The expected storm didn't leave much snow -- just a reminder that it is, after all, still winter.
Snowy bank? Sand dune?
Dream on . . .
Onward, into February!
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Sunday, January 31, 2010
Trudging Into February
The expected storm didn't leave much snow -- just a reminder that it is, after all, still winter.
Snowy bank? Sand dune?
Dream on . . .
Saturday, January 30, 2010
LUNCHEON AT THE SALT MINE
In the fullness of time, I have had Corporate Lunches in all kinds of settings. Fine restaurants, some in exotic overseas locations. Shanghai hairy crab and Singapore fish head curry. Sandwiches and salads in the office cafeteria. You name it; I’ve probably had it for lunch somewhere... with the possible exception of the local speciality of Evansville, Indiana. That’d be the Brain Sandwich, and you couldn’t pay me to eat that.
One time, I had lunch in the executive dining room at the top of the old Great Corporate Salt Mine headquarters building in midtown Manhattan... a young whippersnapper breaking bread with the movers and shakers making their way through the ranks of middle management on their way to stratospheric senior executive positions. It was a taste of what was possible, given enough business savvy, luck, political acumen, hard work, and general ass-kissing capabilities. Lucky for me, I had none of those characteristics.
The lunches I remember most fondly, though, are the ones I ate in the spartan basement lunchroom in the bowels of the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s research and engineering facility in Baytown, Texas. This was no fancy-pants corporate Dining Hall, no, no. This was bare-bones, minimalist eating at its best.
It was small, this lunchroom, with just enough room to accommodate a few tables and chairs... and a vending machine that offered vile little treats. Tuna fish sandwiches of questionable provenance. Sausage biscuits, consisting of a hard, hockey puck-like disc of sausage shoved between two halves of a biscuit as dry as West Texas itself. Kolaches, a sort of changeling jelly doughnut in which the jelly was perversely replaced, as if by Gypsies, with a heinous porky-tasting cylinder of sausage. There may have been yogurt in there, too, but nobody I know was brave enough to try it.
You showed up at noon; you left at one. Sharp. That was enough time to pound down the contents of your brown bag (unless you were desperate and/or foolish enough to take your chances with the vending machine fare) and squeeze in a game or two of chess.
Once in a while, when the donjon-like atmosphere of our little Basement Luncheon-Hall began to pall, we would pile into our cars and venture out of the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s vast refinery compound to visit one of the local establishments. There were only two that most of us would trust with our precious intestinal health: El Toro, the Mexican joint; and the Brisket Bar-B-Q.
El Toro offered up the kind of Tex-Mex grub that a New York expatriate like me - in other words, someone who didn’t know any better - could love. Simple, inexpensive fare: tacos, enchiladas, chalupas, rice and beans, and the like. The beans, refried Gawd only knows how many times, in Gawd only knows what sort of Porcine Schmaltz, had a runny consistency that no other Mexican establishment has ever duplicated. But for my then-unsophisticated palate, it was heaven. After all, as a college student, I would drive the thirty-mile round trip to Trenton, New Jersey to score twenty-nine cent sawdust tacos - by comparison, El Toro was the Hacienda de los fucking Morales.
And then there was the Brisket Bar-B-Q, where the beverage of choice was iced tea (beer and other alcohols being unavailable not only for lack of the appropriate license, but because of the staunch Baptist views of the owner), and the brisket-and-sausage combo platter was heaven on Earth. It may have been a humble little barbecue place, but it was far better than Otto’s (later to be touted as President Bush the First’s favorite) or any other Houston-area smoked meat option. Years later, I would learn how to make serious Texas barbecue from SWMBO’s daddy... and even later, I would discover Goode Company Barbecue, both of which raised the Bar-B-Q Bar to heights the old Brisket could never achieve. But I still have fond memories of that place, which taught me how smoke, seasoning, and temperature could convert a slab of tough beef into as fine a Luncheon Meal as ever I could want.
Beat the crap out of those vending machine sausage biscuits, for sure.
One time, I had lunch in the executive dining room at the top of the old Great Corporate Salt Mine headquarters building in midtown Manhattan... a young whippersnapper breaking bread with the movers and shakers making their way through the ranks of middle management on their way to stratospheric senior executive positions. It was a taste of what was possible, given enough business savvy, luck, political acumen, hard work, and general ass-kissing capabilities. Lucky for me, I had none of those characteristics.
The lunches I remember most fondly, though, are the ones I ate in the spartan basement lunchroom in the bowels of the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s research and engineering facility in Baytown, Texas. This was no fancy-pants corporate Dining Hall, no, no. This was bare-bones, minimalist eating at its best.
It was small, this lunchroom, with just enough room to accommodate a few tables and chairs... and a vending machine that offered vile little treats. Tuna fish sandwiches of questionable provenance. Sausage biscuits, consisting of a hard, hockey puck-like disc of sausage shoved between two halves of a biscuit as dry as West Texas itself. Kolaches, a sort of changeling jelly doughnut in which the jelly was perversely replaced, as if by Gypsies, with a heinous porky-tasting cylinder of sausage. There may have been yogurt in there, too, but nobody I know was brave enough to try it.
You showed up at noon; you left at one. Sharp. That was enough time to pound down the contents of your brown bag (unless you were desperate and/or foolish enough to take your chances with the vending machine fare) and squeeze in a game or two of chess.
Once in a while, when the donjon-like atmosphere of our little Basement Luncheon-Hall began to pall, we would pile into our cars and venture out of the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s vast refinery compound to visit one of the local establishments. There were only two that most of us would trust with our precious intestinal health: El Toro, the Mexican joint; and the Brisket Bar-B-Q.
El Toro offered up the kind of Tex-Mex grub that a New York expatriate like me - in other words, someone who didn’t know any better - could love. Simple, inexpensive fare: tacos, enchiladas, chalupas, rice and beans, and the like. The beans, refried Gawd only knows how many times, in Gawd only knows what sort of Porcine Schmaltz, had a runny consistency that no other Mexican establishment has ever duplicated. But for my then-unsophisticated palate, it was heaven. After all, as a college student, I would drive the thirty-mile round trip to Trenton, New Jersey to score twenty-nine cent sawdust tacos - by comparison, El Toro was the Hacienda de los fucking Morales.
And then there was the Brisket Bar-B-Q, where the beverage of choice was iced tea (beer and other alcohols being unavailable not only for lack of the appropriate license, but because of the staunch Baptist views of the owner), and the brisket-and-sausage combo platter was heaven on Earth. It may have been a humble little barbecue place, but it was far better than Otto’s (later to be touted as President Bush the First’s favorite) or any other Houston-area smoked meat option. Years later, I would learn how to make serious Texas barbecue from SWMBO’s daddy... and even later, I would discover Goode Company Barbecue, both of which raised the Bar-B-Q Bar to heights the old Brisket could never achieve. But I still have fond memories of that place, which taught me how smoke, seasoning, and temperature could convert a slab of tough beef into as fine a Luncheon Meal as ever I could want.
Beat the crap out of those vending machine sausage biscuits, for sure.
I Doubt It
Have you gotten the email with the power point presentation telling you how rhythmical coughing can act like self-administered CPR t0 keep you alive during a heart attack while you're waiting for medical help?
What about the touching story of how Lee Marvin was wounded at Iwo Jima -- and his sergeant, also wounded, was Bob Keeshan --who later became Captain Kangaroo?
This same story went on to say that Mr. Rogers, yes, the one with the Neighborhood and the cardigan "was a Navy Seal, combat proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long-sleeved sweater on TV to cover the many tattoos on his forearm and biceps. He was a master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat."
Okay. I might have let the Lee Marvin/Captain Kangaroo thing slide. But Mr. Rogers . . . ?
I doubt it. So this is when I go to Snopes.com -- dispeller of myths and rumors. And yes, Lee Marvin was a Marine and served in the Pacific during WWII -- but he wasn't at Iwo Jima. Neither was Bob Keeshan, who joined the Marines too late to see any action in WWII.
Mr. Rogers was never in the military. And coughing for a heart attack? Not recommended unless you've received very specific training in the technique. Otherwise, you could make things worse.
Snopes is the place to go when you receive any of the thousands of emails that get forwarded. I've been taken in many a time -- on this very blog I posted the one about Mars being closer to Earth than any time in the past many years; I posted a list of things women should do if they're attacked -- and then when some friend gently pointed me to Snopes, I had to do an uh-oh followup post.
Snopes is a wonderful resource when you get one of these hard-to-believe tales or one of those breathless Forward to everyone you care about warnings. It's also a fun place to browse.
That warning about criminals in the US using burundanga soaked business cards to incapacitate unwary victims?
False.
What about the touching story of how Lee Marvin was wounded at Iwo Jima -- and his sergeant, also wounded, was Bob Keeshan --who later became Captain Kangaroo?
This same story went on to say that Mr. Rogers, yes, the one with the Neighborhood and the cardigan "was a Navy Seal, combat proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long-sleeved sweater on TV to cover the many tattoos on his forearm and biceps. He was a master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat."
I doubt it. So this is when I go to Snopes.com -- dispeller of myths and rumors. And yes, Lee Marvin was a Marine and served in the Pacific during WWII -- but he wasn't at Iwo Jima. Neither was Bob Keeshan, who joined the Marines too late to see any action in WWII.
Mr. Rogers was never in the military. And coughing for a heart attack? Not recommended unless you've received very specific training in the technique. Otherwise, you could make things worse.
Snopes is the place to go when you receive any of the thousands of emails that get forwarded. I've been taken in many a time -- on this very blog I posted the one about Mars being closer to Earth than any time in the past many years; I posted a list of things women should do if they're attacked -- and then when some friend gently pointed me to Snopes, I had to do an uh-oh followup post.
Snopes is a wonderful resource when you get one of these hard-to-believe tales or one of those breathless Forward to everyone you care about warnings. It's also a fun place to browse.
That warning about criminals in the US using burundanga soaked business cards to incapacitate unwary victims?
False.
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Catcher in the Rye
The news of J.D. Salinger's death and the picture of that iconic cover -- I had that same paperback and wore it out -- took me back to 1960 and my freshman year in college.
Catcher had been out nine years when I first met Holden Caulfield. And everything about this book spoke to me -- true and real and sweet and sad.
I went on to read more Salinger, to write papers about his work, to have long discussions as to whether or not Franny was pregnant and what was the meaning of banana fish. And what about Seymour -- See more -- what did he represent?
J. D. Salinger -- I would say he'll be missed but he hasn't been around except as a legendary recluse for the past fifty years.
It's said he continued to write -- for his own pleasure. It would be lovely to think that more stories will surface -- but somehow, I don't expect it.
Besides, what we have of his is perfect.
Catcher had been out nine years when I first met Holden Caulfield. And everything about this book spoke to me -- true and real and sweet and sad.
I went on to read more Salinger, to write papers about his work, to have long discussions as to whether or not Franny was pregnant and what was the meaning of banana fish. And what about Seymour -- See more -- what did he represent?
J. D. Salinger -- I would say he'll be missed but he hasn't been around except as a legendary recluse for the past fifty years.
It's said he continued to write -- for his own pleasure. It would be lovely to think that more stories will surface -- but somehow, I don't expect it.
Besides, what we have of his is perfect.
At some point during that freshman year of college I was also introduced to T.H. White's The Once and Future King. This is one of my very favorite books of all time -- I love the Arthurian legends/tales/stories and this sprawling, multi-leveled book is magical. I've read it over and over.
I still remember the discussion the professor and I had: me, burning with the true flame of Rand's Objectivism and him, wearily shaking his head and saying, "But you leave no room for compassion."
I got over Rand rather quickly. I still have several of her books but haven't been tempted to a re-read. And as I think back on it, they seem a bit . . . corny.
Mary Renault's The King Must Die and its sequel The Bull from the Sea have held up much better. The beautifully retold story of Theseus and the Minotaur, these are some of the best historical fiction around. And yes, I reread them too.
A note: as of last night, the snow was coming down with more forecast. We may lose power; we may lose internet. If I don't post, that's what's happened.
THE LATEST GADGET
I’m not generally what people consider an “early adopter.” I like to wait until most of the kinks are worked out before I invest in major new technologies... but even I am a bit awestruck at the new iPad Apple unveiled a few days ago.
Holy. Shit.
Check it out. Watch the video. OK, it’s advertising, but doesn’t that product look übergeekerific?
I want one.
Even if, within a year, they’ll have new models out that make this first version look like a cinderblock. That’s the risk you take when you jump into the Modern Technology Pool.
This is so much like science fiction, I’m only sorry I can’t travel back in time to the Isaac Asimov of 1949 or the Orson Scott Card of 1985 and say, “Dude, we’re gonna be able to buy this thing in 2010!”
The only problem? That name. iPad puts me in mind of some sort of electronickal tampon... and I’m not the only one:
The skit above is over two years old. Prescient, innit? [Tip o’ th’ fedora to Houston Steve for the link.]
So how about it, Applefolk? Ya wanna rethink that name? What about iSlate? You can have that name - all it’ll cost you is a free iPad - er, iSlate - and a lifetime data service contract.
Henry David Thoreau and Fred Flintstone would be proud.
Holy. Shit.
Check it out. Watch the video. OK, it’s advertising, but doesn’t that product look übergeekerific?
I want one.
Even if, within a year, they’ll have new models out that make this first version look like a cinderblock. That’s the risk you take when you jump into the Modern Technology Pool.
This is so much like science fiction, I’m only sorry I can’t travel back in time to the Isaac Asimov of 1949 or the Orson Scott Card of 1985 and say, “Dude, we’re gonna be able to buy this thing in 2010!”
The only problem? That name. iPad puts me in mind of some sort of electronickal tampon... and I’m not the only one:
The skit above is over two years old. Prescient, innit? [Tip o’ th’ fedora to Houston Steve for the link.]
So how about it, Applefolk? Ya wanna rethink that name? What about iSlate? You can have that name - all it’ll cost you is a free iPad - er, iSlate - and a lifetime data service contract.
Henry David Thoreau and Fred Flintstone would be proud.
WHAT IS THIS “WALL” OF WHICH YOU SPEAK?
“ ‘Poke’ me, and you’ll pull back a stump.”
Hakuna looks on attentively, casting a glowing eye upon She Who Must Be Obeyed as she enjoys a little evening Facebookage.
Update: Friday Ark #280 is afloat (as usual!) at the Modulator... and Carnival of the Cats #307 can be found at Three Tabby Cats in Vienna.
Face Book Fan Page... Finally!!!
You have no idea how unbelievably proud I am of myself. Sure, I can make a bowl out of a single tree limb. Take a flat piece of silver, and create a stunning necklace. Even balance the books of a busy produce brokerage, while fielding phone calls. All of these things are great, but they are nothing compared to the feat I have accomplished! I have created ~drum role~ MY FACE BOOK FAN PAGE!!!!! Yeaaaaaaa!!! I know, I know everyone else has done it years ago, and sure a 16 year old could make one up in an hour. Do these facts diminish my accomplishment….NEVER!!!! Well actually, now that I think about it, maybe a little bit. Still I am just so pleased after months of reading, and researching I was finally able to do it, as well as get enough fans to get a customized URL, and I added all my pictures. Of course, now that I have accomplished this Face Book will go the way of the dodo, and I will have to figure out a completely new social networking site. So if that happens you will know whom to blame, until then here is my link to EJPcreations Fan Page Also I have created a discussion page to start a Link Love campaign so that we all might get a few more fans.
FRIDAY RANDOM TEN
Look out! Here comes another installment of the Friday Random Ten, that time-wasting space filler regular feature in which I post a list of random musical selections as barfed out by the iPod d’Elisson.
Ahhh, Friday. We were all set to take a weekend jaunt up to Asheville, North Carolina, when predictions of wintry weather intervened. Much as I might have enjoyed a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains under a fresh ten-inch blanket of snow, the prospect of trying to drive home through those mountains was more than just a little daunting. Discretion being the better part of valor, we elected to postpone our trip. Alas.
But being home has its own attractions, not least among them the chance to listen to my dopey Choon-Library. And here’s a taste for you:
Ahhh, Friday. We were all set to take a weekend jaunt up to Asheville, North Carolina, when predictions of wintry weather intervened. Much as I might have enjoyed a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains under a fresh ten-inch blanket of snow, the prospect of trying to drive home through those mountains was more than just a little daunting. Discretion being the better part of valor, we elected to postpone our trip. Alas.
But being home has its own attractions, not least among them the chance to listen to my dopey Choon-Library. And here’s a taste for you:
- Take Me to the Pilot - Elton John
If you feel that it’s real I’m on trial
And I’m here in your prison
Like a coin in your mint
I am dented and I’m spent with high treason
Through a glass eye your throne
Is the one danger zone
Take me to the pilot for control
Take me to the pilot of your soul
Take me to the pilot
Lead me through the chamber
Take me to the pilot
I am but a stranger
Take me to the pilot
Lead me through the chamber
Take me to the pilot
I am but a stranger
Well I know he’s not old
And I’m told he’s a virgin
For he may be she
But what I’m told is never for certain - Raga Bihag, Part 1 - Natraj
- Sparkle - Phish
- 40 Years Back Come - Röyksopp
- Reality Dub - Linton Kwesi Johnson
- When Desperate Static Beats the Silence Up - Ben Folds
- Sarabande: Handel: Eight Pieces - Philharmonia Virtuosi
- The Wanted Man - The Judybats
- Tell Me What You See - The Beatles
- Birds of Fire - Mahavishnu Orchestra
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Spring Tease
Yesterday was a beautiful blue sky day with the temperature in the fifties! My goodness, it seemed like spring! Unfortunately, however, there is snow in the forecast for Friday night -- 6-10 inches of it. So it was off to the store to lay in supplies -- mainly food for the animals and a bit of fresh stuff for us.
How nice a day was it?At the grocery I parked next to a convertible with the top down -- that's how nice.
I treated myself to some primroses. They'll brighten the dining room and when spring really gets here, I'll plant them outside.
On my way home, this lovely run of sunlight down the side of the Freewill Baptist Church caught my eye.
The same sun was much enjoyed by Kate and Marigold and friend.
I also treated myself to some spiffy new boots, just the thing for the Spring mud that will be coming. (Vicki Archer, eat your heart out!)
And there was an almost full moon, tangled in the bare branches of a poplar tree.
A lovely day.
REMEMBERING MANNIE
Mannie was an unusual guy. What they call in Latin a rara avis: a rare bird.
How else do you describe a Jewish kid in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, the youngest of seven sons? “Rare bird” only scratches the surface.
He was a sharp kid, this Mannie. Not only a high school graduate - unusual in those days - but valedictorian of his class. Had a head for numbers. The kind of head that could help a person succeed in business. But first things first. Mannie needed an education... and so he set his sights on the University of Arkansas.
Back in the early 1930’s, a college education cost a minute fraction of what it does today. But in the Depression-era South, money was thin on the ground. Very thin. Tuition, cheap as it was by today’s standards, was completely out of reach for a dirt-poor Jewish kid from Pine Bluff.
That’s when the Jewish community of Pine Bluff stepped in. Yes, there were other Jews in Pine Bluff... rare birds all, yet with sufficient numbers to constitute a community. And there were enough of them so that when they pooled their resources, there was enough money to send Mannie to college in Fayetteville.
As a student, Mannie watched his nickels and dimes. He kept a ledgerbook in which he would write down his expenses. Streetcar fare. A quarter-share in a textbook. (Who could afford to own an entire textbook? Rockefeller?) One day he found a half-dollar and dutifully noted the unexpected income in his ledger.
He pinched his pennies until Lincoln groaned, squeezed his nickels until the buffalo moaned. And eventually he got his degree.
Within nine months of his getting out of school and taking a penuriously salaried job, Mannie had paid back the tuition money the Jewish community of Pine Bluff had given him. Every thin dime.
* * *
Mannie died this past Sunday after a brief illness, waiting until his son Barry arrived at the hospital so he could say goodbye. But he had delivered his valedictory two months earlier at a post-Thanksgiving dinner, a dinner we were privileged to share with him. That night he was animated, full of life and stories... ninety-three years’ worth.
Barukh Dayan Emet: Blessèd is the True Judge. Farewell, rare bird!
How else do you describe a Jewish kid in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, the youngest of seven sons? “Rare bird” only scratches the surface.
He was a sharp kid, this Mannie. Not only a high school graduate - unusual in those days - but valedictorian of his class. Had a head for numbers. The kind of head that could help a person succeed in business. But first things first. Mannie needed an education... and so he set his sights on the University of Arkansas.
Back in the early 1930’s, a college education cost a minute fraction of what it does today. But in the Depression-era South, money was thin on the ground. Very thin. Tuition, cheap as it was by today’s standards, was completely out of reach for a dirt-poor Jewish kid from Pine Bluff.
That’s when the Jewish community of Pine Bluff stepped in. Yes, there were other Jews in Pine Bluff... rare birds all, yet with sufficient numbers to constitute a community. And there were enough of them so that when they pooled their resources, there was enough money to send Mannie to college in Fayetteville.
As a student, Mannie watched his nickels and dimes. He kept a ledgerbook in which he would write down his expenses. Streetcar fare. A quarter-share in a textbook. (Who could afford to own an entire textbook? Rockefeller?) One day he found a half-dollar and dutifully noted the unexpected income in his ledger.
He pinched his pennies until Lincoln groaned, squeezed his nickels until the buffalo moaned. And eventually he got his degree.
Within nine months of his getting out of school and taking a penuriously salaried job, Mannie had paid back the tuition money the Jewish community of Pine Bluff had given him. Every thin dime.
Mannie died this past Sunday after a brief illness, waiting until his son Barry arrived at the hospital so he could say goodbye. But he had delivered his valedictory two months earlier at a post-Thanksgiving dinner, a dinner we were privileged to share with him. That night he was animated, full of life and stories... ninety-three years’ worth.
Barukh Dayan Emet: Blessèd is the True Judge. Farewell, rare bird!
20:20 HINDSIGHT
From the December 2006 archives of Enjoy Every Sandwich, skippystalin’s erstwhile blog:
“I think voters are incredibly dumb, but even I don't think they’re that dumb.”
Are you fucking kidding, Skippy? This country - the country I love, the country of my birth - has an almost infinite reservoir of dumbitude. Doubt it? Two words: Reality Television.
I can’t fault Skippy, however. Most of us are pretty fearless about writing material of a predictive nature because we know there's little chance of someone going back, digging it up, and calling “Bullshit!” on us. Nevertheless, the opportunities are there if you don’t mind a little shovelwork.
Hindsight, unlike foresight, is almost always 20:20. Alas, you cannot drive down the superhighway of life by looking in the rearview mirror: The vision may be clearer than it is through the windshield, but it does not help you avoid the obstacles in your path.
And, no, I did not watch the State of the Union address last night. Why do you ask?
There has been a giant to-do over Senator Obama for the last several months. Most serious political observers feel that he is the one candidate who can actually challenge Hillary Clinton’s almost unbreakable grip on the 2008 Democratic presidential nomination.I had stumbled upon this three-year-old item a couple of days ago, and aside from being worth a chuckle or two, it struck me as being amazingly insightful... but in the perverse way older observations always seem when we bother to go back and exhume them. Skippy got it wrong, of course... but he got it so beautifully wrong.
As you may have guessed, I’m not a serious political observer...
...Obama would be out of his mind to run for president right now. He’s never held executive office anywhere and has only been in the United States Senate for two years. No one that thinly credentialed has ever been elected president before. I think voters are incredibly dumb, but even I don't think they’re that dumb. And I think the senator knows that, too.
However, Obama is whip-smart, charismatic and has all the media juice a politician can hope for right now.
“I think voters are incredibly dumb, but even I don't think they’re that dumb.”
Are you fucking kidding, Skippy? This country - the country I love, the country of my birth - has an almost infinite reservoir of dumbitude. Doubt it? Two words: Reality Television.
I can’t fault Skippy, however. Most of us are pretty fearless about writing material of a predictive nature because we know there's little chance of someone going back, digging it up, and calling “Bullshit!” on us. Nevertheless, the opportunities are there if you don’t mind a little shovelwork.
Hindsight, unlike foresight, is almost always 20:20. Alas, you cannot drive down the superhighway of life by looking in the rearview mirror: The vision may be clearer than it is through the windshield, but it does not help you avoid the obstacles in your path.
And, no, I did not watch the State of the Union address last night. Why do you ask?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Enter Nellie Bly
I had decided to have the DeVine sisters, the twin mediums in my 1887 subplot, be the object of an investigative reporter's interest and I thought I'd read up on Nellie Bly for ideas.
What I found was that Nellie herself was available. In May of 1887 she was probably between jobs. She had left the Pittsburgh Dispatch, disgusted with having been returned to the theater and art beat after her exciting six months in Mexico, during which she reported on the life and customs of the people and ran afoul of the current dictatorship after daring to be critical of it.
Her next recorded stop would be New York, where she would gain fame as an undercover reporter for Joseph Pulitzer's New York World. Her 10 Days in a Mad-House did a great deal to expose the brutal conditions of the asylums of the time and she would go on to challenge Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days by making the trip in in 72.
But what if, between leaving Pittsburgh and going to New York, Nellie decided to take a kind of working holiday by visiting the Mountain Park Hotel and participating on a seance held by the famous spiritualist sisters, Theodora and Dorothea DeVine?
I think it it sounds like just her sort of gig.
Her next recorded stop would be New York, where she would gain fame as an undercover reporter for Joseph Pulitzer's New York World. Her 10 Days in a Mad-House did a great deal to expose the brutal conditions of the asylums of the time and she would go on to challenge Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days by making the trip in in 72.
But what if, between leaving Pittsburgh and going to New York, Nellie decided to take a kind of working holiday by visiting the Mountain Park Hotel and participating on a seance held by the famous spiritualist sisters, Theodora and Dorothea DeVine?
I think it it sounds like just her sort of gig.
A DC DINNER TO REMEMBER
After spending a few days at a conference in Maryland, I seized the opportunity to spend some time with Elder Daughter in Washington, D.C.
She keeps herself pretty busy these days, Elder Daughter does. Juggles lots of projects, both at work and extracurricular. Somehow, she manages to keep all those figurative balls in the air.
Monday night, we had dinner at Nora, a lovely little place in the neighborhood of DuPont Circle. I had first heard of it in a post by the Bakerina several years ago; since then, we had seen it several times while walking in Elder Daughter’s neighborhood but had never set foot within.
Restaurant Nora.
Sometimes the things we wait for with a sense of happy, eager anticipation turn out to be disappointments. Dinner at Nora was not one of those things... which is a backhanded way of saying that it was excellent.
Nora claims to be America’s first certified organic restaurant. That’s not what attracted me to the place, although there is certainly nothing wrong with eating foods that are produced without pesticides, grown sustainably, and sourced locally. What attracted me was the menu, crammed with offerings among which it was almost impossible to choose. The temptation of simply saying, “Just bring us everything on the fucking menu” had to be resisted, though: Not only would our appetites not bear it, but the check would then be somewhere north of the GNP of several sub-Saharan countries.
We were seated in the cozy upstairs dining room, the very place where President Obama had thrown a surprise birthday party for First Lady Michelle a mere nine days before. The restaurant staff were still starry-eyed about it.
To get us started, I ordered an extremely dry Hendrick’s gin martini, straight up; Elder Daughter ordered hers with Grey Goose vodka (the Presidential vodka, we were told afterwards). And then we settled in to the serious task of stuffing our faces.
We ordered a couple of salads for starters: a local red and yellow beet salad with oranges, grapefruit, feta cheese, micro greens, beet tuile, and pomegranate vinaigrette; and a baby arugula and radicchio salad with roasted local pears, French Brie, toasted almonds, with port wine vinaigrette. The beet salad was almost jewel-like, the arugula and radicchio more substantial, the pears contrasting nicely with the Brie’s smooth creaminess.
By way of a main course, I selected a grilled Ayrshire Farm ribeye with roasted marrow bone, parsnip purée, carrots, garlicky chard, and a red wine jus. It was perfectly done, and the marrow bone - complete with slender silver marrow-spoon - was an elegant, yet earthy, touch. Elder Daughter, meanwhile, zeroed in on the pan-seared steelhead salmon with spaghetti squash, Brussels sprouts, roasted turnips, ovendried tomato, and black walnut vinaigrette. The fish was done to an exquisite medium-rare: superb.
We could have stopped there, but it would have been wrong. For there was the small matter of dessert.
We ordered a pear frangipane tart (sweet) and a platter of artisanal cheeses (savory) with homemade quince membrillo and nuts. Eaten at a leisurely pace, it was the perfect end to a delightful meal.
Earlier, as we had sipped our Martinis and waited for our meals to arrive, we had reminisced about other fine feeds, focusing on the meals we had enjoyed during our sojourn in Japan almost two years ago. What was the best? Japanese tapas at an izakaya within hours of our arrival? Udon and eel in a little noodle shop in the Ginza? The fourteen-course kaiseki dinner at the Hiiragiya ryokan in Kyoto? Unagi-no-donburi at the Takashimaya department store? Our sushi breakfast at the Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo? Each one was special in its own way; each one memorable. As this night’s dinner would be.
What memorable dinners have you had? And what was the best thing about them?
She keeps herself pretty busy these days, Elder Daughter does. Juggles lots of projects, both at work and extracurricular. Somehow, she manages to keep all those figurative balls in the air.
Monday night, we had dinner at Nora, a lovely little place in the neighborhood of DuPont Circle. I had first heard of it in a post by the Bakerina several years ago; since then, we had seen it several times while walking in Elder Daughter’s neighborhood but had never set foot within.
Restaurant Nora.
Sometimes the things we wait for with a sense of happy, eager anticipation turn out to be disappointments. Dinner at Nora was not one of those things... which is a backhanded way of saying that it was excellent.
Nora claims to be America’s first certified organic restaurant. That’s not what attracted me to the place, although there is certainly nothing wrong with eating foods that are produced without pesticides, grown sustainably, and sourced locally. What attracted me was the menu, crammed with offerings among which it was almost impossible to choose. The temptation of simply saying, “Just bring us everything on the fucking menu” had to be resisted, though: Not only would our appetites not bear it, but the check would then be somewhere north of the GNP of several sub-Saharan countries.
We were seated in the cozy upstairs dining room, the very place where President Obama had thrown a surprise birthday party for First Lady Michelle a mere nine days before. The restaurant staff were still starry-eyed about it.
To get us started, I ordered an extremely dry Hendrick’s gin martini, straight up; Elder Daughter ordered hers with Grey Goose vodka (the Presidential vodka, we were told afterwards). And then we settled in to the serious task of stuffing our faces.
We ordered a couple of salads for starters: a local red and yellow beet salad with oranges, grapefruit, feta cheese, micro greens, beet tuile, and pomegranate vinaigrette; and a baby arugula and radicchio salad with roasted local pears, French Brie, toasted almonds, with port wine vinaigrette. The beet salad was almost jewel-like, the arugula and radicchio more substantial, the pears contrasting nicely with the Brie’s smooth creaminess.
By way of a main course, I selected a grilled Ayrshire Farm ribeye with roasted marrow bone, parsnip purée, carrots, garlicky chard, and a red wine jus. It was perfectly done, and the marrow bone - complete with slender silver marrow-spoon - was an elegant, yet earthy, touch. Elder Daughter, meanwhile, zeroed in on the pan-seared steelhead salmon with spaghetti squash, Brussels sprouts, roasted turnips, ovendried tomato, and black walnut vinaigrette. The fish was done to an exquisite medium-rare: superb.
We could have stopped there, but it would have been wrong. For there was the small matter of dessert.
We ordered a pear frangipane tart (sweet) and a platter of artisanal cheeses (savory) with homemade quince membrillo and nuts. Eaten at a leisurely pace, it was the perfect end to a delightful meal.
Earlier, as we had sipped our Martinis and waited for our meals to arrive, we had reminisced about other fine feeds, focusing on the meals we had enjoyed during our sojourn in Japan almost two years ago. What was the best? Japanese tapas at an izakaya within hours of our arrival? Udon and eel in a little noodle shop in the Ginza? The fourteen-course kaiseki dinner at the Hiiragiya ryokan in Kyoto? Unagi-no-donburi at the Takashimaya department store? Our sushi breakfast at the Tsukiji Fish Market in Tokyo? Each one was special in its own way; each one memorable. As this night’s dinner would be.
What memorable dinners have you had? And what was the best thing about them?
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
A Vote for the Independent Bookstore
Things are shifting uneasily in the book world. It seems like almost every day brings news of another independent bookstore closing -- Jim Huang's The Mystery Company in Indiana and The Open Book in Greeneville, SC (after forty years!) are two of the latest casualties. In 1993 therewere 4,700 independent book stores in the US; by 2007, there were only 2,500. Heaven knows what the figures are today. Even the big chains, the well-known names, aren't showing the profits they once did.
Is it the economy? Is it the on-line book sellers? Is it e-books? Is it huge discounts in big-box stores? Is it a shrinking base of readers?
So far, the independents I know best in my area are still hanging in there -- making adjustments where necessary, adding a cafe here, joining forces with another bookseller there.
Long may they survive!
These are the folks who read the books and can tell you about them, who remember what sort of books you like and recommend similar ones. Indy booksellers tend to be passionate about books -- heaven knows they're not in it for the money!
These are the folks who've been very good to me, 'hand selling' my Elizabeth Goodweather books and hosting events where I can meet my readers.
And these are the charming little stores where I love to browse and discover new books -- the quiet little books that are under the bestsellers' radar, the quirky little books that'll never show up at Wal Mart, the regional books that teach me more about Appalachia . . .
So I make a point of doing some gift-buying at my local Indies. Even if I could save a few dollars by shopping on line.
It's my small vote in favor of the wonderful institution of the independent bookstore.
These are the folks who've been very good to me, 'hand selling' my Elizabeth Goodweather books and hosting events where I can meet my readers.
And these are the charming little stores where I love to browse and discover new books -- the quiet little books that are under the bestsellers' radar, the quirky little books that'll never show up at Wal Mart, the regional books that teach me more about Appalachia . . .
So I make a point of doing some gift-buying at my local Indies. Even if I could save a few dollars by shopping on line.
It's my small vote in favor of the wonderful institution of the independent bookstore.
A Conversation over Blokus
and I just got one this month. for the first time ever!
And I'm totally in love with it.
There are apps to get on Facebook and Twitter, apps to play games, apps to brush up on my Latin and Spanish, apps to look up words and keep a journal, a look up maps, take pictures, check email, and do just about anything I can think of!!
As we sat down to play Blokus Sunday night, we had an interesting conversation.
My almost-13-yr-old said, "Mama, I'll trade you my phone for your phone."
I laughed. and laughed. "Sorry, Donny, no way." and laughed some more. Kids!
He has friends at school with iPhones. Middle schoolers!
He thinks for a few minutes, then says, "What can I trade you? I really want your phone. I'll give you my iTouch and my phone and anything else..."
I laugh some more. Tears leaking from my eyes. "No way. I'm sorry, Donny, but you have nothing I want. I LOVE my phone. I don't think you could come up with anything you have that I want right now."
His next answer?
"Well, I have youth."
I stopped laughing.
And he won at Blokus. Again.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Another Florida
There's another Florida -- away from the traffic and the high rises and the Mouse and the golf courses. There are untouched beaches, sand dunes and sea oats, and in winter, there are very few visitors.
These are photos taken (I think) in 2004, when we visited the State Park on the St. Joseph Peninsula in the Florida panhandle.
Miles of beach on the Gulf of Mexico, a bay over which to watch the sun rise, deer, bald eagles . . a Florida paradise.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Little Women
On my post for MLK day, Miss Yves (in France) commented that as a girl she had read and loved Uncle Tom's Cabin and something she referred to as "Little Ladies." I was puzzled and then it came to me -- Little Women.
Miss Yves replied to my query: "Yes , of course, "little women "; my favourite character was Jo !!!!!!!! The french translation was: "les quatre filles du docteur March."
It's amazing, the popularity of this book -- it still sells well on Amazon (though I suspect it may be bought mainly by grandmothers and aunts wishing to share a beloved book with the younger generation.)
I read it first back in the 1950's -- a good ninety years after the time it takes place -- but it always seemed fairly contemporary to me. Sure, there was talk of horse drawn carriages and the illustrations showed the little women in long dresses but it wasn't like reading a historical novel -- it was reading about four girls.
Like Miss Yves, I liked Jo the best. I admired Meg and her gentle beauty; I enjoyed Amy's artistic efforts, her silly pretentiousness, and her difficulties in school (what are pickled limes, anyway?) Sweet little Beth was a little cloying, for my taste.
But I felt I knew all of them -- I devoured Little Women and its sequels Good Wives and Little Men, and there are bits of the lives of the March family that are as real to me as my own past -- the sisters taking up staffs and pretending to be pilgrims, Jo's attic where she wrote, the blanc mange the sisters took to the invalid Laurie, Jo's eventual renunciation of Laurie, the lobster salad at Amy's school party, the lemonade at Meg's wedding, the white rose that Amy gave Laurie, the museum the boys had at Dr. Baer's school, the little cook stove that Daisy cooked a meal on -- I was there, I tell you!
This one was my mother's -- and it was already a period piece back in 1928.
While looking for an illustration I came across this:
New York Times review from 2005
And this -- I hadn't known about May Alcott -- Louisa's sister and probable prototype for Amy -- who did the illustrations for the original Little Women.
I wonder how these books would strike someone today, encountering them for the first time?
Overly didactic? Saccharine? Sweetly sentimental?
I don't know. I read and loved them -- and still do.
I wonder how these books would strike someone today, encountering them for the first time?
Overly didactic? Saccharine? Sweetly sentimental?
I don't know. I read and loved them -- and still do.
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