Lost in the Cheese Aisle

POPO DONE BLOW-BLOW

2013-06-18T12:36:00.000-04:00

In the ash
Of Popocatepetl
I saw a single
Red rose pepetl

Popocatepetl done gone and blowed itself up.

Take a look - it’s pretty frickin’ impressive:

THEN AND NOW: AN AERIAL OBSERVATION

2013-06-18T10:41:00.001-04:00

Several years ago, when I was writing over at the Old Place, I wrote a post that referenced that most nerdly of Youthful Activities: flying model rockets.

It’s hard to get deeper into Nerd Territory unless you’re also a member of the school marching band... at least, so they say. Whoever “they” are.

In any event, that post included several aerial photographs that a friend and I had taken with a rocket-mounted camera back in the fall of 1966. It was primitive technology by today’s standards, but nevertheless it yielded some interesting results: photos of identifiable pieces of Local Geography. Plus, it was cheap as borscht - five bucks bought the rocket and camera - the only other thing you needed was a supply of engines, film discs, patience, and wishful thinking.

After a few attempts from our usual launch venue - the then-undeveloped John J. Burns Park in Massapequa, New York - yielded mostly uninteresting results (aerial photos of roads and parking lots aren’t all that exciting, after all), we decided to move our base of operations to the parking lot of one of the local elementary schools. From there, we were able to score a few shots that at least had some recognizable landmarks. Roads! Water! Houses!

I’ve taken a couple of those old rocket photos and juxtaposed them against views of the same scenes available to anyone with Google Earth and an Internet connection. Here they are:

This is the part of Bar Harbor immediately south of Birch Lane School. Kings Walk runs L-R across the bottom, with Thornwood Road on the left and Queens Court to the right (and a glimpse of Harbor Drive on the far right).

Looking across the river at Nassau Shores, West Shore Drive winds along the left side of this photograph, with Seneca Place in the center and a bit of Seneca Street West visible on the leftmost edge.

The only difference between the photos on the left and those on the right? Forty-seven years... and a metric buttload of technology that nobody could possibly have imagined back in 1966.

A DAY FOR DADDIES

2013-06-16T10:08:00.001-04:00

Bill, Eli, and David: SWMBO’s dad, my dad, and SWMBO’s stepdad (L-R).

The week before Elder Daughter arrived, my normal glacial composure (hah!) dissolved in a paroxysm of near-panic. Suddenly, I realized that Impending Fatherhood was bearing down upon me like a freight train in a long tunnel from which there was no escape. What would I do? How would I handle it? Would I be a good father? Would I be a failure?

Somehow, I managed to calm myself down. I was married to the level-headed, sensible, and loving She Who Must Be Obeyed, and I had had a fine example of Dadditude set before me in the form of my own father, the redoubtable Eli. Things would turn out all right, I told myself... and when Elder (then Only) Daughter finally made her appearance, I was ready for that transformative moment.

Transformative indeed, for when a man becomes a Daddy, he becomes a Man on a Mission.

When you’re a Daddy, your priorities change. You’re not just in it for yourself. You have responsibilities. You are the provider, the protector. These are also the responsibilities of a husband, but when worse comes to worst, the Missus is an adult who can, if necessary, fend for herself. An infant cannot. You are the child’s shield against all of the slings and arrows that life can offer up.

In the matter of fatherhood, I was blessed in both directions. The Elder Generation - my father, and later, SWMBO’s father - provided a solid model and inspiration. Were they perfect? Hell, no - but they took their own responsibilities seriously, and that was something I took to heart.

In the other direction, I have been blessed with wonderful children - a blessing that has at least as much to do with the Missus as it does me. I hope I have provided them a good model of what to look for in potential future daddies, as well.

The Missus, even as I write this, is laying on a Swell Feed for a bunch of our friends. A Celebration of Daddies, as it were. It is a brotherhood that I am proud to be a part of, an accomplishment for which I was trained by riding on the shoulders of giants. Look upon their photographs above, and be awed.

Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads out there! You’ve earned it.

A FORMAL PORTRAIT SITTING...

2013-06-15T13:46:00.004-04:00

...is a challenging task when it involves a cat. Especially this one:

Levon sits for a formal portrait. Photo ©2013 Gary Feinberg Photography.

Unlike his predecessor-kitties Hakuna and Matata, Levon generally does not sit still while I try to photograph hm while he performs his numerous Kittenish Tasks. Matata was a notorious lens-whore, while Hakuna was mostly oblivious to the camera; Levon, by contrast, will take off once he notices the baleful glare of the lens.

When our friend Gary posted this photograph of Levon on Facebook (he and JoAnn had been cat-sitting him during our recent trip to New York and Philadelphia), I wondered just how many shots he had to take to capture this Formal Portrait. Eighty-seven? Two hundred?

Turns out, he took exactly two shots. Two. Shots.

I’ll give the boy credit. He’s talented and efficient!

ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT

2013-06-14T21:31:00.000-04:00

Roasted asparagus with lemon zest and nutmeg. Tasty!

High West Campfire Whiskey for the boys.

Cosmopolitans (made with my home-made cranberry liqueur) for the girls.

Salad with tomatoes and nectarines.

Grilled sliced prime ribeyes.

Roasted Brussels sprouts with garlic, capers, and passionfruit balsamic.

Roasted asparagus spears with lemon zest and nutmeg.

Limonana - lemonade with mint.

Life is good.

A RIP IN THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM

2013-06-14T16:54:00.002-04:00

Last night we did our usual Thursday evening thing: minyan with the Usual Suspects, followed by dinner in one of the local restaurants.

We had elected to try a new barbecue place that had recently opened in a spot that is the Elephant Burial Ground of restaurants, at the corner of Woodlawn and Lower Roswell Roads. I don’t know whether it’s the location, the dearth of parking, or the mislaid business plans of the various owners, but no dining spot has ever managed to make a go of it there. This place might do it if the food is good, but since there was insufficient space to accommodate our group of eight, we didn’t stick around long enough to evaluate any of it.

I did notice this prominently posted sign, the first thing you see when you walk in:

“We cook your food when you order it. We recommend calling your order in eight hours in advance if you want the beef brisket.”

It’s a worthy sentiment, but not something I expect to see in a barbecue restaurant. Maybe they’d be better off saying, “We take your meat out of the smoker when you order it. Then we slice it and throw it on a plate with some beans and cole slaw.” Mainly because it takes a reeeeeally looooong time to make barbecue.

Since there was no room at the inn - except for outdoor seating, which was looking like a bad option given the ominously darkening skies - we repaired to Ritter’s, right across the parking lot. In addition to serving good food at reasonable prices, Ritter’s has the advantage of being solidly built, with a back room located well away from windows. This would become an important consideration: the reason those skies were darkening ominously was because (to use the Bakerina’s words) a rip in the space-time continuum was headed straight for us.

Scary looking shit, this.

What was unusual about this line of storms was that it was oriented perpendicular to the usual direction. Weather in these parts typically travels from west to east, and storm fronts tend to be oriented on a rough diagonal from SSW to NNE. This one ran straight east-west, a horizontal slash of red and magenta on the weather maps that gradually slid southward. Yeef!

Adding to our growing anxiety level was the sound of the local tornado warning sirens in the distance... and the National Weather Service’s tornado warning, indicating that some Bad Shit was going down. Ensconced as we were in a well protected back room, we could do nothing but sit tight and wait for our entrées as the lights flickered.

It’s a good thing we were not outside to see this, or I might have crapped a blood clot on the spot:

“Ohhh, crap.” Looking a bit too much like the Crossroads Baker atom bomb test, an EF-1 tornado slices through East Cobb, as seen in this view from the corner of Johnson Ferry Road and Roswell Road, looking north... only 7/10 of a mile away from Chez Elisson. (Photo: East Cobb Snobs.)

The storm, when it struck, manifested itself with powerful straight-line winds and a metric buttload of rain - like a cow trying to piss on a flat rock in a wind tunnel. All we could do was to sit there and hope our homes would be intact once we were able to return to them. Later, we would discover that we had been directly in the path of an EF-1 tornado as it skipped and skittered along the ground for several miles.

Most of us, as it happens, dodged this particular Weather-Bullet. There were trees downed everywhere - our neighborhood took quite a few hits, including our neighbors across the street - but our trees and house were intact. Some water was on the kitchen floor, blown under the back door’s weatherstripping by the powerful winds; we sopped that up quickly with a couple of towels. And our garage door openers were out of commission. A few miles to the south, our friends Barry and Malka lost a beautiful weeping willow that had sat majestically in their back yard - but at least it fell away from, not towards, their house.

Right across the street from Chez Elisson... thank Gawd nobody was near this bad boy when it came down.

Several adjacent neighborhoods were not quite as lucky, tornadic winds having toppled trees and smashed houses and power lines. The good news was that an EF-1 tornado does not leave behind it the kind of total destruction seen recently in Oklahoma... but that is scant comfort when there is a massive tree in your bedroom.

An enterprising individual with a chain saw and wood chipper could have made out like a bandit today. Welcome to springtime in the South!

Update: Garage door openers have been restored to their normal functionality - for a “mere” 250 bucks (hah!). A power surge had blown out the electric eyes that prevent the doors from closing when there is an obstruction... obnoxious, but way better than if the opener circuitry itself had been fried. Ahhh, the joys of home ownership...

ONE GREAT BIG HONKIN’ OMELETTE

2013-06-13T22:02:00.000-04:00

When we were in New York last week visiting Eli (hizzownself) and The Other Elisson, She Who Must Be Obeyed and the Mistress of Sarcasm made a little side trip to Whole ~~Paycheck~~ Foods to forage for some Lunchly Grub.

They came back with a pleasant enough array of foodstuffs, but it’s what they left behind at Whole Foods that fascinated me. Lookee:

Ostrich eggs. Want to make an omelette? You’re gonna need a bigger pan.

Ostrich eggs!

Those are great big bastards, indeed, and you might assume that a brace of ’em could feed a small army. Well, maybe... but at forty bucks apiece, is an ostrich egg a good deal?

Naw.

Looking at the weight and volume of its contents, one ostrich egg is roughly equivalent to two dozen chicken eggs. That’s enough to make a great big honkin’ omelette, but if you buy an ostrich egg at Whole Foods, you’re paying about ten times the price of the same amount of garden-variety cacklefruit. Now, I can appreciate the novelty value of eating certain things (raw whale, anyone?), but that’s a lot of money for an egg... even if it came from a cage-free ostrich raised in an environment absent hormones or antibiotics, massaged daily with Japanese beer. Perhaps it is a reflection of the difficulty of harvesting the eggs: taking them away from a resentful mother ostrich capable of disemboweling a man with a single kick.

Me, if I want to eat weird eggs, I’ll go for caviar. Or a raw quail egg with my ikura nigirizushi.

TWO LIVES, INTERTWINED

2013-06-12T06:00:00.000-04:00

The long-winded, egotistical King Friday XIII and his bride, the level-headed Queen Saturday... the late Fred Rogers’s perfectly imagined proxies for Yours Truly and the Missus.

Thirty-six years ago today, in the sweaty heart of Foat Wuth, Texas, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I were wed.

“Sweaty Heart,” in our case, was more than a snarky turn of phrase that (coincidentally) sounds like a popular Term of Endearment. Heart, the extremely popular band led by sisters Ann and Nancy Wilson, was staying at the Hilton in downtown Foat Wuth the same time we were... but their weekend visit was just another stop on the road for them. For us, that weekend was life-changing.

Since then, we have managed to deal with six household relocations, having two children and raising them to adulthood, losing two parents (SWMBO’s father and my mother), and all of the other little exigencies of life. We have grown older together, maturing and mellowing like fine wine rather than cheese, which becomes ever more blue-veined and stinky with the passage of time. (At least, that’s how I see it.)

Me and the Missus.

When I look into her penetrating blue-grey eyes - she can turn one of them wonky when she’s being playful - I see that same lovely young woman I first met as the year 1975 wound down to a close... with a few differences. For, to me, she is more beautiful with every passing year. It’s the beauty that grows out of warmth, comfort, familiarity, lack of pretense.

Thirty-six is an especially meaningful number. If you’re buying eggs, it’s three dozen... but if you parse it with the numerological techniques of us Red Sea Pedestrians, it’s twice eighteen, a number which, when written in Hebrew, uses the same characters as the word chai (חי) - life. Thirty-six is double chai, and what better symbol could there be of the intertwining of two lives in love and marriage?

I’m looking forward to the next thirty-six.

THE BEATLES, STAR WARS, AND NOW THIS

2013-06-11T23:26:00.000-04:00

Every once in a (long) while, a piece of Pop Culture comes along that affects me on a deep emotional level, deep enough to cause me to look at the world differently.

One Sunday night in February, 1964, I saw the Beatles make their American debut on The Ed Sullivan Show. The landscape of music was forever changed for me that night, as it was for so many others of my generation. A mere three years later, the Beatles once again sent seismic shocks through popular culture with their release of their landmark Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

Watching Star Wars for the first time, in the summer of 1977, I marveled at the grand adventure taking place on the big screen. The opening shot of the Starcruiser passing overhead, filling the screen with its immensity, by itself was enough to convince me that I was seeing something extraordinary. Movies would never be the same after that.

On a more personal note, hearing (and seeing live performances of) Philip Glass’s Akhnaten - and John Adams’s Nixon in China and Doctor Atomic - cast my interests onto a whole new trajectory. Modern opera would become a fascination, a whole new viewpoint for me... a sea change from my prior focus on 1970’s rock.

Such moments - those that so deeply impact our cultural bedrock - are rare. But now I am pleased to present something that may have the same kind of effect on the way we all see and experience life.

Meet the Kelly Family...

No... no need to thank me. Just enjoy!

THE VENERABLE HONEYWAGON

2013-06-10T18:22:00.002-04:00

The Other Elisson’s bestest buddy Jerry recently posted a few amusing photos on his Farcebook timeline... a collection of Honeywagon Images.

A Honeywagon is, as most of my Esteemed Readers know, an ironically named tank truck designed to pump out the contents of cesspools and septic tanks, which contents in no way, shape, or form resemble honey. But Honeywagon sounds so much better than Shit-Truck, am I right?

If you’re making your living in that sort of business, I suppose it helps mightily if you have a sense of humor about it. (Also, it is best if you lack a sense of smell.)

Years ago, when She Who Must Be Obeyed and I made our home in Trumbull, Connecticut, we were amused to see a honeywagon that was labeled “The Little Yellow Stool Bus.” Here are a few other legends and slogans that have embellished similar vehicles...

A Flush Beats a Full House
Satisfaction Guaranteed - or 110% of Your Product Back!
Turd Burglar
CAUTION - This Truck Contains Obama’s Stimulous (sic) Package
Thanks for flushing our business down the drain
Yesterday’s Meals on Wheels
BACK OFF - We Ain’t Haulin’ Milk
Got Poop?
Your number 2 is our number 1!

And then there’s this one, which contains more than a little grain of truth:

What amusingly named Shit-Trucks have you seen?

THE OTHER ELISSON AGES APACE

2013-06-07T06:07:00.000-04:00

The Other (younger!) Elisson enjoys an afternoon amongst the vines of the North Fork of Long Island.

June 7, 2013 is customarily rendered 6-7-13 in the United States. And, look - 6 + 7 = 13! Isn’t that frickin’ remarkable?

OK, OK, it’s not all that big a deal. But it is a date of significance, for it is my brother’s very own Natal Anniversary. Fifty-seven years ago today, The Other Elisson made his first appearance at Lakeside Hospital - now long defunct - in Copiague, New York.

All these years later, I can still remember my mother, heavy with child, on her way out the door. At the time, I must have believed she had a choice in the boy-girl matter, for I asked that she bring me back a baby brother. Somewhat to my surprise, but certainly to my great joy, she obliged me.

Like all siblings, we’ve had our ups and downs. As kids in our Snot-Nose Years, our nearly four-year age difference meant that we alternated between ignoring each other, annoying each other, and just being brothers. But as an adult, I’ve seen my kid brother grow into a warm-hearted, thoughtful, conscientious man, a mensch in the real meaning of that venerable Yiddish term. I am very happy to be me, but in many ways I wish I were more like him.

Alas, I cannot be with The Other Elisson to celebrate, since we are in Philadelphia enjoying the festivities surrounding Elder Daughter’s graduation from ~~Klown Kollege~~ the Pig Iron School for Advanced Performance Training... another reason to celebrate on this most auspicious day. But I will raise a glass in his honor. Happy birthday, bro!

ISHMAEL LEARNS THE FOXTROT

2013-06-04T11:05:00.000-04:00

Slow
Slow
Queequeg

LUCY, YOU GOT SOME REFRAININ’ FROM BURNIN’ TO DO

2013-06-04T00:10:00.001-04:00

Most people know Lucille Ball as the star of “I Love Lucy,” a beloved comedienne and actress who was one of the most popular and influential stars in Hollywood.

What most people don’t know is that, had it not been for Eli (Hizzownself), her career might very well have been tragically cut short.

The time: circa 1944. The place: Hollywood. Eli, a young serviceman who would soon be off to India and China, had gone to a USO dance at the Hollywood Canteen. There, they would bring actors and actresses in to dance with the troops, serve them at the bar, and otherwise keep them entertained and occupied. Eli recalls that “it was very nice to be so close to these people,” who would also do various routines on a small stage. A ramp, lined on both sides with seats for the guests, led from the audience down to the stage; as performers walked down the ramp, they would be at or below eye level with the people seated on either side.

Eli was there, next to a starlet (possibly Dorothy Malone) that he recognized as having just appeared in her first movie. The young woman was smoking a cigarette, and (as it happens) she chose the exact moment Lucille Ball walked by on the ramp to flick the butt away. The smoldering butt landed in Miss Ball’s big, puffy hairdo, where it continued to burn, a wispy plume of smoke drifting skyward. Eli, thinking quickly, reached down and plucked the cigarette from Miss Ball’s hair, with her none the wiser.

Having his head set on fire didn’t help Michael Jackson’s career one bit and may even have contributed to his early demise. It is no stretch of the imagination to assume that things would have been at least as bad for Lucille Ball - then a B-movie actress for RKO Radio Pictures - had her hair burst into flames. If Eli had not intervened, who knows what disaster might have overtaken her and her eventual career? “Lucille Ball o’ Fire” doesn’t have nearly the same cachet as “I Love Lucy.”

STIFLE, DINGBAT

2013-06-02T09:20:00.003-04:00

Oh, the way Glenn Miller played
Songs that made the Hit Parade
In the dust you’ll soon be laid
No more, your days

Jean Stapleton, who played Edith to Carroll O’Connor’s Archie Bunker on the groundbreaking 1970’s hit sitcom “All in the Family,” passed away yesterday at the age of 90. Ave atque vale!

FRIDAY FIRST O’ FERIEN RANDOM TEN

2013-05-31T09:01:00.001-04:00

The iPod d’Elisson, AKA the Little White Choon Box.

Ferien is a delightful German word for “vacation.” I call it delightful because it is, deep down, not German at all - it’s borrowed from the French term faire rien - to do nothing. It’s the perfect vacation activity!

Today being the first day of SWMBO’s summer vacation, what better time to post a Friday First o’ Ferien Random Ten? So let’s see what the Little White Choon Box has queued up for us today. Hint: there ain’t a whole lot of Beach Music, vacation or no...

Philosophy - Ben Folds Five

Goin’ Away to Sea - The Klezmatics
My Shit’s Fucked Up - Warren Zevon

Well, I went to the doctor
I said, “I’m feeling kind of rough”
“Let me break it to you, son
Your shit’s fucked up”

I said, “My shit’s fucked up?
Well I don’t see how”
He said, “The shit that used to work
It won’t work now”

I, I had a dream
Ah shucks, oh well
Now it’s all fucked up
It's shot to hell

Yeah, yeah, my shit’s fucked up
It has to happen to the best of us
The rich folks suffer like the rest of us
It’ll happen to you

That Amazing Grace
Sort of passed you by
You wake up every day
And you start to cry

You want to die
But you just can’t quit
Let me break it on down
It’s the fucked up shit

Yeah my shit’s fucked up
Fucked up
One Way Out - The Allman Brothers
Improvisation No. 2 - Django Reinhardt
Star Trek Rhapsody - Weird Al Yankovic
Act II, Scene 1: Look Down at the Earth - John Adams, Nixon in China
Cold Duck Time - Les McCann & Eddie Harris

From the brilliant “Swiss Movement” album, recorded live at the Montreux Jazz Festival in June 1969.
Aalafiya/Shir LaShalom - The Afro-Semitic Experience
How to be Dumb - Elvis Costello

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MEL

2013-05-30T11:37:00.003-04:00

The final resting place of Mel Blanc and his thousand voices.[Photo: Wikimedia Commons]

Today is Mel Blanc’s birthday. The Man of a Thousand Voices would have been 105 today.

Alas, he’s been gone since 1989. I like to imagine him wandering the World to Come, cracking the heavenly hosts up with his voice impressions and comic routines. “Anaheim, Azusa, and Cu... camonga!” “What’s up, Doc?” “I tawt I taw a puddy tat!”

Ivan Shreve has an excellent tribute up at Radio Spirits. Go take a look.

BIBLICAL FRUITS

2013-05-29T14:45:00.000-04:00

The Bible talks about ancient Israel as being a land flowing with milk and honey... but when it comes to the matter of solid foods, you cannot help but notice the frequent references to other local foodstuffs, the fruits of the land. Dates, figs, olives, and pomegranates are mentioned numerous times, symbols of abundance and peace.

They’re all still there in modern Israel. Lookee:

Dates... before they’re picked and dried to look like cockroaches.

Figs on the hoof. Note the distinctively shaped leaves, perfect for covering up the crotchal area of any putative Adam or Eve.

Olives grow near a wall in the Old City of Jerusalem. All we need now is a juniper tree and we’ve got a good start on a locally grown Martini.

Ripening pomegranates hang on the tree at the Golan Heights Winery.

Now, all this talk about food has made me hungry. Fig Newton, anyone?

TEMPESTUOUS TEAPOT

2013-05-29T13:21:00.001-04:00

Retail is a tough business. You bust your chops competing with (seemingly) everyone on the planet, including internet-based merchants, and you’re getting killed. Business pundits are predicting that your venerable brand is not long for this world, but still you plug away, trying to turn things around.

Hell, you’ve now got one of the country’s most celebrated designers on your team - Michael Graves! Fresh after winning the University of Notre Dame’s Richard H. Driehaus Prize, the man who created a whole line of creatively reimagined household products for Target is now cranking out all kinds of wonderful stuff for you. And so you advertise it on massive billboards...

Heil! Your hot water is ready, schweinhund!

Wait, what?

Is that what... er, who I think it is?

Let’s get another look at that thing:

Screenshot from the Michael Graves Design Group website.

Ohhh, I get it. It’s a teakettle! One that bears a striking resemblance to a certain twentieth-century personage... complete with distinctive hairline and moustache, skinny tie, and raised ~~spout~~ arm salute.

This is the kind of massive PR snafu that ends up in textbooks as, well, a Textbook Example of what to avoid. I’m betting that the design isn’t all that obviously Hitlerian in real life, but it’s kinda hard to miss in the photograph. The reflection that resembles the skinny tie is just the finishing touch.

I cannot imagine that the billboard designer, at least, didn’t have a brief WTF moment when looking over the copy. It’s one of those things that may not strike you right away; however, once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

J C Penney, to its credit (and chagrin), has taken down the billboards and scrubbed their website of the image. They’ve also used social media, tweeting “Certainly unintended. If we’d designed the kettle to look like something, we would've gone w/a snowman.” But it still sits on the Michael Graves Design Group website and Facebook page... and, apparently, the kettle has become a hot item, selling on eBay for about five times the original retail price. I’m hoping that buyers are motivated more by a desire to get their hands on a possible collectors’ item than by any neo-Nazi political views.

Wonder if it whistles “The Horst Wessel Song” when the water boils?

LOVEBIRD, MY ASS

2013-05-28T14:09:00.003-04:00

I sit here locked inside my cage,
O, if you only knew my rage -
Imprisoned, sitting on a perch
And, like a preacher in a church,
You listen to me talk all day
Yet care not what I have to say.

Just open up the door here, Jim,
And then I’ll tear you limb from limb
In my life-story’s newest chapter,
This scion of Velociraptor.

EIGHTY-EIGHT

2013-05-28T10:43:00.001-04:00

Eli tickles the ivories, May 2010.

Anyone with even the slightest musical bent knows that eighty-eight is the number of keys on a piano.

I grew up with the sound of piano music in the house, thanks to my Dad. He had a library of sheet music that covered almost every genre, and it was a rare day that he did not sit down and play a few of the old standards. He was no Jerry Lee Lewis, pounding out “Great Balls of Fire,” no. But if you wanted to hear “Tangerine” or “My Funny Valentine,” he would happily oblige.

Today is Eli’s eighty-eighth birthday - a year for every key on the piano.

Alas, he is no longer able to play. If I want to hear his music, though, all I have to do is close my eyes, and it all comes back clear as a bell, even unto the squeak of his foot on the reverb pedal.

When people ask me how he is doing, I have generally offered a noncommittal “He’s hanging in there.” But now that the weather is warming up and the days are lengthening, that’s not really an adequate descriptor. He’s actually doing pretty well, all things considered, and his positive attitude and sense of humor are helping to see him through what can best be described as Non-Ideal Circumstances.

Today there will be cake, and family, and love. And in a few days, when She Who Must Be Obeyed and I arrive, there will be more. You don’t get to celebrate that many eighty-eighth birthdays, after all - strictly one to a customer, and not all customers get one.

Happy birthday, Daddy!

(There are a few photos below the fold, if you care to take a peek.)

The young Eli with parents Shirley and Jacob, circa 1926.

The real Mister Debonair... Eli in 1950.

This one’s from 1990. Not bad for a 65-year-old, eh?

Here’s Toni, The Other Elisson, and Eli taking a walk on the boardwalk in Brighton Beach, July 2010. Splendid times!

MEMORIAL DAY

2013-05-27T16:23:00.002-04:00

Memorial Day is the opening shot of summer, the unofficial start of the season that is bracketed at the other end by Labor Day. For schoolkids, it’s an indication that vacation time either has already arrived or will do so soon. And for millions of others, it’s a day to hit the grill... or the local shopping mall.

For me? Not so much.

This day is, to me, a solemn holiday, much in the style of Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur. It’s a time to be thoughtful, perhaps a bit introspective... a time to remember those brave souls who made the ultimate sacrifice as they defended their country. Our country.

Wishing someone a Happy Memorial Day seems a bit inappropriate. I try to wish people a meaningful holiday, with the meaning up to the individual I am addressing.

So, to my Esteemed Readers - enjoy the day in whichever manner you choose, and may it be meaningful in all the right ways.

WATER OF LIFE

2013-05-27T16:11:00.002-04:00

A golden bottle of do-it-yourself akvavit, the Official Booze of Scandinavia.

The Auld Scots must have loved their spirituous liquors, for they called their distillations uisge beatha - the Water of Life - a term which survives to this very day. Whisky!

There are other lively waters, though, and one of the tastier ones is the Scandinavian tipple akvavit, which name means, appropriately enough, Water of Life. How original, think ye in snark-fashion... but akvavit has little in common with Scotch or Irish whiskies except for its alcohol content.

Your basic akvavit - Aalborg is a good example - tastes like a caraway-infused vodka, which it pretty much is. Fancier versions add other herbs and spices to the mix, but the predominant flavor will almost always be caraway or dill.

You can find one or two different brands of akvavit on the shelf in your local Booze-Shoppe, provided it is a reasonably well-stocked operation. You may even find Linie Akvavit, a brand that carries on the tradition of shipping its product back and forth between Norway and Australia, crossing the equator twice in the process. But if the well is dry (so to speak), it’s easy enough to make your own, thanks to this handy recipe from Andreas Viestad (via Epicurious and Houston Steve):

Do-It-Yourself Akvavit

2 teaspoons caraway seeds
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
2 teaspoons dill seeds
2 star anise pods
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
1 whole clove
1 one-inch cinnamon stick (optional)
2 teaspoons cumin seeds (optional)

Add the above spices to a 1-liter bottle of vodka. Let stand 2 to 3 weeks, shaking the bottle occasionally, then strain and discard the solids. Presto - you have akvavit! Chill (I keep mine in the freezer) and enjoy an ice-cold shot with gravlax, herring, or pretty damn much any appetizer you feel like eating.

IT’S A GOOD THING

2013-05-24T09:23:00.002-04:00

Martha Stewart, adorned with the Mistress’s needle-felted finger puppets. Photo pinched from Martha Stewart’s official blog, “Martha: Up Close & Personal.” ©2013 Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia.

I have to admit, there were times when I questioned whether the Mistress of Sarcasm knew what she was doing when she shifted most of her artistic output from hand-made jewelry to needle-felted finger puppets. Was there really a market for these whimsical little creations? Could she actually make a living - or most of one, anyway - with an inchoate mass of wool and a barbed needle?

I need not have been overly concerned, it seems.

Seeing is believing, Esteemed Readers. The Mistress makes these little beasties come to life, each one with its own distinctive personality... and they are making new friends.

At last weekend’s Trade Secrets garden show in Sharon, Connecticut, they caught the eye of Martha Stewart, who dubbed them “adorable.” And that, Esteemed Readers, is a Good Thing... innit?

ON PICKLED FISH

2013-05-22T17:00:00.000-04:00

I have written numerous times on these Electronic Pages about my love for smoked fish. There are, however other ways than smoking to preserve a fish, pickling being one of them.

Herring is the fish most of us associate with pickling. It can be put up any number of different ways: aside from pickling, it may be smoked (e.g., kippers) or fermented (e.g., surströmming, the notoriously stinky Swedish fish). But ask a random sample of people if they’re familiar with herring, and pretty much anyone who answers in the affirmative will be thinking of pickled herring - the kind that comes in a jar with onions and wine or cream sauce.

Years ago, I took a lengthy sojourn in the Netherlands, a place known for its love of the herring. While there, I was able to indulge my appetite for herring in uncountable different forms. To this day, I have no idea what most of them were... but they were, for the most part, delicious. And not a one with cream.

For years, there was one type of herring that held almost no appeal for me (not counting surströmming, which I hope never to encounter) - and that was matjes herring. As a youngster, I could barely stand it, owing to its mushy, oily texture; its myriad of hair-fine bones; its weird spices; its vague sweetness coupled with extreme saltiness. Give me a jar of herring and onions in wine sauce any day - matjes herring (form the Dutch maatjesharing, for soused herring) was always just plain nasty.

My whole attitude toward matjes changed during our trip to Israel last year. There, it was a regular feature at our breakfast buffets: I decided to give it a chance. Lo and behold, this was not like the matjes herring with which I had been familiar. This stuff was not overly salty or full of little bones. It had subtle, interesting flavors. Why, it was... quite tasty!

A couple of weeks ago, I stumbled upon some prepackaged matjes at the Buford Highway Farmers Market. Emboldened by my positive experience in Israel, I tried it... and once again, I was delighted. Who knew?

Look, this stuff isn’t for kiddies. It is, to put it delicately, a much more strongly flavored item than, say, Vita creamed herring in the jar. But I’m a grownup now - or at least, I’m old enough to pass as one - and so foods with a bit of, ahhh, character do not put me off.

What’s this? You say you prefer creamed herring? Not a problem... but if you want to kick that stuff up to the next level, get a jar of it and add in some shredded Granny Smith apple (with the peel) and lemon zest. Shove it back in the jar and let it sit for a day or two before eating. You’ll be glad you did!

FUNNELS

2013-05-22T16:16:00.002-04:00

The EF-5 tornado that swept through Moore, Oklahoma Monday, leaving 24 people dead amidst a swath of horrific devastation, is just the latest manifestation of the scariest weather phenomenon on the planet.

It is impossible to suppress a shudder when watching the (incessant) television coverage of the disaster. In some respects it’s déja vu all over again, after having seen similar scenes played out in Joplin, Missouri; Tuscaloosa, Alabama; and Ringgold, Georgia within the past few years: the horrifying result of God’s own vacuum cleaner making a few passes over the carpet of the earth. But the sheer scale of destruction in Moore is mind-numbing, with entire neighborhoods scraped off the planet’s surface as though they had never existed.

The only other comparable events that come to my mind are the razing of parts of the Bolivar Peninsula in coastal Texas by Hurricane Ike (2008) and the impact of Hurricane Andrew (1992) in south Florida. In both instances, destruction was so thorough that the land was scoured completely, to the point where it resembled Hiroshima after it was leveled by the atomic bomb on August 6, 1945. It is hard to imagine anyone being able to survive a storm like that, save for divine providence.

Tornadoes figure deeply in my subconscious, despite my relatively limited experience with them. Most of that experience, in recent years, has taken the form of staring in gape-mouthed horrified fascination at the TeeVee Screen, watching the weather maps and praying that those big red and magenta blobs stay well away from our neighborhood... or hunkering down in the basement and hoping that the tornado that was on the ground a mile or two west of us - and headed directly for us - would dissipate before we (and Chez Elisson) got sucked away to Oz. More direct experience, I have no desire whatsoever to have... but it is an occupational hazard for those who live in the Southeast.

A map of the frequency of F3 and greater intensity tornadoes by area. Darker colors highlight the area typically known as Tornado Alley. (Wikimedia Commons)

Oklahomans, as most of us know, have it worse. They are ground zero for wind-funnel activity, parked right in the bull’s eye of Tornado Alley, which stretches from north Texas to southern South Dakota. Big tornadoes are far more frequent in the Alley... and huge, catastrophic ones are more likely to strike there than elsewhere. The Moore storm may have raised the bar on Disastrous Storms, owing to its exceptional size (up to two miles wide!) and intensity... but it was not completely unexpected.

Strangely enough, the Mistress of Sarcasm had her own close encounter with a tornado the very next day, a funnel that swept through her small town in upstate New York, knocking down a tree in her front yard in the process. The storm swept eastward into the remote northwestern corner of Connecticut and dumped a heap of hail - quarter- to golf ball-sized stones - in Falls Village, enough to accumulate in inches-deep drifts. Fortunately, she had been a few miles to the east, missing the worst part of the storm.

A funnel touches down near Copake, New York... a very unusual phenomenon for the area. Photo: Larry Selfridge (via Terri Moore).

Compared to a typical Tornado Alley storm - and especially the Moore disaster - this one was a mere fart in a hurricane. Nevertheless, scary business... because no matter where you are, tornadoes can happen.

Which is, I suppose, why I dream about them. Tornadoes and tsunami. Maybe it’s my subconscious’s way of saying, “Whether you’re paranoid or not, sometimes someone really is out to get you!”