SOMETHING SMELLY THIS WAY COMES

Then - 1976
Dusk and dawn take longer in Valkenswaard than here in SF. At this time of year, the morning mist covers the market square, the glimmer of the sun from the direction of the Hofnar cigar factory is scarcely visible. A flock of screaming marsh birds from the fens south of town circle and swoop over the bricks every morning at first light.

My father has come upstairs to wash. I go down to the kitchen, have a cup of coffee, and head out on my bike to enjoy the first pipe of the day. Along the square, up the Leender Weg, then north past the other cigar factory (Willem II). Beyond the warehouses there is a reek of fermented leaves, pressed and steamed - Java and Sumatra, Brazil and Cameroon. A warm fecund aroma, strongest at this time of day. Now turn west, then south on the Eindhovensche Weg, and back home to Kerk Steeg.
I wheel my bike into the stables (now a garage for the beetle and our bicycles), and open the kitchen door.


My father is downstairs again, having his second cup of coffee and reading the Dutch newspaper before heading to the office. I pour myself a short half-cup, and sit down to read yesterday's Herald Tribune.

His rustles his paper and asks "did you have the boys over yesterday evening?"

Indeed I did - Dion DeLeeuw, Boudewijn de Bats, Herman Ritter, Tom Bouten, Leendert Westerneng ... And one person whose name I can no longer remember, though I could still find his apartment with my eyes closed (he lived one block away from where the pretty Asian girl went to school).

We drank beer and coffee. A late night gathering after closing Parsifal had become our custom. Last night it took place in our kitchen. The boys put up with my horrid pipe-tobacco because I make excellent coffee. It was a very pleasant hour.

My father knows that this is what we do, and does not object when it happens in our kitchen.
This morning he extends a hand from behind his paper while telling me "ask your friends not to leave this here the next time - they might miss it".


He hands me a one kilo brick of hashish.


Lebanese. Nice quality.


With a corner broken off.


Last night, while I had been smoking Balkan Sobranie (the stinky pipe-tobacco aforementioned), the chap whose name I cannot remember but whose apartment I can still find blindfolded had rolled joints - he was the house dealer at Parsifal.
He had left his stuff on the table when he went home. For my father to discover when he came downstairs.
I am fairly certain my father knew what it was. But I wonder how he knew.


I left before my father finished his newspaper. So that I could return the brick of hashish on my way to school. It was already light out by that time.


Now - 2008
Yesterday evening I went into the kitchen several times for coffee and a smoke (last week Savage Kitten gave me a coffee maker for my birthday, the old one having crapped out several months ago). The smells of Balkan-style tobacco and good coffee from Peet's reminded me of those final years in Valkenswaard. That, and the sense of quiet throughout the building....... My mind's nose again remembered that night, that morning, the perfume of the tobacco, the reek of hashish, and the dry leaves on the Market Square. It was very good.

--------------------------------
--------------------------------

NOTE:
The name of the Balkan style tobacco is not important, and you probably have your own favourite. It isn't Balkan Sobranie, as that has not been available for over a decade. But if your local tobacconist does not stock a decent Balkan mixture, you can compound something yourself.


BALKAN BLEND

Eight parts Latakia
Five parts Turkish
Four parts medium flake, rubbed and fluffed
One part plain cavendish
One part bright ribbon

Let it age in a tightly closed jar for at least a week before smoking. If you added a shpritz of water while mixing, the flavours will meld better.
[Half a part to as much as one and a half parts Perique may be added. Perique lessens tongue-burn.]

Do not smoke it in large pipes - a regular size bowl is best.

Have some good strong coffee while enjoying a pipe full. Peet's is an excellent merchant of beans. As regards the kilo of Lebanese, however, I have no recommendations. I'm afraid you are on your own there. House dealers in the US are not the kind of people you would want to visit you late at night. This is not the same environment as the Netherlands, dusk and dawn are also different here.
Tobacco and coffee however are universal.

TOBACCO INDEX


==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

THE DUTCH AND THEIR MISSING MARBLES: AHMED ABOUTALEB APPOINTED TO TOP JOB

It has been decided that the next burgomaster (mayor) of Rotterdam shall be Ahmed Aboutaleb, who is of Arab origin.
Mr. Aboutaleb is the son of an imam, and was born in Morocco. He has been a resident of the Netherlands for twenty-two years. He has dual-citizenship. And he is a practicing Muslim.


There are TWO problems with this appointment!!!


The first is that he is an Amsterdammer - not a positive thing in the heartland of FC Feyenoord. The Rotterdam soccer team has always been a rival of Ajax (the Amsterdam team), and the supporters of both teams are not at all averse to whacking each other. Several times over the last few years confrontation has become brawl, brawl has turned to murder. There are violent tendencies at play in Dutch soccer fandom.

The second problem is that his appointment is causing all the retrogrades to come foaming out of the woodwork. If you thought racism was a factor in American politics recently, you have not looked at the Netherlands, where being a Moroccan is nearly as bad as being a Jew in Czarist Russia. Consequently, the appointment of a Jew Moroccan as mayor of Rotterdam has got the bigots all a-flutter. Loudly so.


One would not have thought that the denizens of the world's first modern democracy, where the laissez faire approach to societal administration was born, would prove themselves so...... barbaric.

But no.

The internet commentary shows many of them to be utter scumbags. Anybody wading through the river of Dutch bile that has been dumped in recent days on the internet will have recoiled in disgust at the sentiments that, like fermenting cadavers, have risen to the surface of an already rank and putrid sewer. Even the Flemish nationalists are adding their sickening slime to the flow - Flemish Nationalist blowhard and politician Flip de Winter (Vlaams Belang) wrote that "de aanstelling van een Rotterdamse Marokkaanse burgemeester overal in Europa de arrogantie van de Marokkaanse allochtonen alleen maar zal doen toenemen" ('the appointment of a Rotterdam Moroccan mayor will only cause an increase in the arrogance of Moroccan allochthones everywhere in Europe').

Shut up, Flip, you're an idiot.


I would like to point out, at this juncture, that mr. Aboutaleb is Dutch.
He became an adult in the Netherlands, he was educated there, and his entire political career has been there. He lives there. His future is there.
At this point he is as Moroccan as I am.

Furthermore, even his political opponents have admitted that he is a very capable and intelligent man. By all accounts he is eminently suited to the job.

If his ancestry or his religion are enough to disqualify him in the eyes of many Dutchspeakers, then Dutch society is more poisonous than I had heretofore imagined.


When I was living over there, I had to put up with any number of horrendous comments about Jews and Americans - I am an American, and thus by the peculiar logic of the blinkered cretins in the Netherlandish bog, I am probably also a Jew - and I am relatively sure that most Jews in the Netherlands have likewise been held accountable for American sins. Especially in recent years.

Muslims in the Netherlands are probably not unaware of the festering hatreds beneath the bland and 'polite' surface of Dutch society either.


But to hold a person's ancestry and religion against him?
In the United States we may be considerably more advanced than the Dutch.


That he is an Amsterdammer should be the ONLY objection to the man.
And it is a very valid objection, because as everyone knows, the Amsterdammers are all Jews - that's why the Feyenoord supporters customarily offer to gas the Ajax fans at sporting events (traditional chant: "Hamas, Hamas, alle Joden aan het gas").
It is therefore not likely that mr. Aboutaleb can give Feyenoord his wholehearted support, certainly not without a feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

He has my sympathy.

============================================
Attentive readers may remember that I mentioned mr. Ahmed Aboutaleb nearly two years ago in this post:
http://atthebackofthehill.blogspot.com/2006/01/ahmed-aboutaleb.html
I recommend that you re-read that piece - it will give you a better idea of the man.
============================================

A WINGNUT AND A PRAYER

For the past several months I have, at times strenuously, tried to avoid talking about American politics on this blog. I have not always succeeded - and some readers have ceased visiting here because of that - but in the main I have not spewed my gall at the gang of republican thugs and deviants that have dragged both a fine party and a great country into the mud.

[Yes, I know that sounds partisan, and will offend those of my readers who despite their excellent taste in blogs still have loyalty to the grand old party, no matter how frightfully misguided that is. I'm sorry. Why don't you take back your party from the slack jawed yokel base of bumpkins that have hijacked it? PLEASE take back your party, we really do need a plurality of thoughts and ideas in this country - we just aren't getting anywhere with only ONE party run by sentient beings.]



Nevertheless, sometimes I will post something political. In this case, it is the stellar comment by Conservative Apikoris (CA) under a post on Dovbear's blog.

[Dovbear: http://dovbear.blogspot.com/
The post under which the comment appeard: Curtains for McCain.
Conservative Apikoris is a regular reader of Dovbear, and Dovbear should be among your regular reading.]


CA wrote:

"I never supported Senator Mc Cain, but there was period during the late '90;s and up to the middle of 2003 or so when I had a great deal of respect for him. Then he started frenching Bush in the obvious hope of geting the 2008 presidential nomination. His record in the Senate of vocal criticism of Bush's worst policies and total support for them in his votes made his final descent into wingnuttery not too much of a surprise for me.

I strongly recommend Tom Dickingson's article in Rolling Stone about the man:http://www.rollingstone.com/news/coverstory/make_believe_maverick_the_real_john_mccain

Make-Believe Maverick
A closer look at the life and career of John McCain reveals a disturbing record of recklessness and dishonesty


The best line is this:

"In its broad strokes, McCain's life story is oddly similar to that of the current occupant of the White House. John Sidney McCain III and George Walker Bush both represent the third generation of American dynasties. Both were born into positions of privilege against which they rebelled into mediocrity. Both developed an uncanny social intelligence that allowed them to skate by with a minimum of mental exertion. Both struggled with booze and loutish behavior. At each step, with the aid of their fathers' powerful friends, both failed upward. And both shed their skins as Episcopalian members of the Washington elite to build political careers as self-styled, ranch-inhabiting Westerners who pray to Jesus in their wives' evangelical churches.

In one vital respect, however, the comparison is deeply unfair to the current president: George W. Bush was a much better pilot."


After reading about Senator McCain's disastrous career in naval aviation, as a taxpayer, I'd like to bill him for the government property he wrecked. "

---------------------------------------

Please note that by posting this I do not intend to sway you. If you did not know for whom to vote before yesterday's debate, you are still a moron and an ignoramous today, and you should not vote by any means.
As it says in the odd book: "because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out."
Really, you should've made up your mind already, what's wrong with you?


I can cheerfully accept people who are wrong. People who are wishy-washy, or waffling idiots, excite my bile. I shall pray that they get distracted by blinky things on the way to the voting booth come November.

MISS PATEL IS DRUNK!

After spending several hours yesterday evening researching dirty words in Indonesian (my heavens those people have foul mouths, they're worse than the Dutch!), I retired to a drinking establishment near my house.


The night of the final debate is not a good night for karaoke joints. I never would have guessed that. At ten-thirty in the evening, there were only about a dozen customers there. Usually at that time there are at least seventy or eighty Elvis-wannabees and their victims.

It was an even gender-spread, if you ignore the staff (all male - bartender, kj, security goon). One of the ladies was a beautiful and shapely Vietnamese woman whom I usually ignore because she is fairly sharp and shallow, there were several women I had never seen before, and a cute short Indian woman with long hair and curvy bits.


Typical Patel face, BUT NOT typical Patel behaviour.


She had been drinking like a Punjabi.


No, not riotously disreputable drunk (Safdar Ali). Not smash the furniture and heave a concrete urn through the window drunk (Darminder-ji). Not pick fights and offer to smack everybody drunk (Joginder-bhai).
Nothing like that.


She was instead feel-up the white-guy drunk.


I really must say that she had good taste in men.


The white guy she was feeling up was a good foot taller than her, and well-built (yes, I'm NOT talking about myself).
From my perch in the corner I could see her go over to his table, lean on him, rub his chest, trail her silken long hair over his head...... Pity for her he wanted to sing instead. She kept returning to her seat at the bar, then a few minutes later going back over to his table. She had her hands all over him at several different times. He was just too sober to appreciate it.


She left eventually, obviously disappointed. Her white guy sang a few more times after that. Badly.
I finished my drink and departed halfway through some ickey-poo love ballad.
You know, if she had really had excellent taste, she would have headed in my direction instead of wasting all that time on that boy.
I don't sing.

----------------------------------------

NOTE: One of the reasons I like bars is the opportunity for people watching. Some people are really educational once they have gone over their limit. Quite recently, Xxx took off his pants and swung them around his head during a song. He went one better than his buddy who simply took off his shirt for that purpose.
I am so very very glad that Savage Kitten does not drink, and does not go to the Karaoke bar - after half a glass of champagne, that woman would be likely to go up on stage and belt out 'Like A Virgin'.
I have heard her sing - I am so very very glad she does not drink or go to the Karaoke bar.
I just cannot cope with bad Madonna in public.

IF YOU DON'T SHUT UP, I'LL KICK YOU IN THE NUTS!

That was the succinct message delivered in a shrill girlish voice, with a slight Chinese accent. It was uttered during a momentary quiet on the bus, and consequently everyone heard it. I saw several people trying not to smile.
I saw the person who had uttered those promising words too. She was standing right next to me.


Fortunately, she had not directed those words at me, but at her companion. Who was probably at least three or four inches taller. And also female. Not even five feet high herself. Both girls were in their early teens, both of them wore glasses. Neither one of them resembled Eric Cartman from Southpark in any way - too small and petite.

I had surreptitiously listened in on the conversation that lead up to the threat against the nuts. It had started with a perfectly innocent detailing of spending money immediately available, and items that desperately needed buying. To whit: twenty dollars and coins, versus 'A Gal's Guide To Dating A Geek' (I think it's about fourteen dollars) plus a Hello Kitty Halloween something-or-other (fifteen dollars).

It's interesting listening in on innocent little maidens talking about spending like maniacs - at their age, maniacal spending is so very much more modest, and much more eccentric; they have not quite settled into a pedestrian adult appreciation of clothing, tattoos, and lipstick.

They were at odds about the book - apparently it is only available on the internet, and neither one of them has a credit card.
Maybelle (the one who rhetorically at least owns the nuts) has a brother named Percy who has a credit card - but apparently he's a 'conniving creep', or something, and Winnie (the shorter of the two) doesn't want to impose upon him, or be in any way beholden to him ("Why not? He LIKES you!"), because he's a 'total jerk'.
Maybelle is desperate for the book ("It's like a total roadmap, you know?"), and ambivalent about the Hello Kitty whatever-it-is ("EVERYONE has it already, so what's the point?") and heck, the "only reason YOU want it is so that you can give it to Jason!" .

At this point, miss Cartman solicitously offered to kick her in the nuts. Maybelle then offered to 'step' on her, bee-aitch. The argument went no further because they noticed they were already at Stockton Street - "Homes, let's go get some NOODOOS!"


The noodles probably helped them resolve their difference of opinion (in addition to wiping out the surplus cash). Nothing speaks so much to the Cantonese-American female as food. It is the great be-all, end-all, answer-all of Cantonese-American feminine life.....
Food. Food! FOOD!!! Don't interfere with my food, unless you want to DIE!
Chinatown is aswarm with chopstick-packing mamas on the prowl for something to eat; don't come near if you look edible.


Savage Kitten is like that. The prospect of a delayed dinner makes her wail, and whenever I ask if she needs anything at the store, she hopefully suggests lobster. The word 'cake' is the ultimate expression of a happy prospect, the phrase 'deep-fry that sucker' is so innate to her that she utters it in her sleep, and 'soooo-o-o-oup!' is almost the ultimate utterance of temptation and comfort. "Soup! With noodoos! And tasty bits!"
The word 'delicious' is often replaced with "got any more?"

Cantonese girls like food. Did YOU know that?


If the lobster-aliens ever land their spaceship in Chinatown, we will never know. They'll be hunted down by small Cantonese-American women wielding clackitty chopsticks, and not even scraps will be left to show that they had even visited.

Heck, it has probably already happened. They did not stand a chance!
A swarm of hungry females swooped down upon them and used their flying saucer as a giant wok - Now we'll NEVER be allowed into the Intergalactic Alliance!

On the other hand, we won't be herded into pens and sold to bug-aliens for fertilizer either.
Yes, you may go ahead and thank the small Cantonese-American women wielding clackitty chopsticks.
Their hunger saved us.


"Got any more?"

=========================================

Note: A large part of the speculation above about Cantonese-American women is based on Savage Kitten's personality. Other Cantonese-American women may not be entirely like that. I have been blessed.

Further note: If you are dating a Cantonese-American woman, FEED HER! There is no more damning a statement about a date than "he didn't feeeeeed me!" uttered by a small Cantonese-American woman. The man may be nerdy, pudgy, and short, but all is forgiven if he makes pronto with the food. Food is the great social lubricant, the great pacifier, the great diplomatic overture. Rather than planning a night's entertainment, decide upon a restaurant, and make sure that there is a tempting variety of dishes. She will like you if you do. And after you've seen her safely off home (before nine o'clock!), she'll have warm happy feelings about you. It's the most effective approach you can make. It shows you care.

Yet another note: Cantonese-American women have bird-like appetites. Some birds can eat up to twice their own body-weight on a daily basis. Especially if they are cold. This is valuable information to have.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

IN PRAISE OF TAKING HEADS

Apparently, my readers have problems associating vicious tribal murder with something good to eat. The link between the bloodshed and the dinner may be too strong, too vibrant for them. Judging by the dearth of commentary under a recent post

[Please see here: HEAD-HUNTING CHICKEN. It is about a mild chicken dish which you would very much like to eat.]

Other than Grant Patel with his unique viewpoints, the only person who left a comment was Steg (dos iz nit der šteg) , who wrote:
"Sorry, man... associations with head-hunting aren't good for whetting my appetite."


I may have suggested to Steg (dos iz nit der šteg) and a few others that the dish would be perfect for Sukkos - It being an outdoorsy and primitive-dwelling associated holiday. Reminiscent, on one level, of living in the wilderness, rather like the tribal peoples in parts of Borneo still do. And a longhouse is like a sukkah, albeit a sukkah on pillars that raise the living quarters above the ground away from shrotzim and predators, and with a long common veranda, plus fire-pits, family quarters, and holes to ventilate and let out the smoke.

[Longhouse: Puranibo. Long common veranda: Daramba. Fire-pits; Kuipang. Family quarters: Balayak. Ventilation holes: Tingkapen.]


Besides, headhunting is a fine old tradition, and fine old traditions are always associated with food. Headhunting in more ways than one.

Taking heads has naught to do with cannibalism. The hunting down of other humans in this case is not to use their meat, but purely to utilize the powerful energy that is concentrated in their kapala. Think of it as harvesting batteries from a rival tribe downriver, a tribe with the utter chutzpah to compete with us for limited resources.
Whichever head gets taken will not be involved in planting fields, or gathering wild protein from the forest, or spying on us as we eat, wash by the river, or procreate. That head will not harm us nor use what we could use, but instead will inspire our crops to grow, our men to be virile, and our women to be fecund.

That head is far less use to us still attached to a living body from that other tribe, than nicely polished in its own specially made basket up in the rafters of our longhouse, watching us drinking rice wine and dancing during our festivals.

Steg, please reconsider. The association with headhunting is propitious, and will add to your pleasure. Yes?



NGABAENG PA BUNGA GALURA
[Evocation of the crimson flowers.]


Ulite gadis neang tandak dang kapala, ki bunga galura na parang; kranda na litenen sehi umbang-tasek, kasanakan na puranibo purno tan marido. Wirang wirang na kibong tagpulang mawangi na djuwang, ura-mura tan nila tuwa. Tagatso iha maalik-mera, neang dene enti sama wahana.
Ri tarang na parampui puwan puwan marakanadja, kalinda, kalintik; djenti-wata hu!
Gurumos ti taa pa lalaki wiyang banta pratama - palimanema lahang kaga, mata dingin laho. Bunoan impa dapet uba, kaingitan djadi taengso materem. Tuwang-tugeng maputi re rewanon, dagat magkareng sa lalang tan daon; neang luwa matadjato lelem sametek, karong wara djawonen wiyang mawo bala. Dahulo mata-li buwana entero, maale kabog sahadja. Uho.
[Translation: See the girls that dance with the heads, the crimson blossoms of battle; the noise of the watchers is like breakers, the enjoyment of the longhouse is complete and zesty. The warriors of the group have returned smelling of the conflict, youthful-ruddy (ura-mura, also refers to the red of warrior turbans) as well as aged-blue (nila-tuwa, the wise elders who wear dark turbans). Success, verily, is appealing, whatever else is not likewise. In the glow of the torches women are high-breasted (marakanadja: prominent, of noses or breast; high, of trees, hats, banners, signs; projecting, of roofs, overhangs, bosoms), sleek (marakalinda: gently swelling, of breasts or low dunes; fading into the landscape or tree-line, of scrub and undergrowth; unremarkable of prominence, of roofs or gables), and perky (marakalintik: up-perked, of cute button-noses and nipples; sticking out slightly like knobs on furniture or trimmed branches; projecting somewhat like nuts and bolts); how utterly charming, oh!
The joyous noise does not reach the males who have fought for the first time - their hands are still clenched, their eyes remain cold, killing must create change, the memories become sharply graduated. Bones (tuwang: bones; tugeng: large pelvic and leg-bones) are whitening in the wild lands, blood dries on grass and leaves; the distance becomes dark entirely, now there are outsiders who wish for revenge. While before the entire world was within sight, now all is fog only. Oh!]

Headhunting is customarily limited to the period between the two lumeri festivals, when the rice-wine is ready, and agriculture is at a standstill - November, December, and January. This is the first part of the wet season, when tempers have not gone dull from the incessant rain, and men are still vibrantly alive. It is a joyous and cheerful season.


It is said that the Moshiach, when he comes, will come during sukkos.
But until he does, think of headhunting.

TEMPTRESSES AND MARTINIS

The invite has gone out for the company holiday party later this year. The place where it will be held is the epitome of hip. As is fitting for a praedominantly younger crowd, in a happening place such as San Francisco.


This is how a reviewer describes it:
"A distinctive "you wouldn't know it was there" vibe on the outside keeps this place pretty under cover. I had a good time here at a friend's birthday party, where he had rented the back room, but in general the main lounge (both in crowd and in decor) was a little too slick for me. Think Marina via North Beach, and you kind of get the idea."



I remember the place in question very well. It's lao di fang to the max, man.

It used to be 'Allain's French Seafood'.


For a long time it was a taxi-bar with abstracted-looking Chinese ladies in skin-tight cheongsams, drinking champagne (sparkling non-alcoholic apple cider) bought by visiting gentlemen from Hong Kong and Taiwan at inordinate prices, or dancing with customers pressed up close.
At times a seedy place, where assignations were arranged and a large-handed matron kept the girls and the clientele in line.
[If only she could've kept the air-conditioning in line - It was always much too warm inside, also very humid, and far too dark. That last quality showed calculation.]


One of my business associates in the early eighties loved the joint - a Chinese businessman from Irian Jaya. It was the only place where women would talk to him. He often dragged me there to witness his conquests. I still shudder when I think of the troll-bitch matron. I no longer do business with that man, and have long since lost contact with him - he's probably still quoting Chinese soap operas in lieu of actual conversation.
[The fat Shanghainese gentleman from Taipei also came very often, but he went there purely to drink. They kept a bottle of very rare cognac just for him. His wife would've killed him if she knew - She was a very proper and controlling woman.]


Sometimes I miss the slithery cheongsams with slits up to here - the curvy thighs, the evident padding in the upper realms, wobbly high-heels, the faltering attempts at conversation, half of which eventually lead to furtive proposals that I teach someone English after hours.
By which they really did only mean 'teach English' - the inability to speak like an employable American woman was very keenly felt.

Mingled aromas of mixed floral perfumes, spilled cider, and stale food bring back seductive echoes from that era.

It was long before the mercenary Korean girls took over the taxi-bar circuit and Karaoke drove most such places out of business.


So of course I'm very much looking forward to the party. I do hope the martinis are as good as they were in 1983. Memories are what make the holidays special. I shall be viewing my innocent and unknowing coworkers through the coloured spectacles of the past.
Alas, none of them could get away with wearing a cheongsam, nor acting happy-tiddly on just apple cider.

A MIDDLE AGED MAN AND LITTLE CHILDREN

I love children, I really do. Especially when they are between three and five years old. But, lest you now jump to hire me as a baby-sitter, I should mention that there are reasons why people keep me away from their kids.

Some of my friends even send the kids out of town when I visit.

Others just make sure that the kinderlech get no opportunity to talk to me.

It: "Uncle BOTH, why do cars move?"

Me: 'They are desperately trying to get away from their butts.'

It: "Why?"

Me: 'Because they are full of gas - that's why they make those put-put-put sounds as they flee.'


--- --- ---

It: "Uncle BOTH, why are there no dinosaurs here?"

Me: 'San Francisco is too crowded for them so they all moved to Las Vegas.'


It: "What do dinosaurs eat?"

Me: 'Pizza, extra large, with all the toppings and piled with anchovies, just like everybody else in Vegas.'


It: "What do dinosaurs do?"

Me: 'They work as lounge singers in Las Vegas. They're very popular with old people.'

--- --- ---

It: "Uncle BOTH, why is the sky blue?"

Me: 'That was the cheapest colour the master of the universe could find when he repainted; it used to be puce.'

It: "What's puce?"
Me: 'Kinda like dog poo.'

It: "What is the master of the universe?"

Me: 'Someone with lots of spare time since the kids all moved away and no longer call.'

--- --- ---

It: "Uncle BOTH, why do we celebrate Jesus' birthday?"

Me: ' 'Cause we're close to Mexico.'

--- --- ---

It: "Uncle BOTH, why did Pooky scratch me?"

Me: 'He thought you were filled with candy, just like your older brother.'

--- --- ---

It: "Uncle BOTH, why did my aunt die?"

Me: 'Spite.'


See, there's a reason people keep their little darlings from talking to me.
I talk back.

This past weekend was fleet-week weekend here in San Francisco. Which always coincides with Columbus Day. This means drunken sailors, lots of goobers, and a loud air-show over the city featuring dare-devil biplanes and the Navy's own obnoxiously loud Blue-Angels. Lordy, I hate the sound of jets roaring overhead. It's a stupid, hubristic display of testicular exhibitionism.
But first, idiots doing loop-de-loops in biplanes.

It: "Uncle BOTH, what's that buzzing?"

Me: 'That's a very rare insect, the Columbus Day mosquito, which only comes one day a year.'


It: "Is it dangerous?"

Me: 'Oh, very. The Indians hate Columbus Day, because it killed so many of them.'


It: "Will it kill us?"

Me: 'No, Boruch Hashem, because we have large blue phallic fly-swatters that fly through the sky and chase it away. If you stare at the sky long enough you'll see them. But until then, you've got to run around in circles very fast so that the Columbus Day mosquitoes can't catch you. It hurts like heck when they do.'

It: "Uncle BOTH, why aren't you running?"

Me: 'Cause I'm not young and juicy but old and knackered - do you see anyone biting me? You, on the other hand.... so soft, so tender, so very very sweet. Quick, there's one right behind you!!! Run! Run! Run! Run faster! And make some noise!'


All things considered, I had a very fine weekend. Even though there is now yet one more kid I'm not allowed to talk to.

At least she'll always be wary of the Blue Angels.
Or other things in the sky.

But mostly Blue Angels.



==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================

HEAD-HUNTING CHICKEN

A whole chicken, pale-cooked for presentation; a ritual dish. The coconut broth is barely tinged with turmeric, to the faintest of yellow; necessary, because it would otherwise have a slight greyish hue. Traditional.
A dish to calm the spirits of heads taken in war.


BULELITJA

One whole chicken.
Two to three each: bruised stalks of lemongras, whole shallots, whole green chilies, thick slices of ginger.
One Tsp each: salt, sugar.
Half Tsp each: white peppercorns, coriander seeds.
Quarter to half Tsp turmeric.
Generous pinches tamo kuntji, langkwang.
Two whole cloves, a bay leaf, and a piece of dried orange peel.
Eight cups water.
Four cups coconut milk.
Quarter cup white liquor (either Dutch gin, or Vodka).
A jigger of vinegar.

Bring all save chicken to a boil, simmer for five to ten minutes. Inundate the bird and bring the pot back to boil. Turn off heat. Weigh the bird down - a large ceramic bowl partially filled with water will do so nicely. Do not use a metal object as it will affect taste and appearance. Let the pot sit for an hour. Then remove the chicken to a broad basin.
With a slotted spoon remove all solids from the broth. Bring the broth back to a roiling boil and pour slowly over the chicken, making sure all of it is touched by the hot liquid. Drain chicken, reserve broth to a pot and bring back to boiling, then simmer for ten minutes.
Serve the chicken and broth separately; chicken cool, broth hot.
Eat with compressed rice, chili and fishpaste strifried longbeans, and ripped vegetables.

[Lemongrass: Sere or Sae - a stalkgras with a pleasing lemon-like aroma used in South-East Asian cooking. Tamo kuntji: Kaempferia Pandurata (Boesenbergia Rotunda) - a root related to ginger and galangal, with minor antibacterial and anticancerous qualities. It has a perfumy bitter taste. In the west it can be found in Thai, Indonesian, and some Chinese stores - temo kunci (Indonesian), krachai (Thai), fingerroot, Chinese Keys (Singaporean English), 凹脣姜 (Cantonese: au-suen-keung). Langkwang: galangal (Kampferia Galanga, Alpinia Galanga), also called red ginger or dwarf ginger. Called Kha in Thai, Laos in Malay. Dried orange peel: dry your own, or purchase chan-pei (陳皮) in Chinatown, even though it comes from a different citrus (Citrus Aurantium). Dutch gin: not the same as the aftershave lotion favoured in the English speaking world, this is more like kummel - except it is flavoured with juniper berries, not caraway. The Oude Genever is a pot still product, and will take your legs out from under you if drunk to excess. The Jonge Genever is made in a patent still, and is much smoother, though still likely to commit treason on your judgment. Oude Genever is the favoured style of import-plonk in areas up from the coast. Longbeans: also called yard long beans, these are much preferred over haricots.]


NOTE: The chili paste and fish paste are on the stir-fried vegetables, because they are NOT in the broth or on the chicken. The chicken is mild flavoured, to correlate to a head taken after downing the victim. Arabs are cowards and barbarians because they take prisoners, then behead their captives alive. Such a head concentrates fear and is useless. Gut-stab to kill, then cut to harvest the head; such is the only proper way.

FOND THOUGHTS OF DONALD RUMSFELD

Now that we are facing the final months of the Bush administration (or its re-branded continuation for another four years), it seems worthwhile to look back in love on some of the more stellar moments of this presidency - specifically, the golem-like presence known as Donald Rumsfeld, and his faithful protection of the innocent denizens of the white-house. And their innocent little world-views.


I miss the squared double-standards.


As well as the wondrous verbal constructs.

"We know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say, we know there are some things we do not know, but there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know."

---Donald Rumsfeld, US Secretary of Defense.


Truly, Pentagon Zen.


"We're trying to explain how things are going, and they are going as they are going...... Some things are going well and some things obviously are not going well. You're going to have good days and bad days."

"...this is one moment, and there will be other moments. And there will be good moments and there will be less good moments."

---Donald Rumsfeld, US minister for war and Pentagon zen-master.


We discussed at work what Rumsfeld may have meant.

Then we decided stimulation was required to fully comprehend the subtlety of his statements, and accordingly we repaired to a nearby tavern.

Our (5) top conclusions:

1.
"Out of all moments on bad days, there will be some which are better moments, and some which may be best. Enjoy bad days. Worse days are better, worst days are best."
2.
"Marijuana affects one's sense of time and one's ability to......
Mmm, uh, hey!?!"
3.
"Seize the moment, joyfully accept the challenge, and looking neither to the right nor to the left, remain focused on your goal and forge bravely forward, overcoming all obstacles which the evil inclination (yetzer hara) might put in your path, as Rabbi Nachman advises."
4.
"Settle in the moment, and steadfastly refuse to give up a single inch until the Messiah comes, as the Lubavitcher Rebbe advises."
5.
"Marijuana affects one's sense of time and one's ability to......
Eeeeh, errm, what?!?"


There was a lot of stimulation.


"people are running around with digital cameras and taking these unbelievable photographs and then passing them off, against the law, to the media, to our surprise, when they had not even arrived in the Pentagon."

---Donald Rumsfeld, Zen poet, chief censor, and secretary of offense.


Giving photos to the media is against the law? A novel thought.

The problem was not the abuse, but that our boys couldn't keep their idiot mouths shut and limit the circulation of their sm-smut to the military. At least, that seemed the official focus. A conclusion both unsurprising and beside the point.

"No member of the U.S. armed forces, active, retired, or deceased, is to have any contact with any journalist under any circumstances about anything at all unless what, when, how, and to whom have been approved by the Pentagon - a complete and encyclopedic report on all details of what will be said to be filed in triplicate several weeks in advance."


It was Rummy's world - we just had the privilege of living in it for a while.

I miss him.

FINKELSTEIN, CHOMSKY, AND OTHER BLOODSUCKERS

One of my regular commenters takes exception to another commenter. Hilarity ensues.


Well, actually, not quite.

LanceThruster had commented underneath my posting proposing pie for Finkelstein. Here's what he wrote:
"Dr. Finkelstein is a truth-teller. Should someone want to attack him for that I should think humble pie would be appropriate. "

I assumed that anyone who called Finkelstein a truth-teller was a committed member of the dark side and ab initio not worth speaking with.

As I let him know:
"My dear mister Thruster, I shan't debate with you, as you are clearly too delusional to be swayed. And besides that, with the user name you have chosen, you paint yourself as a male chauvinist with a tiny penis and a massive set of issues.
You are an uber creep. Get medicated. "

Perhaps not entirely the politest response I've managed in conversation with someone who is willingly and knowingly wrong. My bad.


Then Grant Patel noticed LanceThruster's contribution. And added his own:
"The problem with herr Finkelstein is that his scholarship has been shown to be both suspect and sloppy, his conclusions are not supported by the material (and he cherry picks perhaps more blatantly than many other "scholars"), and his well-publicized tiffs with others (most notably Dershowitz) are self-serving publicity seeking stunts.

His association with others of his own ilk (particularly Chomsky) call his ideological basis into question. And his odd Oedipal exploitation of his mother indicate that, like many, he has issues with his past, and her past.

That said, I find the defense of so contentious a figure to be questionable. There are people, Jews even, who would gladly utilize a "Jewish" scholar (even one who loudly trumpets his 'Jewishness', and whose 'scholarship' is by others loudly trumpeted) for anti-Semitic and anti-Israel agendas.

And further, his willing association with those who would seek Israel's destruction, such as Hezbollah, the Iranian mullahs, and the various American far-left haters and conspirators, show him to be an immoral and unethical tool. A willing hater of his own people, who stands for nothing but getting back at his mother, and her relatives whose absence weighed so heavily on his child-hood.

Finkelstein needs therapy, Chomsky needs to shut the fu&& up, and Carter needs to be institutionalized. Tutu, Morris, and the European left all need to be locked up for supporting terrorists.

Paul Larrudee and Allison Weir need to be investigated for ties to and funding from hostile foreign interests."


Bravo, Grant, I could not have said it better myself.


Grant Patel then followed with another prize addition:
"And by the way, is LanceThruster the cover for some Paki bhainchoot? I suspect it is. I suspect, further, that LanceThruster is sympathetic to the Muslim cause. Perhaps you should look into what the Muslims and their Quislings have done to India. And, further back, to Persia.

I would particularly advise you to look into the history of the bollocky Muslims as regard to minorities and other religious creeds. Like the Christians in the Levant, and the Parsees in Iran.

Why is it that the Bahai find refuge in Israel, the Philistine Christians flee to liquor stores in California, and the Parsees are centered in India?

Could it be because Muslims, and their sympathizers, and their collaborators, are little more than intolerant murderous deviants with a creed pretty damn close to witchcraft and Gnostic word-worship?"

Lance finished with an invitation to mr. Thruster to 'congress off, feminine reproductive unit'.



[Please see this post: PIE FOR FINKELSTEIN.]



MUSLIM 'TOLERATION'

Grant Patel raises some interesting points.

The number of Christians in such countries as Jordan, Iraq, Syria, and Egypt has been falling precipitously for years as a result of persecution and government policies that favour Muslims. Virtually a low-level state sponsored Jihad - and it should be noted that the first and last listed of those countries are allegedly US allies.

The Bahai religion is virtually extinct in Iran, yet flourishes marvelously in Haifa, where the Bahai found succour from Islamic terror.

The Parsees fled Iran hundreds of years ago to get away from murderous Islamic tyranny.


I shan't even mention the Ottoman brutality that turned the Balkans into the most dysfunctional part of Europe, or the slave-raiding which Arabs engaged in for over a millennia. Which, by the way, continued under Saudi aegis until the sixties or seventies, albeit in a more southerly direction.

I shall, however, mention the Bada Ghalughara and the Chhota Ghalughara. In the first, the Muslim hordes slaughtered over thirty thousand Sikhs on February fifth, 1726.
In the second, the Muslims massacred over ten thousand on the banks of the Beas in 1746.

Both of these events should be considered inherited blots on the escutcheon of every Muslim, both of these actions make plain that Islamic rule is a curse upon a country, both of these events had no conceivable justification other than cruelty, baseness, and intolerance.
Both of those events are merely the two best examples of the bloodthirsty tyranny that prevailed in what was, at that time, the greatest of Muslim empires. And both of these events are merely blips on the radar if the total numbers of Sikhs killed by Muslims in the centuries since the rise of Sikkhism is taken into account.

Truly, the history of Muslims in the subcontinent rivals in its bestiality that of Muslims in the Middle-East. Nay, it might even surpass it - Pakistan as the Muslim portion of India has little to be proud of, and less validity as a state, than even Egypt or Jordan, or any of the blood-drenched failures of the Arab world.


I will not go as far as some of my Indian friends, who have expressed the sentiment that 'the only good Muslim is a dead Muslim'. Some of my best friends are Muslim.
But it would indeed have been better for the world if that horrid man had died before experiencing his hysterical visions and fits in the hills outside of Mecca, and never given his untrustworthy tribal kin an ideology that brought them out of the waste-lands. And there is almost nothing that compares to the depravity of the Ottoman, Persian, and Mughal empires.

THREE VERSIONS OF JAPANESE WOMANHOOD

I shall confess right off the top that the title of this post is misleading. The versions of womanhood that will be presented are by no means typical of womanhood, nor of the Japanese, though they are in fact very Japanese indeed.
The title was meant to draw you in while I indulge in my fascination with graphic novels (manga).


MANGA HEROINES

There are several different types of women who feature as main characters in graphic novels, but most of them represent not so much the praedictable fetish-femme of western light literature, but an interesting blend of character traits combined with a physical type.
The physical type need not match the character, and sometimes the contrasts between types and characters are used for comic or dramatic effect (many of the girls in Ranma ½, for instance, are both cute-as-the-dickens and super-violent).
In some manga, the physical type is not particularly significant - either the artist is simply hung up on a particular set of drawing conventions ('can't draw for sh..!'), or the editorial board decided that a certain type would attract a certain market segment (the violent chicks in Ranma ½ appeal to healthy teenage boys of all ages, the four big-eyed high-school moppets of Raki-Suta, oddly, seem only to have a following of perverts and degenerates - Konachan especially attracts the attention of the future sexfiends of America).



THREE GIRL MANGAS



SUNSHINE SKETCH ひだまりスケッチ
[Physical type: saccharine-cute.]

Sunshine Sketch (Hidamari Sukechi), is a four-panel strip about the daily lives of four girls at the Yamabuki Art High School. The characters differ in predictable ways - the rambunctious one (Miyako, 宮子) , the sensitive and mature one (Hiro, ヒロ), the talented cunning one (Sae, 沙英), and of course the main character, Yuno, (ゆの), who is altogether very nice. The illustration style takes cuteness to an almost Hello-Kitty like level of candy floss: cute round heads, cute big big eyes, cute angelic smiles, cute neat little bodies in cute neat little school uniforms in cute cute cute settings and situations.......... If cute makes you barf, you might want to avoid this one. Read Azumanga Daioh instead; far less cute, much more wit, and a sly sense of dementia.



SAMURAI CHAMPLOO サムライチャンプルー
[Physical type: simple and elegant.]

A manga derived from the anime of the same name. Champloo is actually the Okinawan word 'Chanpuru' (to mix or mess together). A period piece, a ronin epic, and a bitter comedic opera.
There are three characters - Jin, the intellectual and extremely skilled swordsman who carves up opponents with single-minded ferocity; Mugen, a brash, unwashed, eternally hungry violent young man with a sword; and Fuu, a petite teenage waitress with somewhat large bosoms, who hires both men to protect her while she goes on a quest. She has a furry pet named Momo (peach, flying squirrel) who lives inside her clothing. The events of their journey to the south are told in the episodes. There are references to western painters, and to hip hop music. It is ultra violent. And very enjoyable. Fuu is more irritating to many of the people they encounter than either of the two psychopathic swordsmen accompanying her. The illustration style is lavish - more so in the anime.

On the very first page, the ravenous Mugen eats a frog, to the distress of a little boy whose mother tells him to 'ignore the bad man'. On the next page the violence starts. This is a good wholesome read for the entire family.



FUJOSHI RUMI 妄想少女オタク系
[Physical type: stylized realistic.]

Mousou Shoujo Otaku Kei, translated into English as Fujoshi Rumi ('rotten girl Rumi'), is a sendup of the Otaku world, written for borderline otakus, by someone who is probably an otaku.
[Otaku refers to the type of young person who is socially inept and relies on manga, anime, and computer games for interactions with the world. Often they are painfully shy, incapable of speaking without frequent use of references and quotes drawn from their reading material (kind of like talmedim), and given to seeing everything in terms of their constructed meta-reality (how yeshivish!). They're also rather like the timid software engineers who roam in giant flocks between here and San Jose, as well as trekkies, lord-of-the-ringies, and others of that ilk.]
The heroine is a shy, nerdy aficionado of Yaoi - gay men love stories written for a female audience. This shades her interpretation of the interactions of two male classmates, and at first she does not realize that one of them is attracted to her, because she thinks that he and the other boy are a couple. She emotionally supports them in their beautiful romantic choice - they are totally baffled, not realizing what she thinks of them. Only when a second girl interferes does it finally become clear, and at this point, Rumi goes entirely over the top Otaku-wise when it turns out that the other girl is a kindred spirit who is also entranced by Yaoi romances.
Full-throttle geek action!

Both girls, by the way, embody several graphic fetishes at once. Rumi is short, shy, curvy, clumsy, blushes easily, has pigtails, and wears huge spectacles (mmmm, blushing, twin-tails, meganeko!). Matsui is leggy, wears short school-girl uniform skirts, and has cleavage that most teenage Japanese girls would die for - how much more so their male classmates!

The story develops as a tale of clumsy romantic intentions thwarted by misunderstanding and nerd-tendencies. Two normal boys, two innocently twisted girls. At the end of volume two, Rumi announces dramatically that she will not let a boy have Matsui's soft breasts and narrow waist, she will have them for herself!
It is clear that if a gay man wanted them, she would have approved wholeheartedly - she is, after all, not herself a lesbian, merely a lover of gay manga heroes. Two totally normal, totally heterosexual, totally clueless male specimens like Abe and Chiba, cannot possible appreciate or deserve the perfect anime-heroine ideal represented by Matsui.
If they were gay, on the other hand......

This is a very clean manga, with almost none of the fan-service that would shock or excite innocent little yeshiva boys. But because of it's subject matter, it should be hidden under your mattress.
Women readers might not get it, despite the humour - you ladies still don't quite understand the geek-nerd phenomenon, nor the thing about blushing, pigtails, spectacles, and school-girl uniforms.
Nevertheless I recommend it highly.

SMELL MY HAIR!

Americans have a hair fetish. I realized this yesterday afternoon when I went to Walgreens for some shampoo. If it weren't for the American bosom-fixation, there would be no naked-women porn at all, just lots of glossy pictures of coiffures, and late-night wig stores all over the place.

The Walgreens near the office has an entire aisle of shampoo. It just does not have any normal shampoo.
It has products with tea tree oil, herbal extractives, lavender, blossoms, fruit essences, frootiqueries, lactobang, egg-yolk and verbena, sandalum alba, olive oil, vitamins E, C, A, mineral supplement shampoo, environmental shampoo, extra shine, therapeutic, deep-cleansing, soothing, ayurvedic, yin-yang, ylang-ylang, blonde bombshell super-mane, dyed hair, soft hair, delicate hair, dry hair, fragile hair, insecure hair, special hair, and office bitch from hell attitude hair.
Multiples from several different manufacturers, including the Japanese.

It differs from the Walgreens near my apartment, which has at least three nice unstinky shampoos for 'normal hair', and not very much else.
You might think that I would simply hold-off until I got back to my own neighborhood and buy a familiar product, but you would be wrong.

I cannot go to the Walgreens in my neighborhood.

It isn't because I propositioned a nice teenage clerky-poo behind the counter, or exposed myself in the aisle with the pads for the elderly. Nothing like that at all. Nor have I developed an issue regarding the large spotty spectacles-woman who manages the place.
I do not go there because that entire intersection is filled with street people, drawn by the bright lights of a drugstore which is open till twelve, the magnetism of two insta-tellers, a movie theatre, liquor stores and restaurants, and a discount tobacco centre which is open in the evening.
The frenetic buzzing disturbs me, I'll Walgreenize near work, thank you.


So I bought the most unfroofroo shampoo I could find.


GILLETTE CLEAN AND REFRESHING SHAMPOO - 'with refreshing mint'.


I am willing to try something new. Even hair mint.


A brief note about the bathroom. See, the shower thingy doesn't work, hasn't functioned for ten years. I could get the manager in to fix, like the last time, but it doesn't seem worth it for something that, in theory, I could do myself, but haven't. So instead, Savage Kitten and I take baths and rinse off afterwards by dumping buckets of water over ourselves. The net result is the same.

And perhaps I should also explain that mint not only refreshes, but sometimes nips, stings and tingles - especially on the squidgy bits. Of which, sitting in the warm water while lathering my hair I slowly became aware. Acutely. A sensation of increasing warmth, tingle, and itch, in a place where at the time I did not want either warmth or tingle. Or itch.

This is not a problem that can be solved by simply standing up, as the mint extractives which cause the issue will still be in the water droplets pearling the naked body. And standing up abruptly with the eyes closed is not a good idea - not in a bath tub.
I can see the headline already: "ambulance hauls away naked minty man", or "nude breaks leg due to crotch itch".
I do want to be famous, but not that way.


It reminded me of a time when the shower still worked. Years ago I used to bottle my own hot sauce, made with Scotch Bonnet peppers and Habaňeros. I would go through pounds of chilies, cutting them open to check for rotten spots before dumping them in the blender. Doing so one day, at one point I needed to visit the powder room. Meh, no problem, wash hands thoroughly with strong soap, two or three times, before.....................
I spent an hour under an ice-cold shower that day. I remember it well.


Anyhow, the minty component of this new shampoo is not quite in that league. Not enough to cause accidents by a long shot. And I do indeed feel clean and refreshed. Oh boy do I ever.

I want to sniff myself.

Mmmmm, zesty!

I smell good. I am fresh. Oh yes!

I like how I feel - I will keep this tingly product.

I can't wait till Savage Kitten discovers the new shampoo.

PIE FOR FINKELSTEIN

A frequent reader and occasional commenter draws my attention to the upcoming visit of Norman Finkelstein, kapo and collaborateur-extraordinaire of the International Phillistinist Enterprise, which will be sponsored by the usual gang of thugs at UC Berkeley - that being an Arab-funded operation going under the name of 'Students For Justice In Palestine'.


She writes:
I'd like to start a thread here (just making myself at home, sorry BOTH. Just another pesky Jew colonizing a blog and displacing the indigenous population).

Norman Finkelstein, self loathing Jew and enabler of anti-Semitism is talking at UC Berkeley next week.

On his blog he comes out in favor of "pie-ing" as protected free speech.

Since Israel, truth, and pie are all relevant to this blog, I'd like to ask the readership?

What pie for Norman?
I'm leaning towards pecan, since he's just plain nuts, but Bavarian cream has a certain poetic justice to it as well.

I've been doing my research, but I still can't decide.

"During the last great wave of pie-ings in the late 1990s, a British pie company, Tesco, actually tested all its varieties for aerodynamics, crust dispersion and creamability. For best results, the company recommended egg custard, lemon meringue and anything with a fruit filling. "All our pies fly extremely well," company spokeswoman Melodie Schuster proudly told The Wall Street Journal."

Any suggestions of a pie for Finkelstein?

Much thanks

-------Tia




Well, the first thing that pops into my head is tofu cheesecake (several recipes here), primarily because while it goes down smoothly, it will inevitably give you the runs. Tofu cheesecake is better than most laxatives in that regard, and proves, once again, that white folks messing with tofu are responsible for a lot that is wrong in this world. Tofutti, tofurky, tofam, tofalestinians, tofacon, tofu dogs, tofu ice cream, and tofu spam.


If you really want tofu, eat it with meat sauce.


MA PO TOFU (麻婆豆腐)

One block firm tofu (14 oz).
1/4 lb ground meat.
2 TBS chili paste.
2 TBS Szechuan hot bean paste (laat dou fan jeung 辣豆瓣酱).
2 TBS regular oil.
1 TBS chili oil.
½ TBS Szechuan peppercorns (fa-chiew 花椒,alternative name: san-chiew 山椒). roasted and finely ground .
½ Tsp fermented black beans (dou-see 豆豉) soaked and mashed.
2 scallions, cut to 2 inch lengths.
2 gloves garlic, chopped.
½ TBS soy sauce.
Quarter cup stock and a jigger of sherry.
Pinch of sugar, pinch of cornstarch - blended in a little hot water.


Cut tofu into chunks, blanch in gently boiling water, drain. Sauté the ground meat, garlic, and spicy bean paste in the two oils till the meat is no longer pink. Add the chili paste, dao see, and soy sauce, stir around to mix everything, then add the tofu, stock, and sherry. Cook, gently stirring (to prevent the tofu breaking up) for a few minutes, then add the fa-chiew, scallions, and the pinches of sugar and cornstarch which have been blended in a little hot water. Stir a little longer and plate it.


On second thought, even Norman Finkelstein doesn't deserve tofu cheesecake. Nobody does. But what would be utterly perfect is three day old Blue Peeps Pie (recipe here: Horrid Goyish Treif).

You will have to age it three days yourself. Or longer. Unrefrigerated is good.

You might also wonder what other colours of peeps for perverted pie would be appropriate - I favour the blue ones, because it would painfully remind the rat and his acolytes of Israel - especially if you sprayed whipped cream on the pie before serving it to him. Several days before serving it to him.
But any colour would do. Even red, black, white, and green (maraschino cherries, soft licorice, cool whip, and chunks of lime jello - think of it as Palestinian Ambrosia Salad).

Please discuss. And bon appetite!

FIGHTING FAX WITH FAX

Two weeks ago a young lady left a message in my voicemailbox, as she had done several times before. She needed me to do something for her, to satisfy a certain requirement, to provide her with......

Wipe that silly grin off your face, that wasn't what she wanted. She needed me to fax her a W-9.

[The W-9 is a form that provides a company's tax identification number and has checkboxes for the kind of entity which the company claims to be. It must be signed by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person. The W-9 is formally known as 'Request for Taxpayer Identification Number and Certification'.]


The young lady in question had already faxed over a blank form to be filled-out at our end.
Fifteen times.

We had faxed her a completed form.
Fourteen times.

Her several frantic messages insisted that we fill out her form, not just send her the one we keep ready for just such occassions. Her form. Not any other. Hers. Hers only, only hers. Why would we not fill out her form? Why did we keep sending our form? She needed hers! Did we not understand? Hers, hers, hers!


Half-way through this two-week fax-fest I noticed what made her form different. Hers was the October 2007 revision - we were using the November 2005 revision.


The 2007 revision has added the following text UNDERNEATH the fill-out and sign part of the form: "General Instruction - Section references are to the Internal Revenue Code unless otherwise noted".

That's it. That is the only difference. Thirteen extra words in a non-legally-relevant blurble section of the form. The layout remains the same, and all of the other text is the same. The font is the same. The fields to fill out remain the same: name of entity, address, status, tax id, and signature by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person.

She already had the information she needed, in the format in which it was required, with a signature by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person certifying that the information was correct.
Either version of the form is valid once signed by a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person - whence this banal anality?

So I called her, to explain the sameness and find out why she was being nuts. As such insistence clearly proved her to be. Red-tape vampire hag-bitch from the bottom rung of the brimstone bureaucracy. Neurotic, bonkers, twisted. Daemonic braindead nerdette. Possibly a half-wit, more likely simply a badly trained clerical gibbon given too much freedom. A pencil-pusher without the capacity for independent thought. Severly ineffective.

She understood why I called. And gently explained that it was her corporate masters that insisted on the October 2007 revision, and refused to accept the information if it was proffered on an earlier version of the form (such as the November 2005 revision). She had no choice or stake in the matter. Corporate HQ demanded absolute uniformity.


In addition to my other qualities I am a U.S. citizen or other U.S. person, so I have filled-out and faxed her the October 2007 revision.
It is now hanging on my cubicle wall as a reminder of my capitulation.

WHAT IS THAT MESS ON MY PLATE? RAWON AND GANGKIYAP - HOMECOOKING

Sometimes you just have to eat the funky stuff. Because it tastes like home, that's why.
And it's almost a guarantee that unless you are a tofu-white Midwesterner, nothing where you are now really tastes like home unless you make it yourself.


Here are two recipes that taste like home to me, though my mother would have been shocked and horrified had she known that I ate stuff like this (or even brought it into the house).

The first one is an almost black meat soup-stew from Java, made with kluwak nuts (the seed of the Kulape tree (Kepayang; Pangium Edule). Kluwak which are available in the west are thoroughly processed and have been dried - they must be made soft by steeping in a little hot water for about ten or fifteen minutes, whereupon they may be mashed to a smooth paste with ease. They add a nice 'rusty' fragrance to dishes, and change the colour to brown-black. Very delicious.



RAWON
[Javanese black soup-stew]

One pound stew beef or lamb chunks.
One onion, chopped.
One stalk sere (lemongrass), bruised.
Three to five cloves garlic, mashed, and an equivalent amount of ginger, ditto.
One teaspoon ground coriander.
Half a teaspoon each: turmeric, cayenne, cumin, langkwang powder.
Half a dozen soaked kluwak nuts, mashed up in a little hot water.
A few daon parot (kaffir lime leaves).
Pinches salt, pepper, sugar.
Scallion and cilantro to garnish.

Gild onion in oil, add the garlic and ginger, stir briefly, add the spices, then the meat. Cook, stirring, till the meat is no longer pink and the fragrance rises. Seethe with a little water and add the mashed kluwak, stirring to dissolve. Add everything else, plus water to cover generously. Simmer for about an hour. Garnish with scallion and cilantro.



GANGKIYAP
[Tamarao potato and bamboo shoot curry]

Three cups match-stick cut potato.
One cup bamboo shoot, ditto.
Two or three shallots, minced.
Three to five cloves garlic, mashed, and an equivalent amount of ginger, ditto.
Three to five Roma tomatoes; peeled, seeded, chopped.
One and a half teaspoons each: cayenne, ground coriander.
Half a teaspoon each: ground cumin, turmeric.
Half a tablespoon shrimp paste, OR a suitable pinch of salt.
Generous pinch of sugar.
Half a cup each: ricewine or sherry, coconut milk, meat broth.
Cilantro and sliced green chilies to garnish.

Gild shallots in oil, add the garlic and ginger, stir briefly, add the spices, stir till fragrant, and seethe with a little water. Add the potato, cook for about five minutes till the liquid is gone. Add everything else, including the liquids, and cook for another ten or fifteen minutes (depends on how thick your matchstick cut potatoes are). Garnish and serve.



Taken together, these two dishes, with a bowl of clear broth, a plate of plain boiled rice, some sambal (hot chili paste), plus a few raw or blanched vegetables to dip in the sambal, will make a very satisfying meal. Have lime wedges on the side, both for squeezing over the dishes as well as acidulating the broth - especially if it is a fish broth.

As regards sambal, Dutch people usually serve it directly from the store-bought jar and glop it onto the plate (sometimes right onto the food!), Indos and well-bred Javanese have a bowl of sambal freshly made on the table, from which each diner will transfer some to a small condiment saucer. This may be tailored to personal taste with a dash of patis (amber liquid fish sauce), ketjap manis (sweet dark soy sauce), lime juice, or black vinegar. In the Indonesian countryside it is often served in the mortar in which it was mashed, and the diners will scoop some onto their plate as needed.

One eats these foods using spoons and forks off of porcelain (spoon to eat, fork as a pushing device). The table setting includes a plate for each diner, as well as condiment saucers, soup bowls, and a bone bowl (for refuse and inedible bits). Almost no-one eats off of banana leaves anymore, and dulang (centre-footed round wooden presentation and serving trays) are also seldom used, though prized as cultural objects and heirlooms.
-------------------------------------------

Note regarding ingredients mentioned in the recipes:

Sere: Lemongrass (sere, serai, sae). A tropical stalk-grass that smells like candied lemon. Available in S.E. Asian markets. Keeps away bugs, so worth growing in your backyard.
Langkwang: Galangal (lengkuas, laos); related to ginger, has an old-fashioned almost medicinal smell. Do not use the dried LengKeung available in Chinatown, though - while it is a close relative, it is more suited for cooking bushmeats (!) as tonic than regular meats as dinner table food. The proportions used are also different.
Daon Parot: Kaffir lime leaf; a leaf that adds a fragrance between tea-rose and citrus. No substitute, but not absolutely essential. It can be purchased in markets catering to a Thai and Indonesian clientele.
Bamboo shoot: Edible young bamboo (called 'rabong' in Indonesian languages). Can be purchased in Chinatown in cans already blanched and sliced matchstickwise - simply rinse and drain before use.
If using fresh bamboo shoot, peel them, and trim away the root and any overly fibrous parts. Cut to the shape desired, and boil in a large pan of water for about twenty minutes. Do not cover the pan. This process removes the bitterness that makes raw shoots appealing only to pandas. Taste a little afterwards. If there is still some remaining bitterness, change the water and boil for another five minutes or so. Drain and rinse. Don't worry, they'll still be crunchy after cooking. Bamboo shoots are very low in calories, but a great source of fibre (hah, what a surprise!). They are reputed to be good for the heart, and both anti-viral and anti-cancerous in their effect on the body. Plus they taste good. That last bit is the most important reason to eat them. Really the only reason.
Shrimp paste: Trasi is the Indonesian version, being a dried dark brown smelly substance reminiscent of a bouillion cube..... A salty fishy rotten bouillion cube.
The Philippinos have various similar preparations, generically called bago'ong, which represent various stages of fragrance and chemical instability - not recommended.
Nowadays I use the Cantonese version (鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung), which is a pungent purple-grey goop in a jar that keeps forever. It is high in salt, but also other minerals. Not very nutritious, but when cooked it is oh so tasty. Dipping green mango into a little of this is pure heaven. It should be in every kitchen, right next to the jar of sambal and the bottle of black vinegar.

HEART ATTACK ON A PLATE II

Years ago, when I worked at the restaurant, I would often hear the owner waxing poetic about the marvelous benefits of Indian food. It was a miracle of good diet, healthy, good for the heart, delicious, and a supreme mark of an ancient and refined culture.

Plus many more superlatives. It's good for you!

I once heard him launch into this shpiel to a customer who was waiting for a take-out order. While he lyrically sang the healthful praises of his favourite cuisine, I glanced at the customer's bill..........
Murgh Makhni, Chicken Tikka Masala, and Garlic Naan - two versions of chicken drenched in butter sauce, plus bread slathered with melted butter.

The restaurant, as far as I know, did not serve anything that lacked ghee except for drinks and kachumber salad. A triple bacon-cheese burger would've been healthier than a serving of the two most popular dishes - murgh makhni and chicken tikka masala. Both of these are made by taking chunked cooked chicken and serving it in a sauce composed of butter, cream, tomato, and spices. Lots of butter. Half a stick each at least. Do you feel your arteries solidifying yet? That crackling sound is your crystallized blood-vessels crinkling as you bend over with heart-pains. You'll keep forever with that amount of wax in your veins.

Indian Restaurant Food is hardly the healthgiving benevolent cuisine that you have been told.

Not that it makes much difference to me, as one of my favourite dishes qualifies as a heart-destroying artery clogger of bio-war proportions.


RANDANGAN BABUI
[Dutch east Indies style seethed pork]

Two pounds pork belly (the cut known in Chinatown as 五花 腩 - ng-fa naam - five flower fatty abdominal meat).
Two TBS wet shrimp paste (the nice purple stinky stuff available in C'town called 鹹蝦醬 - haam haa jeung - salty shrimp sauce).
Four or five cloves garlic, and equivalent amount ginger, chopped up.
A dash of dark vinegar.
A dash of soy sauce.
A teaspoon or two of sugar.

Don't bother cutting up the nice streaky meat, just put it into a pot with all the other ingredients and water to cover. Bring to a boil, simmer for an hour and a half - the liquid will reduce much, and some of the fat will render. Take the lump of meat out and let it dry and cool. The cooking juices may be reserved for a dipping sauce, with lots of mashed hot chilies added after skimming off the fat.

Cut the meat into thick flat chunks. Seethe these in oil (low-heat fry) till nicely golden. Turn over carefully, and do the same to the other side. Garnish with cilantro and scallion.


Note that this is an extremely rich ('greasy') dish. It need not be eaten by itself, but can be served as one dish out of many on the table. If the pork is seethed till dark, it keeps without refrigeration for a day or two at least. Chopped up it is a nice addition to noodle soups or simmered vegetables. Always have lime wedges on the side.

Your doctor does NOT want to hear about it.

HOT AND STICKY GOODNESS

That year Ramadan was from the end of May through the third week of June. Halfway through the month the weather changed. The mid-afternoon rainstorms decreased, the winds brought more heat. But there were only a few days with no rain at all, and just as few that were entirely too hot. Still, it is a humid climate, and considerably warmer than California. Even the locals went limp from heat and hunger.


One did not necessarily want to eat during the day, but that it was not possible was a burden. Right around teatime one would get up, sponge off, and regretfully realize that there was no cardamom coffee, no ginger tea, no horrid sweet softdrink with electric green or red fake colour, and entirely no food at all to be had. One would grumble in concert with one's stomach.
At sundown one walked toward the mosque, hoping that the vendors would have set up shop before magrib prayers ended, drifts of fragrance from their fires tempting the faithful in the courtyard. Tungkoludi was not a particularly exciting place, and food was one of it's sparse charms.

During Ramadan, that charm was only evident at night.


Sop Manok Mi = Chicken and noodle soup with fried tuber-chunks, mildly curry flavoured, with oily red chili sambal and huge wedges of cucumber. Lime wedge on the side.

Krawan = Goat meat and liver marinated in lime juice with garlic, ginger, and turmeric, flame-broiled, served with sweet-soy sauce and lime wedges.

Kurok Magureng = Frog marinated in vinegar and lime juice, deep-fried and served with a sambal of chilies, soy sauce, and sugar.


These and other quick dishes (sate kambing, krupok urang, tjao kangkong, luomi, pitjil batawi) were all quite delicious.
One would've hoped to have had a chance to enjoy them before dying of starvation.
Not in Tungkoludi.

The one thing that was both perfect for the time of day and the place was katupat. The hot packets fresh off the coals and smelling of scorched banana leaf, that one pulled apart with burnt fingertips, revealing a gooey sweet mass inside, were the very best way to start the night.
A quick snack, scarfed down greedily, which raised the blood-sugar level back to normal and kept one from killing the innocent natives.
Step back, bitch, these are mine!


KATUPAT

3 cups glutinous rice.
1 - 1½ cups golden cane sugar.
Either two bananas, peeled and chunked.
OR
Strips of meat from two young coconuts.

Banana leaves for wrapping


Soak rice in water for two hours. Drain, and grind to a smooth doughy consistency. Mix the sugar and the banana or coconut into the rice dough.
Wipe banana leaves clean, and pass over the fire. Cut into squares about the size of a plate.
Spread the rice mixture thinly over half of each piece of banana leaf, then roll into a sausage shape. Grill over coals till the inside is hot and goopy and the outside somewhat singed.
Serve warm.

Makes about two dozen pieces.
Have them with cardamom coffee.

Ramadan ends today.
Eid mubarak, y'all.