOTES: For the Shaoxing rice wine (紹興酒 'siu hing jau') you may substitute sherry. The effect will be no different. For drinking, you may replace the sherry with Shaoxing. That, too, is good. Oyster sauce (蠔油 'ho yau') is essential, sesame oil ((麻油 'maa yau') adds fragrance.]
枝竹豆腐炆火腩
JI JUK DAU FU MAN FO NAAM
Half a pound of roast pork (火腩), chunk-chopped.
One or two sticks of dried tofu (枝竹).
One slab of firm tofu (half a tub).
Three slices ginger.
Half a head of garlic (6-8 cloves).
Three scallion, minced.
One Tbs soy sauce.
Half TBS oyster sauce.
Half Tsp. sugar.
One cup water.
One Tsp. cornstarch dissolved in a tablespoon of water.
Cook dried tofu stick in some water till soft, cut into suitable segments. Cut the firm tofu into eight chunks and fry in hot oil till golden, remove and drain.
Sauté ginger and garlic briefly. Add the sauces, sugar, and water, bring to a boil and put in the dried tofu pieces. Simmer for about three or four minutes, then add the roast pork and fried tofu and simmer just a little while longer to heat through and combine flavours. Add the cornstarch solution and the minced scallion, stir to combine, and decant to a plate.
The goal in either version is having enough moisture in the dish to glorify the rice. A very big squirt of Sriracha hot sauce (是拉差辣椒醬 'si-laa-chaa laat-chiu jeung') on the plate is, to my mind, the crowning final touch. Wah, chan hou sik! If you really want to over-indulge, you might also put half a dozen soaked dried oysters (蠔豉 'hou si') into the pot.
Or black mushrooms (冬菇 'dong gu').
Or both.
Tofu and roast pork could be one dish among many if dining together.
May I suggest having sautéed brassica green (炒油菜 'chaau yau choi') alongside, along with some watercress soup?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I also got to observe two tourists become totally baffled at the menu, because a chachanteng is not your mother's Chinese restaurant.
Baked spaghetti? Grilled salmon? Toast?
The typical chachanteng is strictly Hong Kong, meaning that whatever can be cobbled together into a hot or fast meal is offered, including tinned luncheon meat and tomato sauce over macaroni, odd noodly combos, bland Western soups served alongside plate lunches, snacks, casseroles, and high fat high carb hotch-a-potches, all with cups of either hot strong milk-tea or coffee and milk-tea combined, your choice.
Oh, and some typical Cantonese dishes, mostly home style.
No kung pao, no general Tzo, no shrimp Rangoon.
Not an egg roll on the premises.
No sweet'n sour.
Tofu combined with fire-loin (火腩 'fo naam'; very nearly the same as 燒肉 'siu yiuk'), in almost any form, is both home cooking and conveniently fast restaurant chow.
The fired loin is roast pork with the crust all nice and crunchy, bought from a local siu-mei vendor (燒味店), the tofu is fried chunks available at any grocery. Just some assembly and saucing, and it's done.
And it's stupendous.
Here are two recipes that show how easy it is. Use both or either as guides, come up with your own variant.
火腩炆豆腐
FO NAAM MAN DAU FU
Half pound of fire belly pork (火腩), chunk-chopped.
One tub of firm tofu, sliced into two, flat-wise.
Ten cloves garlic, left whole.
One onion, chopped.
Three slices of ginger.
One TBS soy sauce.
One TBS Shaoxing rice wine (紹興酒).
One Tsp. oyster sauce (蠔油).
One Tsp. sugar.
A dash of sesame oil (麻油).
One Tsp. cornstarch dissolved in a tablespoon of water.
Lightly dust the tofu with cornstarch and a pinch of salt on all sides, fry in hot oil till golden brown. Remove, drain, and cut into large chunks.
Gild the ginger slices and whole garlic cloves. Reserve to a saucer.
Sauté the chopped onion, add the fire belly pork. When the edges turn golden add the soy sauce, Shaoxing rice wine, and a splash of water, plus the garlic and ginger. Simmer a few minutes, then put in the tofu, and stir the cornstarch solution in. Add a dash of sesame oil, serve.
[NOTES: For the Shaoxing rice wine (紹興酒 'siu hing jau') you may substitute sherry. The effect will be no different. For drinking, you may replace the sherry with Shaoxing. That, too, is good. Oyster sauce (蠔油 'ho yau') is essential, sesame oil ((麻油 'maa yau') adds fragrance.]
枝竹豆腐炆火腩
JI JUK DAU FU MAN FO NAAM
Half a pound of roast pork (火腩), chunk-chopped.
One or two sticks of dried tofu (枝竹).
One slab of firm tofu (half a tub).
Three slices ginger.
Half a head of garlic (6-8 cloves).
Three scallion, minced.
One Tbs soy sauce.
Half TBS oyster sauce.
Half Tsp. sugar.
One cup water.
One Tsp. cornstarch dissolved in a tablespoon of water.
Cook dried tofu stick in some water till soft, cut into suitable segments. Cut the firm tofu into eight chunks and fry in hot oil till golden, remove and drain.
Sauté ginger and garlic briefly. Add the sauces, sugar, and water, bring to a boil and put in the dried tofu pieces. Simmer for about three or four minutes, then add the roast pork and fried tofu and simmer just a little while longer to heat through and combine flavours. Add the cornstarch solution and the minced scallion, stir to combine, and decant to a plate.
The goal in either version is having enough moisture in the dish to glorify the rice. A very big squirt of Sriracha hot sauce (是拉差辣椒醬 'si-laa-chaa laat-chiu jeung') on the plate is, to my mind, the crowning final touch. Wah, chan hou sik! If you really want to over-indulge, you might also put half a dozen soaked dried oysters (蠔豉 'hou si') into the pot.
Or black mushrooms (冬菇 'dong gu').
Or both.
Tofu and roast pork could be one dish among many if dining together.
May I suggest having sautéed brassica green (炒油菜 'chaau yau choi') alongside, along with some watercress soup?
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
LESS NOISE, MORE WATER
The ebullient Ms. Wong fails to understand the paradigm. She firmly believes that seven shots in the time allotted for two must, without fail, make three times as good. It does for her! One of her ideas is that if we buy her one, she'll buy us one. Surely that makes total happy, yes?
The math is acceptable -- we will split the cost of her beverage (in another words, pay for half a shot each), and she'll stand a drink for us, one each all around -- but the effect is not.
With nine customers at the bar, she ends up with four shots, then pours herself one more. Meanwhile, her customers are wondering why they've had ten shots of Hennesy, and if they will remember this evening.
"He-ah, you hawanud-dah!"
The deed is done. One more human helped further toward paradise.
She also does not grasp that what would be good for a callow youth no longer works for a man of sense and gravitas, whose digestive system will not take kindly to nine, ten, or eleven shots of whiskey.
But, seeing as she will not listen, the two of us have developed coping mechanisms. Mine is to toss the liquor onto the floor under my oxter when she is not looking. Thus neatly achieving a total of only two shots in the system in the time it takes her to drink five or six.
We worry about her liver.
"Lass' koh, ebbiddy go now, wan more!"
Which means hurry up and leave, (but) have another shot (or two).
It is a good thing the landlord has told her to tone it down. Previously the place would be bedlam at closing, with screaming, shouting, karaoke screeching by twenty stupid white folks, and much cursing in Cantonese, Hokkien, and Mandarin. Now it is far more restrained, and she has to struggle to tax her liver.
Still. Two shots, good. Ten, bad.
I have gotten very good at resisting her blandishments. My friend the bookseller is weaker, and ends up with a third or fourth. But he's younger than me, and not so grumpy, so he probably suffers less ill from the excess than I would. He's also more socially gentle, nebbech.
There was a puddle of Irish Whiskey near my stool when we left.
Still, we were pretty sober during our walk home.
Enjoyed the soft-falling rain.
Talked.
We parted after cheroots and discussion of washing, pursuant a corner laundromat recently closed for earthquake retro-fitting and rent-gauging in San Francisco's booming yuppie commerce conditions.
Pacific Avenue is very beautiful in the rain late at night; dark, bright, and glistening. Peaceful. There should be more of it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The math is acceptable -- we will split the cost of her beverage (in another words, pay for half a shot each), and she'll stand a drink for us, one each all around -- but the effect is not.
With nine customers at the bar, she ends up with four shots, then pours herself one more. Meanwhile, her customers are wondering why they've had ten shots of Hennesy, and if they will remember this evening.
"He-ah, you hawanud-dah!"
The deed is done. One more human helped further toward paradise.
She also does not grasp that what would be good for a callow youth no longer works for a man of sense and gravitas, whose digestive system will not take kindly to nine, ten, or eleven shots of whiskey.
But, seeing as she will not listen, the two of us have developed coping mechanisms. Mine is to toss the liquor onto the floor under my oxter when she is not looking. Thus neatly achieving a total of only two shots in the system in the time it takes her to drink five or six.
We worry about her liver.
"Lass' koh, ebbiddy go now, wan more!"
Which means hurry up and leave, (but) have another shot (or two).
It is a good thing the landlord has told her to tone it down. Previously the place would be bedlam at closing, with screaming, shouting, karaoke screeching by twenty stupid white folks, and much cursing in Cantonese, Hokkien, and Mandarin. Now it is far more restrained, and she has to struggle to tax her liver.
Still. Two shots, good. Ten, bad.
I have gotten very good at resisting her blandishments. My friend the bookseller is weaker, and ends up with a third or fourth. But he's younger than me, and not so grumpy, so he probably suffers less ill from the excess than I would. He's also more socially gentle, nebbech.
There was a puddle of Irish Whiskey near my stool when we left.
Still, we were pretty sober during our walk home.
Enjoyed the soft-falling rain.
Talked.
We parted after cheroots and discussion of washing, pursuant a corner laundromat recently closed for earthquake retro-fitting and rent-gauging in San Francisco's booming yuppie commerce conditions.
Pacific Avenue is very beautiful in the rain late at night; dark, bright, and glistening. Peaceful. There should be more of it.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, March 08, 2016
UPROOTING THE TORAH IN ANY CULTURE
An esteemed rabbi has recently criticized a collection of piyyutim. Piyyutim are, as everybody knows, poems of a religious nature, often in Hebrew, or, worst case scenario, some other language.
To quote Dov Bear:
"The author of the attack avers that treating piyuttim as poetry is an insult. See, the authors of the piyuttim were too holy to bother with things like style, form, and structure. Magically, they were able to convey their brilliant ideas without debasing themselves through the use of literary techniques or tools. One wonders why they even bothered to use words, and if it is a sin to think about their word choices."
"Along with some other familiar gripes, our complainer also announces it suspicious that the editors of the new book saw fit to capitalize the word Christian, Their meticulousness is evidence of their corruption. Their work may be "beautiful", he protests, but it lacks "fire"."
[End quote.]
This was brought to my attention by a reader (Bill), to whom I responded:
"I fear I don't cruise into Dovbear's blog nearly as often as I should.
Great quote: "Fire, I suppose, is only found among the sloppy and disheveled."
I think we've seen enough fire in the past six months of presidential campaigning to tire us of fire alone, with all eloquence, poetry, form, or coherence.
Poetry is NOT the "last refuge of the cricket-hating sodomite", as some of the British would hold, but rather a splendid way of making words come alive, and making the message memorable.
But that is probably my apikorsus speaking."
[End self-cite.]
Bill would appreciate my posting that as an entry on this blog, so that it may be better found in future. I am more than ambivalent to oblige!
[Shan't mention who I think Bill is, except to say that I may have run into him outside the New York Public Library late one night when he was using his lap top, as well as near Kikar Safra when one of us had been purchasing goose-quills and gall ink, along with qlaf to write upon. In our hoary youth we once had a discussion about vegetarianism, soup, and turkeys.]
I have looked at my book shelves. There is a fair amount of poetry there. Some of it indeed written by cricket-hating sodomites (not that there is anything wrong with that), but most of it was composed by people whose sexual peccadilloes are unknown to me, who may have lived full lives entirely ignorant of cricket, or even pink-faced English public school boys (such strapping lads!).
Hwæt
Dutch poetry and Chinese regulated verse are very well represented; in particular, I am fond of Jean Pierre Rawi, whose sonnets are quite divine, and several penmasters who lived before, during, and after the Tang dynasty era (618 CE to 906 CE) responsible for immortal lines.
Some Germans are also there, as well as some old Englishmen.
Sanskrit too, but only in translation.
And the Bible.
The Song of Songs ('Shir ha shirim asher li Shloime')
The good rabbis and churchmen of the past have insisted that, instead of being deliriously beautiful sex poetry, the Song of Songs must be meant metaphorically as a disgrifiad of the deity's affection for his chosen, that being variously Jews, Karaites, Christians, or Presbyterians.
In fact, it is such splendid versification that us commoners are not ever supposed to read it, but instead, per Artscroll at least, digest completely bland paraphrasticisms and so feel suitably fulfilled.
Cold showers may be required.
Hands above the sheets.
It is likely that because of the exciting nature of poetry, even when it serves the purest, holiest, and most withering purposes, Rabbi Yisroel Mantel e altri che possono essere assunta levelled their artillery at the Machzor Shivchei Yeshurun; they fear that the simple people may become excited.
The horror, the horror.
Religious fervor must at all times be cold and sterile.
Except during the burning of books.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To quote Dov Bear:
"The author of the attack avers that treating piyuttim as poetry is an insult. See, the authors of the piyuttim were too holy to bother with things like style, form, and structure. Magically, they were able to convey their brilliant ideas without debasing themselves through the use of literary techniques or tools. One wonders why they even bothered to use words, and if it is a sin to think about their word choices."
"Along with some other familiar gripes, our complainer also announces it suspicious that the editors of the new book saw fit to capitalize the word Christian, Their meticulousness is evidence of their corruption. Their work may be "beautiful", he protests, but it lacks "fire"."
[End quote.]
This was brought to my attention by a reader (Bill), to whom I responded:
"I fear I don't cruise into Dovbear's blog nearly as often as I should.
Great quote: "Fire, I suppose, is only found among the sloppy and disheveled."
I think we've seen enough fire in the past six months of presidential campaigning to tire us of fire alone, with all eloquence, poetry, form, or coherence.
Poetry is NOT the "last refuge of the cricket-hating sodomite", as some of the British would hold, but rather a splendid way of making words come alive, and making the message memorable.
But that is probably my apikorsus speaking."
[End self-cite.]
Bill would appreciate my posting that as an entry on this blog, so that it may be better found in future. I am more than ambivalent to oblige!
[Shan't mention who I think Bill is, except to say that I may have run into him outside the New York Public Library late one night when he was using his lap top, as well as near Kikar Safra when one of us had been purchasing goose-quills and gall ink, along with qlaf to write upon. In our hoary youth we once had a discussion about vegetarianism, soup, and turkeys.]
I have looked at my book shelves. There is a fair amount of poetry there. Some of it indeed written by cricket-hating sodomites (not that there is anything wrong with that), but most of it was composed by people whose sexual peccadilloes are unknown to me, who may have lived full lives entirely ignorant of cricket, or even pink-faced English public school boys (such strapping lads!).
Hwæt
Dutch poetry and Chinese regulated verse are very well represented; in particular, I am fond of Jean Pierre Rawi, whose sonnets are quite divine, and several penmasters who lived before, during, and after the Tang dynasty era (618 CE to 906 CE) responsible for immortal lines.
Some Germans are also there, as well as some old Englishmen.
Sanskrit too, but only in translation.
And the Bible.
The Song of Songs ('Shir ha shirim asher li Shloime')
The good rabbis and churchmen of the past have insisted that, instead of being deliriously beautiful sex poetry, the Song of Songs must be meant metaphorically as a disgrifiad of the deity's affection for his chosen, that being variously Jews, Karaites, Christians, or Presbyterians.
In fact, it is such splendid versification that us commoners are not ever supposed to read it, but instead, per Artscroll at least, digest completely bland paraphrasticisms and so feel suitably fulfilled.
Cold showers may be required.
Hands above the sheets.
It is likely that because of the exciting nature of poetry, even when it serves the purest, holiest, and most withering purposes, Rabbi Yisroel Mantel e altri che possono essere assunta levelled their artillery at the Machzor Shivchei Yeshurun; they fear that the simple people may become excited.
The horror, the horror.
Religious fervor must at all times be cold and sterile.
Except during the burning of books.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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GRITS AND TOFU
Like most Americans, I have a list of people who should be peacefully retired from public service and thereafter kept away from their desks,...
