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Sunday, October 18, 2020
RAT AND CHAIR
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BLUE CRABS
Years ago my apartment mate was raving about the taste of blue crabs. Two days ago, Charles in New Hampshire reacted to a recent drawing by commenting: "Love the crab. I need a bluecrab painting like this one!"
Well, given that he's a good friend, works in Fresh Water Management, AND shows evidence of fine culinary tastes, I made him one.
Both the blue crab above, and the original crab below are pipesmokers, as you can plainly see. This explains why crabs come ashore frequently and skitter along the beach. You can not smoke a pipe underwater, it interferes with the taste of good tobacco.
Salt water is also not conducive to aging tobacco.
The crabs have already complained about it.
Strongly worded letters to the editor.
They are justifiably upset.
Well, given that he's a good friend, works in Fresh Water Management, AND shows evidence of fine culinary tastes, I made him one.
Both the blue crab above, and the original crab below are pipesmokers, as you can plainly see. This explains why crabs come ashore frequently and skitter along the beach. You can not smoke a pipe underwater, it interferes with the taste of good tobacco.
Salt water is also not conducive to aging tobacco.
The crabs have already complained about it.
Strongly worded letters to the editor.
They are justifiably upset.
Crabby.
TOBACCO INDEX
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TOBACCO INDEX
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Saturday, October 17, 2020
TAR AND FEATHER THESE ANIMALS
The rise of political idiocy continues apace. The Netherlands, which follows American trends an average of five to ten years after the United States, has been infected.
Quote: "The Dutch state broadcaster has removed its logo from outside broadcast vans as politicians complained of a steep rise in threats and the national counter-terrorism agency warned of a heightened risk of far-right violence in the Netherlands."
Per NOS (the broadcaster): "Almost daily, journalists and technicians -- confronted with verbal abuse, garbage is thrown, vans are blocked [and] people bang on their sides or urinate on them".
Source: The Guardian (UK)
"Radicale onderstroom met extremistische gedragingen"
------Pieter-Jaap Aalbersberg
So, for the record, as a liberal Dutch American who speaks, reads, and writes Dutch fluently and stukken beter dan menig Nederlander (despite coming from stock that has been in the United States for centuries, and being related to several presidents), let me recommend the complete dismantling of Pim Fortuyn's legacy, the outcasting of Geert Wilders ('n stuk schorem die zich beter in Polen of Mississippi zou thuis voelen), and publicly pissing on Thierry Baudet and his Dutch version of the Flemish Nationalists and salonfähige neo-nazis. Except for the first one, who is dead as a doornail, the other two should be put on no-fly lists.
Their thought-world is a scumfilled swamp.
Personae non gratae.
Alletwee van die Neerlandsche politici zijn ranzige vuilheid.
Pim Fortuyn is natuurlijk lang verrot.
Was ie al voor de dood.
Henk en Ingrid? De stereotype Nederlanders in het giftige rhetoriek van mijnheer Wilders?
Quote: "The Dutch state broadcaster has removed its logo from outside broadcast vans as politicians complained of a steep rise in threats and the national counter-terrorism agency warned of a heightened risk of far-right violence in the Netherlands."
Per NOS (the broadcaster): "Almost daily, journalists and technicians -- confronted with verbal abuse, garbage is thrown, vans are blocked [and] people bang on their sides or urinate on them".
Source: The Guardian (UK)
"Radicale onderstroom met extremistische gedragingen"
------Pieter-Jaap Aalbersberg
So, for the record, as a liberal Dutch American who speaks, reads, and writes Dutch fluently and stukken beter dan menig Nederlander (despite coming from stock that has been in the United States for centuries, and being related to several presidents), let me recommend the complete dismantling of Pim Fortuyn's legacy, the outcasting of Geert Wilders ('n stuk schorem die zich beter in Polen of Mississippi zou thuis voelen), and publicly pissing on Thierry Baudet and his Dutch version of the Flemish Nationalists and salonfähige neo-nazis. Except for the first one, who is dead as a doornail, the other two should be put on no-fly lists.
Their thought-world is a scumfilled swamp.
Personae non gratae.
Alletwee van die Neerlandsche politici zijn ranzige vuilheid.
Pim Fortuyn is natuurlijk lang verrot.
Was ie al voor de dood.
Henk en Ingrid? De stereotype Nederlanders in het giftige rhetoriek van mijnheer Wilders?
Ze kunnen de pot op. Net zo walgelijk als de rechtse ballen hier.
Judging from everything I've read -- and that's an awful lot -- the Netherlands loopy rightwing fringe is sodden with racists (ahem, "ethnic nationalists", besides outright bigots) and completely infected with QAnon insanity. They're like American Republicans.
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Judging from everything I've read -- and that's an awful lot -- the Netherlands loopy rightwing fringe is sodden with racists (ahem, "ethnic nationalists", besides outright bigots) and completely infected with QAnon insanity. They're like American Republicans.
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Friday, October 16, 2020
ANGRY BLONDE AND CAT
Far be it from me to jump on the meme bandwagon. It's a jejune and ridiculous form of entertainment.
Except if it's funny, and agrees with my own lifestyle choices.
Indeed.
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Except if it's funny, and agrees with my own lifestyle choices.
Indeed.
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Thursday, October 15, 2020
IMAGINING WETTER WEATHER
Some creatures really don't like heat. Crabs. UPS drivers. Teabags. Ancient Dutchmen in San Francisco. Yesterday it hit eighty eight degrees in late afternoon, and consequently I had the worst night's sleep that I can remember. It is presently 86° here, and I will shortly head out to front steps with a pipe to await the UPS driver with my delivery.
The next person to say "such lovely weather we're having" may get clobbered. If sufficient energy can be built up. Just wait a day or two, and when I see you again, provided it is cooler, I'll hit you.
The next person to say "such lovely weather we're having" may get clobbered. If sufficient energy can be built up. Just wait a day or two, and when I see you again, provided it is cooler, I'll hit you.
AN ANCIENT DUTCHMAN
There ought to be a law against such temperatures. Expect another strongly worded letter to the editor.
Lizards, of course, love weather like this. There they are, gaily disporting themselves in the tall wet grasses, looking for their golfballs and smoking their cigars with their friends, or playing tennis and exclaiming "jolly good show old man, oh well done", for all the world showing off how damned miserably comfortable they are. The odious beasts.
This blogger, as you might expect, hates golf in the United States.
The game is supposed to be played in inclement weather, in a colder climate, by people dressed in woolens being rained on. Or sheltering from the downpour in a copse of trees or a hutment beyond the fifteenth green because otherwise they can't keep their pipes lit.
Lizards, of course, love weather like this. There they are, gaily disporting themselves in the tall wet grasses, looking for their golfballs and smoking their cigars with their friends, or playing tennis and exclaiming "jolly good show old man, oh well done", for all the world showing off how damned miserably comfortable they are. The odious beasts.
This blogger, as you might expect, hates golf in the United States.
The game is supposed to be played in inclement weather, in a colder climate, by people dressed in woolens being rained on. Or sheltering from the downpour in a copse of trees or a hutment beyond the fifteenth green because otherwise they can't keep their pipes lit.
And cursing both the American businessmen AND the doctors' wives who insist that they too need to play. They are all in the clubhouse having gin and sherry and waiting for the rain to end, which explains why you're out here. Can't smoke in the clubhouse anymore, neither the American businessmen nor the doctors wives will shut the hell up, they're getting quite swozzled, and it's not teatime
yet, so a civilized refreshment cannot be had.
Well, at least the tin of flake is dry.
A pipe with no one else around is a slice of heaven.
Even if you are limp from the heat.
Astley's No. 109.
TOBACCO INDEX
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yet, so a civilized refreshment cannot be had.
Well, at least the tin of flake is dry.
Even if you are limp from the heat.
Astley's No. 109.
TOBACCO INDEX
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UNTITLED ESSAY
A reader commented underneath a recent post: "Dude. What's with all the Asian stuff? As far as I know you are a total WASP!" Well, yeah. You're point being?
Perhaps he (or she) has overlooked all the non-Asian stuff, like British pipe tobacco, Dutch references, and sneering at Christianity. Plus Ganneval Bondier and Donninger, mentions of a turkey vulture (surely the paradigm of American birds), the Avon Lady, and existential angst.
Or perhaps he (or she) thinks that a wasp should not have any truck with Asian stuff.
Wasps, obviously, are absolutely NOT inclined toward Asia.
He (or she) is thinks unclearly.
EXHIBIT "A"
大虎頭蜂
A TOTAL WASP
Bad vespid; no biscuit for you!
Some distinctions are just not worth making. Food and drink are universal, and world-wide almost everyone wears clothing, made of largely the same fabrics. If you prick them, do they not bleed?
Quote: "Regardless of sex, the hornet's head is a light shade of orange and its antennae are brown with a yellow-orange base. Its eyes and ocelli are dark brown to black. V. mandarinia is distinguished from other hornets by its pronounced clypeus and large genae. Its orange mandible contains a black tooth that it uses for digging. The thorax is dark brown, with two grey wings varying in span from 35 to 76 mm (1 3⁄8 to 3 in). Its forelegs are brighter than the mid and hind legs. The base of the forelegs is darker than the rest. The abdomen alternates between bands of dark brown or black, and a yellow-orange hue (consistent with its head color). The sixth segment is yellow. Its stinger is typically 6 mm (1⁄4 in) long and contains a potent venom that, in cases of multiple hornets stinging simultaneously, can kill a human."
End quote.
Source: Wikipedia
The world is getting smaller.
Deal with it.
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Wednesday, October 14, 2020
THE DOCTOR'S APPOINTMENT
One thing we can conlude from this morning's doctor's appointment is that little Miss Mak looks kinda cute with a surgical mask, and has a forehead like a Bartlett pear. Very smart looking. No, I had no dealings with her today, someone else took my blood pressure and temperature, as well as checking my weight and finger-tip oxygen saturation with the little clampy thingy.
And gave me the flu shot and the second jab of the shingles vaccine.
The good doctor himself didn't bother asking if the old reprobate (老重蹈覆轍者) was still smoking, because I was twiddling a pipe in my right hand as if it were worry beads.
It was obvious that I had not reformed, wise reprimands to the contrary.
By ten thirty I was out of the clinic again, and bought some bittermelon across the street at Gold Mountain Grocery before lighting up. The clinic is on the first basement level (地下一樓), and can be accessed through either entrance to the building.
BTW: if you show up significantly early for a medical visit, it pays off.
I was supposed to be there at ten thirty.
Got seen first.
The other thing to clarify is that the use of Chinese terms is within the parameters of this visit to the clinic, because my doctor, the office manager, Miss Mak, and the nurse who proved adept with two hypodermics, were all Chinese, though English and Mandarin (a Sino-Tibetan tongue from the wild lands north of the wall) were also fluencies they possessed. Miss Mak had a long clarifactory discussion with another patient on the phone in Mandarin, clear diction, to the point.
Of course I'm mighty impressed.
As well as envious.
My conversations with the grocers, the counter clerk at Walgreens, the woman who rang up my purchases at the general store and market, and the lady at the dim sum counter, as well as two people on the bus, were in Cantonese. Much briefer talk, because I am not as fluent as Miss Mak and Joanna at the clinic in any version of Chinese.
As a stereotypical Dutchman, I have failed.
Not as multi-lingual as I should be.
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And gave me the flu shot and the second jab of the shingles vaccine.
The good doctor himself didn't bother asking if the old reprobate (老重蹈覆轍者) was still smoking, because I was twiddling a pipe in my right hand as if it were worry beads.
It was obvious that I had not reformed, wise reprimands to the contrary.
By ten thirty I was out of the clinic again, and bought some bittermelon across the street at Gold Mountain Grocery before lighting up. The clinic is on the first basement level (地下一樓), and can be accessed through either entrance to the building.
BTW: if you show up significantly early for a medical visit, it pays off.
I was supposed to be there at ten thirty.
Got seen first.
The other thing to clarify is that the use of Chinese terms is within the parameters of this visit to the clinic, because my doctor, the office manager, Miss Mak, and the nurse who proved adept with two hypodermics, were all Chinese, though English and Mandarin (a Sino-Tibetan tongue from the wild lands north of the wall) were also fluencies they possessed. Miss Mak had a long clarifactory discussion with another patient on the phone in Mandarin, clear diction, to the point.
Of course I'm mighty impressed.
As well as envious.
My conversations with the grocers, the counter clerk at Walgreens, the woman who rang up my purchases at the general store and market, and the lady at the dim sum counter, as well as two people on the bus, were in Cantonese. Much briefer talk, because I am not as fluent as Miss Mak and Joanna at the clinic in any version of Chinese.
As a stereotypical Dutchman, I have failed.
Not as multi-lingual as I should be.
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TO BE HAPPY, THE ONE THING YOU NEED IS ... CAKE!
Despite my best attempts to ignore the event, yesterday was my birthday which my apartment mate and Facebook happily remembered. There were prezzies, roast duck, and cake. As well as innumerable best wishes.
Yeah, no, I don't feel any older or wiser.
The cake was from Little Swan (小天鵝餅店 'siu tin ngoh bing dim') on Stockton Street near Broadway, the roast duck (燒鴨 'siu ngaap') was from Hing Lung (興隆燒臘肉食公司 'hing lung siu laap yiuk sik kong si') in the same block.
Celebrating a momentous occasion is impossible without the input and attention to detail of Chinese Americans. Both the cake and the duck were superlative.
As well as extremely pleasing to the eyes.
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Yeah, no, I don't feel any older or wiser.
The cake was from Little Swan (小天鵝餅店 'siu tin ngoh bing dim') on Stockton Street near Broadway, the roast duck (燒鴨 'siu ngaap') was from Hing Lung (興隆燒臘肉食公司 'hing lung siu laap yiuk sik kong si') in the same block.
Celebrating a momentous occasion is impossible without the input and attention to detail of Chinese Americans. Both the cake and the duck were superlative.
As well as extremely pleasing to the eyes.
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Tuesday, October 13, 2020
HOW TO MAKE TEA
An American woman made a video of how to make British tea. First she microwaved a mug of water. Then she added milk and plonked in a teabag. Then sugar. And then the British people on the internet got upset.
The correct way to make a British cup of tea is to heat the water in a kettle, warm the teapot, perhaps by rinsing it with boiling water, then put loose leaf tea in the pot and pour boiling water over it. Let it steep for about five minutes. Pour into a cup. Add a modicum of sugar, and cream or milk if desired. The choice of cream or milk is hotly debated, by the way.
A good Christian woman posted a video in a Facebook group devoted entirely to a food and food culture. It was a religious video. Many members are not of her heretical sect.
The admins had earlier noted the following:
Dear Members
This is to remind you all that this is strictly a recipe group.
All posts have to be recipes AND NOT the following:
a) Photographs without the recipes of your just cooked meal that you are proud of and want to share with everyone.
The correct way to make a British cup of tea is to heat the water in a kettle, warm the teapot, perhaps by rinsing it with boiling water, then put loose leaf tea in the pot and pour boiling water over it. Let it steep for about five minutes. Pour into a cup. Add a modicum of sugar, and cream or milk if desired. The choice of cream or milk is hotly debated, by the way.
FINE PORCELAIN
Porcelain or ceramic is best, because of how
these hold the heat. Which is rather essential.
these hold the heat. Which is rather essential.
Then kick back and light up your pipe. Unfold a newspaper that has gravitas, and read the letters to the editor as well as the obituaries.
Hong Kong style milk-tea, which I prefer, is different. Tea leaves simmered for several minutes, strained through a mesh bag, and augmented with sweetened condensed milk. Strong, sweet, hot. Suitable for both the newspaper with gravitas, and going back up the bamboo scaffolding twenty stories to labour at international trade and banking for the rest of the day.
Hong Kong style milk-tea, which I prefer, is different. Tea leaves simmered for several minutes, strained through a mesh bag, and augmented with sweetened condensed milk. Strong, sweet, hot. Suitable for both the newspaper with gravitas, and going back up the bamboo scaffolding twenty stories to labour at international trade and banking for the rest of the day.
In the middle of a howling typhoon.
The pipe is considered optional in the latter case.
In Hong Kong, you might have baked spaghetti with a porkchop and cheese (焗豬扒意粉 'guk jyu baa yi fan') or curried beef tongue (咖哩牛脷 'gaa lei ngau lei') and rice with your hot cup of tea instead of cake. It helps if you let the staff know what you prefer.
But cake is good.
TOBACCO INDEX
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The pipe is considered optional in the latter case.
In Hong Kong, you might have baked spaghetti with a porkchop and cheese (焗豬扒意粉 'guk jyu baa yi fan') or curried beef tongue (咖哩牛脷 'gaa lei ngau lei') and rice with your hot cup of tea instead of cake. It helps if you let the staff know what you prefer.
But cake is good.
TOBACCO INDEX
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YOUR RELIGION PROBABLY OFFENDS ME
A good Christian woman posted a video in a Facebook group devoted entirely to a food and food culture. It was a religious video. Many members are not of her heretical sect.
The admins had earlier noted the following:
Dear Members
This is to remind you all that this is strictly a recipe group.
All posts have to be recipes AND NOT the following:
a) Photographs without the recipes of your just cooked meal that you are proud of and want to share with everyone.
b) Quizzes asking people to guess what you have on your stove/table or what you plan to cook on your special day of the year
If you feel that a post didn't really infringe on the rules above but was still removed, you may contact the administrator or the moderator who will revaluate the earlier decision. Those posts deleted by mistake may be restored.
We are thrilled when you contribute to this awesome group.
Posts that have no association with a recipe or food shall invite a permanent ban from this group. You won't be able to find this group on Facebook forever.
Food posts with links to external recipe videos and other external recipe content may force us to put you on an approval process before you will see your posts on this group.
These are good rules, not only for food groups on Facebook but also for life in general. The chances are that neither I nor anyone else is a member of your heretical sect of Jayzus idolators, or likely to convert. We aren't interested in your witchcraft superstition.
That holds not only for Christianity, but other religions: Veganism, anti-smoking, anti-vax, gunnutism, or the Texan inbred belief that masks are a sign of the devil.
And of course it goes without saying that if you believe Trump was divinely chosen, protected, ordained, or blessed, you are beyond salvation and should kill your miserable self to save the rest of us that effort. In three weeks we'll probably have our hands full.
This post is for Mary Y who lives on Waverly Road.
Certifiably an idiot. Likely a troll.
And a Christian.
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c) Music videos and watch parties of your band (or your favourite band) or choir
d) The proceedings of a place of worship that you feel everyone on this group will fall on a bended knee for
e) Your own or your favourite YouTube channel that you are dying to have more subscribers for. We infer that this is business promotion.
f) Your own (or your friend's) Facebook page that you think should have more likes than it already has
d) The proceedings of a place of worship that you feel everyone on this group will fall on a bended knee for
e) Your own or your favourite YouTube channel that you are dying to have more subscribers for. We infer that this is business promotion.
f) Your own (or your friend's) Facebook page that you think should have more likes than it already has
g) Cleverly disguised posts to promote your business
h) Profanity, racial, sexual discrimination or disrespect to another member in posts or in replies to posts
i) links to anything outside this group which includes links to your website or food blog
h) Profanity, racial, sexual discrimination or disrespect to another member in posts or in replies to posts
i) links to anything outside this group which includes links to your website or food blog
However, denouncing administrators or moderators for removing your favourite contributor or post for breaking the rules of the group is treated as free speech. We delete such posts at the end of the week or if they are reported prior to the weekly deadline by other members.
If you feel that a post didn't really infringe on the rules above but was still removed, you may contact the administrator or the moderator who will revaluate the earlier decision. Those posts deleted by mistake may be restored.
We are thrilled when you contribute to this awesome group.
Posts that have no association with a recipe or food shall invite a permanent ban from this group. You won't be able to find this group on Facebook forever.
Food posts with links to external recipe videos and other external recipe content may force us to put you on an approval process before you will see your posts on this group.
These are good rules, not only for food groups on Facebook but also for life in general. The chances are that neither I nor anyone else is a member of your heretical sect of Jayzus idolators, or likely to convert. We aren't interested in your witchcraft superstition.
That holds not only for Christianity, but other religions: Veganism, anti-smoking, anti-vax, gunnutism, or the Texan inbred belief that masks are a sign of the devil.
And of course it goes without saying that if you believe Trump was divinely chosen, protected, ordained, or blessed, you are beyond salvation and should kill your miserable self to save the rest of us that effort. In three weeks we'll probably have our hands full.
This post is for Mary Y who lives on Waverly Road.
Certifiably an idiot. Likely a troll.
And a Christian.
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Monday, October 12, 2020
OH HAPPY DISCOVERY
During the morning I found an opened tin of Chocolate Flake by Samuel Gawith in the big pile of books near my favourite chair. Paraphrasing the internet: "Chocolate Flake is a luxury blend of Virginias, burley and long-leaf latakias. To complete the luxury a rich, dark chocolate has been added after cutting. Excellent quality with good smoke and a delicious room note. Medium strength." End paraphrasis.
The few remaining sheets were on the dry side, and consequently there was no discernible whiff of chocolate. Which is a good thing. Perfumed tobaccos aren't my bag -- as I tend very much to howl in outrage when diseased sickos light up crap like that -- and Samuel Gawith had a light touch with this one. Unlike their Celtic Talisman, which was manufactured strictly for the American market and is quite disqusting, or Firedance Flake, which has so much bizarro fragrance added that it is almost completely unsmokable.
In this, the cocoa was only a slight nuance even when the tin was freshly opened. Burley and Latakia were both supplemented by it, but it wasn't by any means a hammer over the head.
An earthy note, more than anything else.
Delicate and English, rather than brutal and American.
Too subtle for the great fictional British detectives; miss Marple probably likes rum-drenched rope or pineapple vanilla plum cavendish, Sherlock Holmes would hot box this till his mouth was raw, then claim that it was flavourless. Monsieur Poirot might say that Ennerdale Flake (soapy and degenerate) was just the ticket; all proper Belgians huff such stuff.
[Yes, Poirot is English, despite his assertions to the contrary.]
Maigret, however, would happily puff this. Ignoring the allegation of chocolate, because, after all, you smoke a pipe because you smoke a pipe, not because you have a sweet tooth. And a mere allegation is all that it is, once the tobacco has dried out sufficiently that it can be smoked (many manaufacturers package their products too moist, so that they survive a sea voyage and transit across barren continents, plus several months on the shelves of a barracks provisionary in Boxwallahbagh; Samuel Gawith is exemplary in this regard).
This tin is more well-travelled in recent times than I am. It was sealed in Kendall, Cumbria, in the north of England near the border with Haggisstan, trucked to the docks in Bristol, crated with odd lots into a shipping container, then several weeks later lifted onto a freighter for the long trip across the pond to the New World, eventually ending up in a warehouse of a Chicago company, then a jobber's cavern, a United Parcel Service truck, several pitstops in between including a centralized freight airport, down bumpy dirt roads and potholed city streets, and finally the lower shelves of a tobacco shop on the West Coast. For something that's small enough to fit in a coat pocket, that's one hell of a ride.
Can't remember when I bought it, but I opened it eight months ago, and packed it with me several times tromping the blasted heath of Nob Hill during the rainy season.
It has endured. A wizened veteran among the smoke weeds.
It would be perfect with a cup of strong coffee, but the other person, who hates tobacco and has a neurosis about apartmental cleanliness, is home today. So coffee first, then smoke.
Dammit, this place reeks of Pinesol.
She's on a cleaning frenzy.
TOBACCO INDEX
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LETTER BOX.
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The few remaining sheets were on the dry side, and consequently there was no discernible whiff of chocolate. Which is a good thing. Perfumed tobaccos aren't my bag -- as I tend very much to howl in outrage when diseased sickos light up crap like that -- and Samuel Gawith had a light touch with this one. Unlike their Celtic Talisman, which was manufactured strictly for the American market and is quite disqusting, or Firedance Flake, which has so much bizarro fragrance added that it is almost completely unsmokable.
In this, the cocoa was only a slight nuance even when the tin was freshly opened. Burley and Latakia were both supplemented by it, but it wasn't by any means a hammer over the head.
An earthy note, more than anything else.
Delicate and English, rather than brutal and American.
Too subtle for the great fictional British detectives; miss Marple probably likes rum-drenched rope or pineapple vanilla plum cavendish, Sherlock Holmes would hot box this till his mouth was raw, then claim that it was flavourless. Monsieur Poirot might say that Ennerdale Flake (soapy and degenerate) was just the ticket; all proper Belgians huff such stuff.
[Yes, Poirot is English, despite his assertions to the contrary.]
Maigret, however, would happily puff this. Ignoring the allegation of chocolate, because, after all, you smoke a pipe because you smoke a pipe, not because you have a sweet tooth. And a mere allegation is all that it is, once the tobacco has dried out sufficiently that it can be smoked (many manaufacturers package their products too moist, so that they survive a sea voyage and transit across barren continents, plus several months on the shelves of a barracks provisionary in Boxwallahbagh; Samuel Gawith is exemplary in this regard).
This tin is more well-travelled in recent times than I am. It was sealed in Kendall, Cumbria, in the north of England near the border with Haggisstan, trucked to the docks in Bristol, crated with odd lots into a shipping container, then several weeks later lifted onto a freighter for the long trip across the pond to the New World, eventually ending up in a warehouse of a Chicago company, then a jobber's cavern, a United Parcel Service truck, several pitstops in between including a centralized freight airport, down bumpy dirt roads and potholed city streets, and finally the lower shelves of a tobacco shop on the West Coast. For something that's small enough to fit in a coat pocket, that's one hell of a ride.
Can't remember when I bought it, but I opened it eight months ago, and packed it with me several times tromping the blasted heath of Nob Hill during the rainy season.
It has endured. A wizened veteran among the smoke weeds.
The blasted heath of Nob Hill
It would be perfect with a cup of strong coffee, but the other person, who hates tobacco and has a neurosis about apartmental cleanliness, is home today. So coffee first, then smoke.
Dammit, this place reeks of Pinesol.
She's on a cleaning frenzy.
TOBACCO INDEX
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WE CELEBRATE DRUG STORE POUCHES
The morning routine, for normal people, is to pee, pop their pills, make a cup of coffee, and head out with a pipe in their mouth for an early smoke. A friend omits the pill and pipe part, rushing off madly to the bookstore instead -- often late in the morning, because his employment supervising literate people doesn't start till nearly noon -- and my apartment mate has a big bowl of cereal in lieu of medication or tobacco, in addition to talking to, arguing with, and supplying the voices of stuffed creatures.
But NORMAL people start with prescription drugs and a pipe.
From which I postulate, while out there enjoying a bowl of delicious mostly red Virginia leaf with the merest touch of Perique, that both that friend and my apartment mate are not quite normal. A man has a blinkered view of things just around dawn, his world is still dark around the edges.
Surely Auntie With The Pistachio Icecream Hued Hat is a normal person? For those new to this programme, she's an elderly Cantonese lady whom I encounter while out there with my pipe.
I have never seen her with a briar in her mouth, but does it not make sense that she smokes first, then continues walking around a while so that the smell wears off and her nearest and dearest don't realize that she indulges? Probably a burley blend. Mild smelling, a slightly nutty taste, and enough nicotine that a large bowl is not necessary. I postulate that the survival of all those old-school burley blends is because they are more suited to the Cantonese feminine personality, instead of bib overall-wearing farmer types driving their tractor around the north forty, while shooting water rats and cane toads at the crack of dawn.
There are no varmints in this neighborhood. Quod erat demonstrandum.
Today is Columbus Day. We're celebrating the discovery of tobacco by Mediterraneans and the discovery of syphilis and smallpox by the native of Americans. A momentous occasion, slightly over four centuries ago. It marks the start of civilization, as well as the subsequent rape of most of Africa and Asia. Truly festive. Worth remembering, at least.
More acreage world-wide is devoted to the cultivation of Virginia tobacco than almost any other cash crop, proving that tobacco fills a need and is more significant even than sugar cane, which trailer-Americans rely on for their nutritional needs, and British people use to rot their teeth. Oh, and the big breweries found essential for making beer. Unless they're using corn syrup. Without Columbus, corn syrup would never have been invented.
You can thank a syphilitic Italian navigator for that.
We're celebrating that too today.
"White man, we give you corn, you give us clap!"
"It's a deal!"
Maybe that first cup of coffee isn't enough for proper synapse firing. Time for another.
Which will be followed by further smoke, a little bit later.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
But NORMAL people start with prescription drugs and a pipe.
From which I postulate, while out there enjoying a bowl of delicious mostly red Virginia leaf with the merest touch of Perique, that both that friend and my apartment mate are not quite normal. A man has a blinkered view of things just around dawn, his world is still dark around the edges.
Surely Auntie With The Pistachio Icecream Hued Hat is a normal person? For those new to this programme, she's an elderly Cantonese lady whom I encounter while out there with my pipe.
I have never seen her with a briar in her mouth, but does it not make sense that she smokes first, then continues walking around a while so that the smell wears off and her nearest and dearest don't realize that she indulges? Probably a burley blend. Mild smelling, a slightly nutty taste, and enough nicotine that a large bowl is not necessary. I postulate that the survival of all those old-school burley blends is because they are more suited to the Cantonese feminine personality, instead of bib overall-wearing farmer types driving their tractor around the north forty, while shooting water rats and cane toads at the crack of dawn.
There are no varmints in this neighborhood. Quod erat demonstrandum.
Today is Columbus Day. We're celebrating the discovery of tobacco by Mediterraneans and the discovery of syphilis and smallpox by the native of Americans. A momentous occasion, slightly over four centuries ago. It marks the start of civilization, as well as the subsequent rape of most of Africa and Asia. Truly festive. Worth remembering, at least.
More acreage world-wide is devoted to the cultivation of Virginia tobacco than almost any other cash crop, proving that tobacco fills a need and is more significant even than sugar cane, which trailer-Americans rely on for their nutritional needs, and British people use to rot their teeth. Oh, and the big breweries found essential for making beer. Unless they're using corn syrup. Without Columbus, corn syrup would never have been invented.
You can thank a syphilitic Italian navigator for that.
We're celebrating that too today.
"White man, we give you corn, you give us clap!"
"It's a deal!"
Maybe that first cup of coffee isn't enough for proper synapse firing. Time for another.
Which will be followed by further smoke, a little bit later.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, October 11, 2020
I'M HIP!
Years ago someone averred that I was born sixty, and terminally an old crotchet. Not so! I'm just always brusque and dispassionate but altogether of a sunny and positive disposition.
Forever young at heart.
I'm with it, man.
So, in honour of what would have been John Lennon's eightieth birthday, here's Yoko Ono:
YOKO
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdZ9weP5i68
Can you dig it?
High artistic calibre.
Meaningful.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
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Forever young at heart.
I'm with it, man.
So, in honour of what would have been John Lennon's eightieth birthday, here's Yoko Ono:
YOKO
[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdZ9weP5i68
Can you dig it?
High artistic calibre.
Meaningful.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IMAGINING ADULTHOOD
And dreaming of a very irritated, very agitated Avon Lady presenting him with the bill. For a rush order of make-up. Delivered to a girls slumber party. At three o'clock in the morning.
The thing about "slumber" parties is that slumbering as such does not actually happen. Instead, sodas, ice cream, popcorn, snackies and candies, followed by French toast and eggs Benedict at five in the morning, and goodie bags for the departing attendees.
The reason why little boys don't have slumber parties is because these would involve pizza, footballs, and breaking in to the liquor cabinet. Plus depleting the cigar supply.
And late night basket ball.
Oh wait, the little girls would also want liquor.
Being a parent tires people out.
I've never tried.
==========================================================================
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LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The thing about "slumber" parties is that slumbering as such does not actually happen. Instead, sodas, ice cream, popcorn, snackies and candies, followed by French toast and eggs Benedict at five in the morning, and goodie bags for the departing attendees.
The reason why little boys don't have slumber parties is because these would involve pizza, footballs, and breaking in to the liquor cabinet. Plus depleting the cigar supply.
And late night basket ball.
Oh wait, the little girls would also want liquor.
Being a parent tires people out.
I've never tried.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, October 10, 2020
WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT LENTILS
What prompted me to fix myself supper was reading about Baba ka Dhaba in Malviya Nagar, Delhi. Fresh paratha, gravy, dhal. Not being anywhere near Delhi, I made do with stuff easily on hand: sausage, stalky mustard, chili paste. Plus griddle bread and mango pickle. Some nice hot refreshing milk tea afterwards.
I ate very well.
As do Mr. and Mrs. Prasad's customers. Who have rallied to his side in hard times.
I note that "prasad" is a particularly apt surname for people in the food business.
We have no dhabas in this neighborhood.
Years ago, when making collection calls, every two weeks I'd end up talking to a gentleman by the name of O'Reilly with a subcontinental accent. I figured out early on that the client had farmed their entire accounting department out to a company in India -- the clicks,beeps, and recordings on line kind of clued me in -- and by the third call I said "ohe, O'Reilly bhai, aap kaise hein? Mai MF Kampani men Atboth hoon .....". Mr. O'Reilly's real name was, it turns out, totally Punjabi, totally Muslim, and totally multiconsonental. I'd call after lunch time in SF, when he had returned from having a samosa or something and chai in the middle of night in Delhi. Most "white" people couldn't pronounce his real name, O'Reilly was just a nom de guerre.
Well, I could understand that. At the restaurant where I worked three nights a week, whenever someone wished to speak to the manager on the phone, I'd become Venky (Venkataraman) Injinir. "Now I can be helping you please?"
Venky Injinir knew everything that a person with a somewhat English accent could not possibly be expected to know. Who was that chap that I first spoke to on the phone?
Oh, just some gaura we hired ......
Venky Injinir knew particularly about Andhra mango pickle.
Avakaya pachadi. It is absolutely delicious.
Not so much haldi powder.
Lots of lal mirch.
Mustard oil.
[Most people would use sesame oil, but mustard oil lets it keep longer, and may be healthier for you. Besides, it adds a certain zestyness that I find pleasing.]
Biriani from a place near the char minar?
I am knowing very well only!
I am still quite fond of green mango pickle.
Gongura pachadi not so much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
As do Mr. and Mrs. Prasad's customers. Who have rallied to his side in hard times.
I note that "prasad" is a particularly apt surname for people in the food business.
We have no dhabas in this neighborhood.
Years ago, when making collection calls, every two weeks I'd end up talking to a gentleman by the name of O'Reilly with a subcontinental accent. I figured out early on that the client had farmed their entire accounting department out to a company in India -- the clicks,beeps, and recordings on line kind of clued me in -- and by the third call I said "ohe, O'Reilly bhai, aap kaise hein? Mai MF Kampani men Atboth hoon .....". Mr. O'Reilly's real name was, it turns out, totally Punjabi, totally Muslim, and totally multiconsonental. I'd call after lunch time in SF, when he had returned from having a samosa or something and chai in the middle of night in Delhi. Most "white" people couldn't pronounce his real name, O'Reilly was just a nom de guerre.
Well, I could understand that. At the restaurant where I worked three nights a week, whenever someone wished to speak to the manager on the phone, I'd become Venky (Venkataraman) Injinir. "Now I can be helping you please?"
Venky Injinir knew everything that a person with a somewhat English accent could not possibly be expected to know. Who was that chap that I first spoke to on the phone?
Oh, just some gaura we hired ......
Venky Injinir knew particularly about Andhra mango pickle.
Avakaya pachadi. It is absolutely delicious.
Not so much haldi powder.
Lots of lal mirch.
Mustard oil.
[Most people would use sesame oil, but mustard oil lets it keep longer, and may be healthier for you. Besides, it adds a certain zestyness that I find pleasing.]
Biriani from a place near the char minar?
I am knowing very well only!
I am still quite fond of green mango pickle.
Gongura pachadi not so much.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, October 09, 2020
SOMETHING I NEVER LEARNED
Most of my days off this time were spent drawing/painting Chinatown on the computer. No, not a lot of results. But the picture below rather pleases me. Several muted pastels, lines and rectangles. Distance.
The social club shown here is just below Kearny on Clay. Near Portsmouth Square, and the new Sam Wo restaurant, which is further up, and scarcely a block away from the pyramid.
潮汕話
I know frighteningly little about the Teochew language, basically only that it is one of the southernmost Min-Nan tongues, and so more related to Hokkien and Chuangchow, far less to standard Cantonese. Most people in Chinatown, of whatever origin, speak or at least understand Cantonese.
To put it differently, think of the relationship between English, Dutch, German, Frisian, and Danish. Some similarities, related, many "cognates", no real mutual intelligibility.
I've heard it often. But never understood more than a word or two.
Mandarin is as far from these languages as Icelandic from Dutch and German.
I suspect that there is a statue of Lord Kwan inside, facing the door.
He's a patron of business enterprises throughout the south.
And note that his temple is half a block away.
Close to the Financial District.
Which is appropriate.
I really enjoy mapping out the grey zones in the pavement.
Can't explain why. Something about ziggizags.
==========================================================================
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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The Teochew Community Center
The social club shown here is just below Kearny on Clay. Near Portsmouth Square, and the new Sam Wo restaurant, which is further up, and scarcely a block away from the pyramid.
潮汕話
I know frighteningly little about the Teochew language, basically only that it is one of the southernmost Min-Nan tongues, and so more related to Hokkien and Chuangchow, far less to standard Cantonese. Most people in Chinatown, of whatever origin, speak or at least understand Cantonese.
To put it differently, think of the relationship between English, Dutch, German, Frisian, and Danish. Some similarities, related, many "cognates", no real mutual intelligibility.
I've heard it often. But never understood more than a word or two.
Mandarin is as far from these languages as Icelandic from Dutch and German.
I suspect that there is a statue of Lord Kwan inside, facing the door.
He's a patron of business enterprises throughout the south.
And note that his temple is half a block away.
Close to the Financial District.
Which is appropriate.
I really enjoy mapping out the grey zones in the pavement.
Can't explain why. Something about ziggizags.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 08, 2020
YOUR GRANDMA'S GOURD PRESERVE
On a cooking page a Parsee posted lauki ki barfi. Which would be a mildly flavoured sweet, as bottle gourd has low flavour. So I recommended trying it as a marmalade of sorts.
BOTTLE GOURD PRESERVE
Two cups coarsely shredded bottle gourd.
One cup cane sugar.
Two TBS lime juice.
One TBS finely shredded ginger.
Miniscule pinch salt.
Put the shredded bottle gourd and the minute pinch of salt in an enamel saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil, turn low, and simmer till translucent, about fifteen minutes. Drain, reserving about half a cup of the liquid.
Mix the reserved cooking liquid with the sugar and the lime juice. Cook while stirring till the sugar is fully dissolved. Now add the bottle gourd shreds and ginger, and simmer, stirring frequently to prevent scorching, for an hour or two. It is done when the syrup is thick and gluggy.
Decant into a glass jar and seal as you would any other home-made preserve, or store it in the refrigerator where it will keep for several months.
You can do the same thing with pumpkin or winter melon.
Rather nice on hot buttered toast.
NOTE: avoid overripe specimens.
==========================================================================
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==========================================================================
BOTTLE GOURD PRESERVE
Two cups coarsely shredded bottle gourd.
One cup cane sugar.
Two TBS lime juice.
One TBS finely shredded ginger.
Miniscule pinch salt.
Put the shredded bottle gourd and the minute pinch of salt in an enamel saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil, turn low, and simmer till translucent, about fifteen minutes. Drain, reserving about half a cup of the liquid.
Mix the reserved cooking liquid with the sugar and the lime juice. Cook while stirring till the sugar is fully dissolved. Now add the bottle gourd shreds and ginger, and simmer, stirring frequently to prevent scorching, for an hour or two. It is done when the syrup is thick and gluggy.
Decant into a glass jar and seal as you would any other home-made preserve, or store it in the refrigerator where it will keep for several months.
You can do the same thing with pumpkin or winter melon.
Rather nice on hot buttered toast.
NOTE: avoid overripe specimens.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
IT'S ALL IN THE PLATING!
A friend yesterday was told to shut up because he wasn't Singaporean. Well, he is. Born there, raised there, did his national service. So, in S'Pore, he can open his mouth.
Which, of course, explains why I talk smack about the United States all the time. I was born in California, and have been a citizen all my life. My earliest American ancestors arrived here in 1630. Some more arrived in 1671. Another bunch in the seventeen hundreds. There are people who fought in the revolutionary war, people who served in the Union armies, WWI and WWII, on both sides. So even though I'm as foreign as they come, what with my spikes, tail, regenerative organs that glow in the dark, and queer accent, I'm an American.
Good luck shutting me the hell up.
The festive dish below is ALSO 100% American.
There's nothing Singaporean about it.
Not even remotely.
Shrimp Singapore
4 firm bananas
Melted butter or margarine
Salt
1 pound fresh shrimp, cleaned and cooked
2 cups hot cooked rice
Set oven for moderately hot, 375°, and grease a shallow baking dish. Peel bananas; cut in half, crosswise, and arrange in the dish. Brush with melted butter; sprinkle lightly with salt. Bake 15 to 18 minutes or until bananas are fork tender. Meanwhile, place shrimp in the top of a double boiler; heat over hot water. When hot, place shrimp on a bed of cooked rice and arrange cooked bananas around edge. Pour part of the Curry Sauce on top; serve remainder on the side. Makes 4 servings
Curry Sauce
6 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
2 1/2 cups hot chicken consommé or stock
Melt butter or margarine in a saucepan. Remove from heat. Add flour, curry powder, salt and pepper and stir until smooth. Slowly stir in hot consommé or stock. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until sauce is smooth and thickened. Makes 3 cups sauce.
NOTE: Chicken bouillon may be substituted for the chicken consommé. Omit salt from the recipe and dissolve 2 chicken bouillon cubes in 2 1/2 cups boiling water.
This dish redefines celebratory yum-yum.
I fondly imagine an entire generation of suburbanites feasting on this, and dreamily imagining themselves in tropical climes. They probably didn't know what sambal was, and couldn't find Singapore on a map, but never mind. Anything that combines bananas and shrimp, with curry sauce, and rice, is deliciously exotic.
Please note: A totally vegan version can be made with Spam instead of shrimp, substituting vegetable broth for the chicken stock. And don't forget to add canned pineapple slices for that little something extra.
Recipe stolen from Questionable Vintage Recipes on Facebook.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Which, of course, explains why I talk smack about the United States all the time. I was born in California, and have been a citizen all my life. My earliest American ancestors arrived here in 1630. Some more arrived in 1671. Another bunch in the seventeen hundreds. There are people who fought in the revolutionary war, people who served in the Union armies, WWI and WWII, on both sides. So even though I'm as foreign as they come, what with my spikes, tail, regenerative organs that glow in the dark, and queer accent, I'm an American.
Good luck shutting me the hell up.
The festive dish below is ALSO 100% American.
There's nothing Singaporean about it.
Not even remotely.
4 firm bananas
Melted butter or margarine
Salt
1 pound fresh shrimp, cleaned and cooked
2 cups hot cooked rice
Set oven for moderately hot, 375°, and grease a shallow baking dish. Peel bananas; cut in half, crosswise, and arrange in the dish. Brush with melted butter; sprinkle lightly with salt. Bake 15 to 18 minutes or until bananas are fork tender. Meanwhile, place shrimp in the top of a double boiler; heat over hot water. When hot, place shrimp on a bed of cooked rice and arrange cooked bananas around edge. Pour part of the Curry Sauce on top; serve remainder on the side. Makes 4 servings
Curry Sauce
6 Tbsp. butter or margarine
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 tsp. curry powder
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. pepper
2 1/2 cups hot chicken consommé or stock
Melt butter or margarine in a saucepan. Remove from heat. Add flour, curry powder, salt and pepper and stir until smooth. Slowly stir in hot consommé or stock. Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until sauce is smooth and thickened. Makes 3 cups sauce.
NOTE: Chicken bouillon may be substituted for the chicken consommé. Omit salt from the recipe and dissolve 2 chicken bouillon cubes in 2 1/2 cups boiling water.
This dish redefines celebratory yum-yum.
I fondly imagine an entire generation of suburbanites feasting on this, and dreamily imagining themselves in tropical climes. They probably didn't know what sambal was, and couldn't find Singapore on a map, but never mind. Anything that combines bananas and shrimp, with curry sauce, and rice, is deliciously exotic.
Please note: A totally vegan version can be made with Spam instead of shrimp, substituting vegetable broth for the chicken stock. And don't forget to add canned pineapple slices for that little something extra.
Recipe stolen from Questionable Vintage Recipes on Facebook.
==========================================================================
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,...