HALF-RUBBER

It’s more than just an Inadequate Condom. It’s a Bloggy Sport!


Velociman tries in vain to hit Elisson’s deadly pitch.
(Click to embiggen.)

Those happy idiots fine Online Journalists coming to Helen, Georgia to attend the upcoming Blown-Eyed Blodgemeet for the first time will discover that it’s not just about the Boozy Camaraderie.

There’s Boozy Athletics involved as well. Namely, that fine game, ostensibly of Savannahian origin, Half-Rubber.

Think of Stick-Ball played without bases and with half of a solid pink rubber ball instead of the sacred Spaldeen of bygone days, beloved by Northeastern city dwellers.

Yes. Half of a ball. That’s why it’s called half-rubber, ya dewemplin. A skillful pitcher can throw that hemispherical ball in any number of bizarre trajectories, owing to its unique aerodynamics. It’s all in the wrist.

This photograph, graciously provided by Eric the Straight White Guy, shows Velociman vainly trying to get his skinny-ass broomstick bat on one of my impossible-to-hit pitches. That’s Redneck, catching.

The sound thrashing I delivered unto Velociman in this, my maiden Half-Rubber outing, is probably what eventually impelled him to give up blogging. Just sayin’. It’s my theory, and I’m sticking to it.

Come to Helen and see for yourself. Perhaps you, too, can thrash Velociman.

HEART OF DARKNESS

Yesterday, as I traipsed out to the mailbox to retrieve the day’s pile of worthless bulk advertising, real estate offers, solicitations for mortgage refinances, threats from creditors bills, and slick catalogs, I almost stumbled ass-over-teakettle over a box that was conveniently placed just outside our side door.

“Goody!” thought I to myself. “An unexpected package!”

Most of the time, I like the unexpected package. This is probably a stupid attitude to cop in the early 21st century, what with mail bombs and other Pleasant Surprises, but since most of my experience with unexpected packages has been good, I approach them with pleasant anticipation, not dread.

A quick look at the return address established that my brother, that most esteemed Other Elisson, had sent the package. But whatever could it be?

Turns out that, buried in a nest of bubble wrap (Oh boy! Bubble wrap!), was a small paper sack filled with a substance I had never even known existed.

The Philosopher’s Stone? Spanish Fly? No, silly! (I already knew about those.)

It was Black Cocoa, from the same folks in Vermont who bring you King Arthur Flour.

Seems that my kid brother, when he was up in Vermont taking his Hot-Air Balloon Ride a few weeks ago, stopped in at the King Arthur Flour flagship store in Norwich. King Arthur is revered by Bakey People as the producer of some of the best flours on the planet, a statement I’m sure will be backed up by the Bakerina, who has taken professional breadbaking classes at the King Arthur compound.

The Black Cocoa caught his eye and he immediately thought of me...because let’s face it, them as know me know I have a most powerful Chocolate Jones much of the time, as well as an appetite for the unusual.

According to the package, Black Cocoa should generally be used in combination with another type of cocoa (e.g., regular or Dutch-process cocoa) due to its distinctive - perhaps overpowering - flavor profile. It’s used to make cookies such as Oreo™ and Famous Chocolate Wafers™ and is the reason those cookies are almost black in appearance.

Just for the hell of it, I decided to compare this mystical Black Cocoa with the boring, normal-ass variety of cocoa I keep in the Pantry d’Elisson. I opened the sack...



...and lo and behold! This shit is as black as the ace of spades! Well, not quite. But it is a very dark brown, reminiscent (for obvious reasons) of the color of an Oreo cookie. Makes the other cocoas look positively wimpy by comparison.

I can’t wait to try it. Perhaps a nice batch of Black Cocoa cookies will demonstrate its awesome powers...

Update:

I just made a batch of Mexican Chocolate Icebox Cookies, using half Dutch-process and half black cocoa. These cookies come out dark enough when made with Dutch-process cocoa, but with the black cocoa thrown in they are like chips of asphalt, inky and mysterious-looking. Delicious, too, with a subtle Oreo-like flavor note.

But working with that stuff in the kitchen is a challenge. It’s like Carbon Black...gets everywhere. Yeef!

You want the recipe for them cookies? It’s below the fold...

Mexican Chocolate Icebox Cookies

Makes 40 cookies.

• 1½ cups all-purpose flour, sifted
  
  
• 3/4 cup Dutch-process cocoa (for this batch I used half Dutch-process and half black cocoa)
  
  
• Generous pinch cayenne
  
  
• Generous pinch freshly grated black pepper
  
  
• 1/4 tsp salt
  
  
• 1 tsp ground cinnamon
  
  
• 1 egg, large or extra-large
  
  
• 1½ tsp vanilla extract
  
  
• 1 cup granulated sugar
  
  
• 1½ sticks unsalted butter, cut into small pieces

Sift together the flour, cocoa, cayenne, black pepper, salt, and cinnamon; set aside. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with paddle, cream the butter, then add the sugar and vanilla and beat until well-mixed. Add the egg and beat in well, being sure to scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula periodically. With the mixer running on low speed, gradually add the sifted dry ingredients and beat only until incorporated. The dough will try to climb up the beaters; if this happens, scrape it off and keep beating.

Flour a large board (and your hands) and form the dough into a 10" cylinder; wrap in aluminum foil or plastic wrap and freeze for at least an hour....or as long as you want. The log will keep for months.

When ready to bake, preheat oven to 375°F and arrange oven racks in the middle third of the oven.

Using a sharp knife, cut the dough cylinder into 1/4"-thick slices and arrange on a cookie sheet. The cookies will expand when baked, so leave enough room when placing them on the sheet. Bake for 10-11 minutes, turning the sheets and switching them from one rack to the other halfway through in order to ensure even baking. Remove from oven and, using a metal spatula, transfer immediately to a cooling rack.

Try not to eat the whole fucking batch at once. It won’t be easy.

HELEN A HANDBASKET

Sounds like the Degeneracy in the Confederacy has already begun, with the estimable Velociman already checking out the hooch, the ’Hooch, and Key’s hot tub.

I really have no idea what to expect, having not been to one of these Bloggy Circle-Jerks Mazola Parties Writers’ Conferences before...but I look forward to finally being able to associate Faces and Names with their many Nefarious Deeds and Writings.

Chatham Artillery Punch. Sazeracs. Seegars. Perhaps even some Half-Baked Half-Rubber.

And then, week after next, I can go and atone for all of the Evil Shit that goes down. Boo-yah!

EVERYTHING EWES’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT ELISSON BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK

Once upon a time, my mother introduced me to the illustrious filmography of one Woody Allen, a man who, for reasons I’m sure we’re all aware, achieved an unwelcome wave of notoriety in the late ’90s for comporting himself according to a questionable moral code, but who is also, unquestionably, a veritabobble™ comic genius.

In fact, Woody Allen supports my personal theory of a rare genius gene, commonly found in the DNA of most Jews born in Brooklyn on December 1, but that’s neither here nor there. All it took was one viewing of “Sleeper,” a futuristic slapstick comedy, and I was hooked. After that, at a mere 22-23 years of age, I took it upon myself to watch as much of Allen’s body of work as I possibly could.

After having seen the staples — “Annie Hall,” “Manhattan,” “Bananas,” and “Take the Money & Run” — and most of the dramas (i.e., “Interiors” — don’t waste your time), I sheepishly rented “Everything You’ve Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask,” something I’m not sure I wanted my mother to even know I rented, and, if I know me, I probably also asked the store owner if I could please have a dark plastic bag with which to conceal the suggestive title as I walked home, lest I get ‘looks’ on the way.

Once inside the front door, I secured the locks, shuttered the blinds, and popped the tape in the VCR. I plopped down on the couch and began to watch the film, which was a series of seven vignettes based on the popular Dr. David Reuben sexual self-help book of the 1970s. All was going swimmingly until one vignette, about a sheep, which I found…alarming.

Gene Wilder portrayed a respectable Jewish psychiatrist named Doug Ross (surely the future influence for George Clooney’s “ER” character) whose life changes when a man enters his office in search of his help for having what he considers an unhealthy sexual attachment to his pet sheep.

WTF?

At 22-23 years-old, I was as pure as the driven snow and naïve to such sordid mating practices. In fact, I was downright shocked (shocked!) and never even considered that the fabled sheep scene was any more than a single isolated gag, generated exclusively for that film. I mean, how could anyone DO such a thing?

Why a sheep, I asked myself? That’s so gross! Are there really men who have experienced and acted upon these longings? I couldn’t come to terms with the idea…my mind raced, but, I put the issue to rest once I returned the tape to the video store, and prayed I’d be spared from further exposure to such debauchery in my life.

And then, 10 years later, I — just an innocent young’n, looking to play a friendly game of Half-Rubber, and knock back a few adult bevies — attended Blogtoberfest in Helen, Georgia and, alas, it was there that the vile practice of sheep heiney humping again reared its sordid ugliness. Behold:

Some people drive Miles to generate smiles and Perverse Sheepish Forms of Amusement
By bringing devices that call to mind Vices and various types of Self-Abusement.

Funny, that…’twas not advertised as a bacchanal, where grown men wore dirndls, and passed around from one person to the next the inflatable Love Ewe, that each may have his or her way with the pasty, vinyl “inflatable barnyard date.”

Of some, I almost expected to see such deviance…but of my pal Elisson, the clean-living, heimishe big brother I always wanted, the Contented Family Man, who loves his wife, two girls, and drives a smart Honda Element…no, Gawd Dammit, no! Perish the thought…never happen, not my Big E.

So nu, you could imagine my horror when I turned around, and saw this**.

Oy, a shandeh! The horror!

**Photo Credit to Richard of Shadowscope.

KEYWORDS, WE GOT KEYWORDS

I’m always fascinated by the search terms people stick into Google and other such Electronickal Searchy Devices, particularly the ones that cause the searchers to be directed here. F’rinstance, here are the most popular keywords people were using today:

harpo marx gookie face pictures
leo kottke
old time gilgo beach
crack blood bowl 1.1.2.2
hydrodynamic science projects
she’s vibrator dependent blogspot
harelip jokes
half rubber game images
peter heering liqueur
100-word poems
underpants poems
boys aim low
meaning klattu barada nikto
chester karras
kippas under fedora
underpants poem

OK, I understand why some of these keywords might send someone here. I’ve either written about some of these things, or they’ve shown up in one or more of my Friday Random Ten posts.

The “crack blood bowl” one had me scratching my head, though. Seems there’s some sort of video game called Blood Bowl, with a patch available for same. But to find me, someone had to scroll through five pages of Google results, only to find my April 2005 archive, which by coincidence contained the (widely separated) words “crack,” “blood,” and “bowl.” As in “crack for toddlers,” “iron-poor blood,” and “bowl of Grape-Nuts.” I’m guessing that’s not what this person was looking for.

How useful all this is is anyone’s guess, but I’ll confess to feeling a certain perverse satisfaction in knowing that when anyone Googles the term “underpants poem,” this site leads the list of 1,110,000 results. Good to know I’ve accomplished something important in my span on this planet.

FOOD OF THE (FALLEN) ANGELS

Devil’s food cake.

It was a simple assignment, really, and I readily volunteered: Make a devil’s food cake for one of SWMBO’s colleagues, to be shared out at a Communal Birthday Observance.

I suppose devil’s food got its moniker from the contrast with fluffy white angel’s food cake. The Country Reuben vision of Heaven, with white-robed angels, enhaloed, fluttering about in a firmament bedecked with snowy clouds, does not admit of the dark, sensuous nature of a serious chocolate cake. All that chocolate would just dirty the place up, whereas in Hell, it would be just so much smudgery amongst the ashes and soot.

But I am here to tell you that while devil’s food may be the sustenance of fallen angels, angels they be, nevertheless.

This recipe uses Dutch-process cocoa, bloomed in boiling water to bring out its flavor to the highest degree. It is not a wimpy cake. Moist and packed with powerful chocolate flavor, it is not for those who are wishy-washy about their chocolate. You want a red velvet cake? This is not a red velvet cake.

Devil’s Food Cake

½ cup unsweetened Dutch-process cocoa powder, strained
¾ cup boiling water
¼ pound (one stick) unsalted butter
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ tsp salt
1½ cups granulated sugar
2 eggs (large or extra large)
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup sour cream
2 cups all-purpose flour, sifted

To start with, preheat the oven to 350°F and get two 9-inch round cake pans. Butter them and dust with flour, tapping to remove any excess.

Add the cocoa powder to the boiling water and stir until smooth. Set aside.

Using an electric mixer, cream the butter. Then add the vanilla, salt, and sugar and beat to mix. Add the eggs one at a time, beating until smooth after each addition. Scrape the sides of the mixer bowl with a rubber spatula as needed to make sure everything gets mixed well.

An a small bowl, add the baking soda to the sour cream and stir to mix. Now, add a third of the flour to the butter-egg-sugar mixture and beat only until smooth. Add half the sour cream and beat in. Now add another third of the flour and beat in, followed by the last half of the sour cream and the final third of the flour, beating until mixed after each addition. Finally, add the cocoa-water mixture and beat until smooth.

Pour the batter into the pans - try to get the same amount in each pan unless you want a weird-looking cake. Shale and rotate the pans to level the tops, then stick ’em in the oven for about 30 minutes, or until the tops leave only a slight impression when touched with the fingertips. Cool for 15 minutes, then remove the cakes from the pans and cool on a wire rack.

Devil’s Own Glaze

4 ounces unsweetened chocolate
2 tbsp butter
½ cup less 1 tbsp milk (picky, picky!)
1 cup confectioner’s sugar, strained
1 egg
½ tsp vanilla extract
Pinch salt

Melt the chocolate in a double boiler or in a microwave on a low setting. Over moderate heat on the stove, add the butter, milk, and sugar, stirring until the butter is melted. Keep stirring for another three minutes.

In a small bowl, beat the egg. Stir in a few spoons of the chocolate mixture at a time until you’ve added about a third or a half of the chocolate. Then stir the egg mixture into the rest of the chocolate. Add the vanilla and salt.

Now, place the goop in a metal mixer bowl and place the mixer bowl in a larger bowl containing ice water. You now want to use the electric mixer and beat the glaze for a minute or two at high speed until it starts to thicken. I use a KitchenAid, and it’s impossible to keep the bowl in the ice water bath as I beat, but the trick is to cool the mixture down enough to let it start setting up as you beat it.

Now to glaze the cake. Place four strips of wax paper onto your cake plate so that you can keep the glaze off the plate. Maneuver the bottom layer (bottom side up) onto the plate. Dump one-third of the glaze on top of the layer and spread with a spatula. Now place the top layer (top side up) atop the bottom layer and dump the rest of the glaze on top, spreading it over the top and sides. Give it a few hours to set, then carefully pull away the wax paper strips. Voilà! Devil’s Food!

(And you’ll have the Devil’s own time trying to keep from eating the Whole Damned Thing.)

BLOGGA-WATHA

By the shore of Chatta-Hoochee,
By the shining River-Water,
At the doorway of his cabin,
In the warm late Summer evening,
Elisson stood there and waited.

All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him, through the sunshine,
Westward from the Chalet Kristy
Passed in drunken swarms the Blodgers,
Passed the Blown-Eyed Jawja Blodgers,
Stumbling, singing in the sunshine.

Bright above him shone the heavens,
River spread like glass before him;
On its bosom floated tubers,
Dodging rocks from warlike V-Man;
[Wait a minute; that was last year.]
On its bosom floated tubers,
This year floating unmolested,
Floating past the Chalet Kristy.

On the river bank the Blodgers
Sat there drinking punch and whisky,
Sat there swapping tales of bullshit,
Getting up to play half-rubber
On the field beside the Kristy
Redneck trying to catch the pitches
Flung by Eric, noble White Guy.

Denny came, the Grouchy Cripple,
Bringing fancy car and Git-Box,
So he could regale the Blodgers,
Singing of the Brokeback Cowboys.

Rick was there, with lovely Georgia,
Driving from South Carolina,
There to keep the old tradition
Of not missing any blogmeets.
Hair cut short, you’d hardly know him -
Cleans up real good, Recondo.

Shadowscope and Holder sat there,
Newly welcomed to this conclave,
Holder wearing a tiara
As befits a science teacher.

Dax was standing in the river,
Vainly trying to find a nugget,
Just one little golden nugget -
(Georgia found a toy Buzz Lightyear
Floating down the selfsame river
Floating down the Chatta-Hoochee.)
V-Man, meanwhile, found a mushroom:
Big white sucker, like a penis -
Like a huge albino penis -
With it V-man had amusement,
To the horror of his sister.

Lisa came there, joined by SWMBO,
Joined by SWMBO and by Leslie.
They had traipsed through downtown Helen,
Getting tats upon their titties.
(OK, not on Leslie’s titty.
She had got hers on her ankle.)
Lisa came from far New Brunswick
Leaving Hubby with the harvest -
Harvest of the sweet blue-berries.
Rode with Leslie in a rent-car,
(Actually, she drove the rent-car)
Thanks to her connection’s lateness.

Kelly came there, from the Restroom,
Came there with her husband Richard,
There to join the Jawja Blodgers,
And to share the Revelations
She had found inside the Restroom.

RSM paid them a visit:
When the smoke cleared, he could find them
Camped beside the Chatta-Hoochee.
He had just run down the mountain,
Just to find the Jawja Blodgers.
He cleaned up in Zonker’s cabin.

Yabu came there, bringing Barbie -
Bringing with him beauteous Barbie
Proving he is not a nutjob.
Late at night he lit the skies up,
Lit the skies up with his rockets.
Then, when the constabulary
Showed up on the Kristy’s doorstep,
All the other bloggers scattered,
Leaving him to face the music.
Getting busted? Bad, Bad Juju!

Kelley came up from Atlanta,
Came up from Suburban Blight-Land
Leaving Pete to tend the baby,
New arrival Saruman Dooku,
So she could hang out with Blodgers.

Zonker was the organizer -
Organizer of the Blogmeet.
Made the deal with Chalet Kristy,
Blocking out the rooms and cabins.
Zonker brought a bunch of whisky,
Cigarettes, and case of sparkling
Wine to throw into the punchbowl.

Dash and Shoe came out from Texas -
All the way from sunny Texas
There to join the happy party.
Shoe had made a bet with Redneck,
Bet with Redneck on the football,
That the one whose team did poorly
Had to turn the Blog-Keys over
To the winner of the contest.
Texas lost, so ’Neck’s the winner
Letting him post any horseshit
That he wants to on her blogsite.
(Redneck, please, spare us the Goatse.)

Dash had driven up with SWMBO,
Elisson and lovely SWMBO.
On the way they mixed the Chatham
Punch that made the bloggers drunken.
Carefully they stirred the mixture,
Lest they slosh it in the kitchen,
Slosh it on the kitchen floorboards,
There to strip off all the varnish.

Key Monroe came up to visit -
All too briefly, came to visit -
And to give her arm a tattoo,
Leaving untouched her left titty.
(There’s a girl that’s got some Issues.)

Dax Montana’s wife Priscilla
Brought with her the brand-new baby,
Little Dax Montana Junior,
And their other lovely children.
To the Troll they went at lunchtime,
Place beloved of the Blodgers.

Late that night, at Yabu’s cabin,
All descended on the punchbowl,
To their horror finding that a
Turd was floating in the Punchbowl.
“Elisson, you nasty bastard!
Did you place that dookie in there?”
[It was really not a Turd-Chunk,
Just a piece of choc’late candy.]
Eric did avoid the punchbowl,
Drinking, instead, Scottish whisky.
Blessèd, turd-free Scottish whisky.

Sunday morning came too quickly,
Far too quickly for the Blodgers,
Scattering in all directions
At the ending of the Blogmeet.
Ave atque vale, Blodgers!
It was great, as I expected.
Note to self: Come next September,
Book a room at Chalet Kristy,
Kristy on the Chatta-Hoochee
Blogmeet-Home for ever after!

SMORGASBORGNINE

In which Elisson imagines himself to be a lonely Italian butcher from the Bronx...


Angie Velociman: What do you wanna do tonight this afternoon?
Marty Elisson: I dunno, Angie V-Man. What do you wanna do?
V: I wanna have some more a dat Chatham Artillery Punch.
E: Good idea. While yer at it, ya see dat guy onna tube in da river behind us? Whyn’tcha smack da crap outta him wit’chyer Half-Rubber stick? Maybe lob a couple rocks while yer at it?
V: Now yer talkin’.

[Photo shamelessly stolen from the most lovely Shoe. Post title shamelessly stolen from Skankin’ Pickle’s song of the same name.]

MORE PUNCH AND COOKIES

What the hell did we call this thing? The Helen Blogtoberfest? The 2005 Jawja Blodgers Fest? The Southeast Writers’ Conference? The Degeneracy in the Confederacy? The Southron Bloggimus Tea Party and Ice Cream Social?

What do you call three days of peace and love schmoozing and boozing on the Banks of the Mighty Chattahoochee? Words fail me. Or was that my much put-upon liver?

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I arrived in Helen late Friday evening. Well, not that late, but late enough so that most everybody had already run off to dinner. Thus, we wandered about the town, in search of (1) beer, and (2) clots of unruly degenerates. Found (1), but the (2)’s were mostly local kids hopped up on Tom’s salt peanuts and RC Cola. Nice music over at the Festhalle, though. It ain’t Little Bavaria without a Chicken Dance.

Upon returning to the Chalet Kristy, we immediately saw that Something had Changed. A horde of Very Happy People were hanging all off the first-floor railing...and they greeted us like Long-Lost Brethren. And Sistren.

Frenzied introductions followed...for the most part, familiar names, but (as yet) less-familar faces. I’ve catalogued those names elsewhere, but what I will say is that Chatham Artillery Punch is a wonderful and highly effective Social Lubricant. And all of us, every Man-Jack and Woman-Jill, were Well-Lubricated.

A few Unforgettable Moments:

• Being greeted by Georgia in the Chateau Kristy parking lot, complete with 16-foot bullwhip...
• Seeing Zonker in Full Mullet & Tat Regalia...
• Finding out that the one thing that can move Faster Than The Speed Of Light is Sam, trying to avoid being penetrated by V-Man... [Brings a whole new meaning to the term “Tain’t Fitting.”]
• The first words I heard upon leaving the room Saturday morning: Sam calling out to Velociman from the second-story balcony, “I’ve got your cowbell, your laptop, and the fucking monkey. Georgia has the bullwhip.” [You can’t make this shit up. It makes itself up.]
• Watching V-Man nearly getting his ass kicked by a twelve-year-old River Tuber who did not appreciate the splash from flying rocks [“Incoming!”] or Half-Rubber Weaponry...
• Seeing Eric open bottles of Shiner Bock with his Big-Ass Swiss Army (Nuclear Regiment) Letter-Opener and Church-Key...
• Hearing someone ask the Rhetorical Question of the Day: “Who the hell brings a pen to a blogger’s convention?”
• Watching the Velocimissus try to drink a Sazerac Cocktail without completely losing her shit...
• Seeing the expression on the face of the Acidic One when Flouncy Brian (think Sean Hayes’s character on Will and Grace) came to prep him for his 90-minute massage. [That one had both me and Leslie laughing fit to pee ourselves.]
• Listening to Eric recite (most of) The Ballad of Blasphemous Bill - entirely from memory, whilst under the influence of The Famous Grouse and Gawd knows what else...

Great times, people. And there are pictures. I’ve made the Presumptuous Assumption that it’s okay to post these, seeing as how they don’t portray anyone engaged in Illegal Activity, in Flagrante Delicto, or with Hanging Boogers Unfortunately Displayed. If you don’t want a particular shot posted here and you’re in it, send me an e-mail [at elisson1 (at) aol (dot) com] and I’ll take it down. [If you don’t want a particular shot posted here and you’re not in it, fuck off.]


The proper way to drink Chatham Artillery Punch:
note the extended pinky.


Blight and Brier.


The fabled White Fedora finds a new home.


Returning from lunch at The Troll.
Perfect place for blodgers to eat, innit?


My sweetie!


“Anybody see my mullet anywhere?”


Testing the waters.


The Princess and the Poet.


Whodat? Max Idaho?


Modeling a prior year’s souvenir.


Not looking especially old or grouchy.


“Beulah, peel me a grape.”


Massages is da best medicine.


Pimpin’ with the P.I.

THE HELEN, YOU SAY

As September turns to October, the thoughts of Georgia Blogfolk turn to the sun-dappled Mountains of North Georgia, where the Southeast Writers’ Conference will take place.

And this time, SWMBO and I will be making the scene.

I’m not quite sure what to expect at Chateau Kristy, hard by the river in Helen - half-rubber and Adult Beverages, to be sure - but I am looking forward to finding out whether some of the fine writers whose Crap I Be Reading are as twisted in person as their Manic Bloggy Utterances make them out to be.

I may just have to burn a few special CD’s...and pack a few essentials. Cigars. Whisky.

And the digital camera. Blackmail is still a powerful force, not to be taken lightly.

A WEEKEND IN HELEN, orFETCH ME MY HANDBASKET

When it’s Fall and the autumnal air smells like an indefinable something
That might be woodsmoke, or falling leaves, or maybe the aroma of the frost on the pumpking
That’s when the Blown-eyed Blodgers assemble in Helen at the Chalet Kristy
To swap stories, hang out, and consume ridiculous amounts of Chatham Artillery Punch and get moderately pisty.

It’s the only place I know where a middle-aged man will stand in a parking lot and shimmy into a dirndl
That fits him reasonably well, although it would fit him better if he were wearing a girndl,
And which makes his Lady Friend wonder, no doubt, if it’s he, not she, who is saddled with a bunch of Key Issues,
But meanwhile, everyone else is laughing so hard that they need to wipe their faces with tissues.

Some people drive Miles to generate smiles and Perverse Sheepish Forms of Amusement
By bringing devices that call to mind Vices and various types of Self-Abusement.
His lovely wife (Holder) is a rara avis, by which I mean an unusual creature,
Who combines Bloggy Talent with the personally rewarding and yet extremely difficult task of being a Science Teacher.
With them came a friend, one Michelle, who is involved in the Performing Arts as both an actress and director,
And if you want someone to party with who can, incidentally, schlep a cripple up a flight of stairs, well, you’d do good to select ’er.

Did someone say cripple? Yes, we had one with us who claims to be both Elderly and Grouchy,
Who, when we started carrying him down the cabin’s staircase, we dumped unceremoniously on his back, where he lay in a sort of Fetal Crouchy.

Those two Manly Men (I mean Jimbo and Ken), who hail from the state of New Jersey,
Drove down so that Jim could play his Git-Box and regale us with a few Choons, even though it meant taking a break from blogging from the Place Alongside the Highway Where You Pee.

Zonker showed up, sans mullet and tats,
And, for that matter, sans blog, which at least means no posts about Recipes and Cats.

Joan of Argghh came up in her cargghh, bringing along the Legendary Jolly Roger and a bag full of amusing devices,
And Catfish arrived with a truckload of shrimp and several handy sacks of Shrimp-Boiling Spices.

It’s fair to say that there is one couple without whom no visit to Helen is complete:
Yes, that would be Ricondo 32 and Miss Georgia, who apparently has a “thing” for Monkeys, as evidenced by her actions at both this and the last blogmeet.

Sam and Barbie trundled in from North Carolina in order to make their appearance.
Barbie took about 800 photos, some of which are likely to show up on the Internet regardless of whether or not their subjects have granted them advance clearance.

RSM dropped by on both Friday and Saturday evenings, and even showed up uniformed and camoed,
Attentive to duty as he was, he didn’t drink much, preferring to hang out and watch everyone else get hammoed.

Driving up in his trailer from Florida was GuyK and the lovely Sweetthing, along with their brace of poodles and a Coleman stove for food-warming,
It’s easy to see why the Bloggy World at large thinks this guy is Charming, Just Charming.

Taking a break from Talledega were Kelly and the Senior Chief, who showed up Saturday just in time for dining and Adult Libation.
Good thing we didn’t eat Indian food, or Kelly would’ve had an entirely different (and much more unpleasant) Restroom Revelation.

John Cox brought his sketchbook and proceeded to create a series of Visual Impressions,
And the bloggers he made them impressions of will soon be paying their Head-Shrinkers for an seemingly endless series of Therapeutic Sessions.

Dax came in his leather hat and serape, causing several random passers-by on the streets of Helen to hum, under their breath, the Mexican Hat Dance.
Listening to him tell the story of the Glass-Eye Girl’s job interview is about the most fun you can have while wearing pants.

Leslie flew all the way from Chicago, just so she could be with the rest of us -
And I’m still trying to figure out if she would have been better off simply driving her Omnibus.

The Wiseass Jooette did not miss the festivities, managing to get all the way from Brooklyn to Helen just in time for Shabbos:
“What’s a nice Brooklyn girl doing in a place like this?” “Getting shikker with all the Blown-Eyed Bloggos.”

Eric, the Straight White Guy, came down from Tennessee with his lovely bride Fiona,
Only to play half-rubber under the influence of Chatham Artillery Punch and nearly give himself a hionia.

Elisson and SWMBO arrived Friday evening, too early for dinner but well past the hour for lunch,
And he was armed with five gallons of that most deadly beverage, the aforementioned Chatham Artillery Punch.
That punch is good stuff, but if one drinks too much of it, one might possibly have a complaint,
And that complaint is, that Elisson may have had some of it too, and is now regaling everybody with poems about Warheads and Taint.

[Apologies to Ogden Knish]

NATION OF PINHEADS

At our Corporate Whoop-de-Do this week, I grabbed a bottle of water out of the convenient bin and looked at the label. Ozarka water, it was, and it had a prominent green label on the back touting its new Eco-Shape™ bottle design.

Environmentally friendly, made with 30% less plastic than the average water bottle. Oh, boy! Save the whales! Collect them all, win valuable prizes!

I’m really not convinced there’s anything environmentally friendly about any kind of water bottle, since I can get perfectly good water right out of the tap without using any bottle at all. And if I want to schlep water around with me - ’cause everyone knows how hard it is to find water in this country - I can put it in a reusable water bottle. You know: the kind that has minimal environmental impact because you don’t throw the damn thing away after you’ve used it once.

Good Gawd, we have become a Nation of Pinheads.

We’ll buy those reusable grocery bags - we all want to protect the environment, right? - and then we’ll fill ’em up with bottled water, the most useless Value-Added Product the Madison Avenue marketing geniuses ever foisted upon the American public. I especially love the imported stuff. Fiji water, sucked out of a pristine spring half a world away, then shoved into a disposable plastic bottle and jammed into a container on a steamship to be transported 10,000 miles for your drinking pleasure.

The fact that the suppliers of Fiji water can spend all the money to do that and still make a profit by selling us something that comes out of the tap for practically free tells us how stupid we are.

We’ll happily spend a buck or more on a 20 ounce bottle of water - the equivalent of $6.40 a gallon. Now imagine a magical substance (let’s call it “Gazzo-Leen”), the same 20 ounces of which can push a two-ton chunk of metal, glass, and rubber three miles or more at more in less than three minutes. We’ll piss and moan about having to pay half of that $6.40 a gallon we spend on bottled water on this magical “Gazzo-Leen.”

We’ll piss and moan even more if we can’t buy however much “Gazzo-Leen” we want, whenever we want it.

Every aspect of our country’s infrastructure for the past 60 years or more has been built based on the assumption that we would have cheap petroleum-based energy forever.

Surprise! Eventually, if you assume enough, it makes an ass out of u and me.

In China and India, there are now a billion more people that are being lifted into the middle class by the powerful engine of world economic growth. One billion people...and that number is growing fast.

They all want the same bright ’n’ shiny stuff we’ve taken for granted for years. Cars. Televisions. Whisky. Flush toilets. Movies with plenty explosions and ficky-fick.

And now they’re buying oil, just like us. Which eats up supplies...and makes the prices go up.

Meanwhile, we’ve got our SUV’s to feed so we can commute to work on our Great Big Network o’ Interstate Highways. So let’s put more ethanol in our gas tanks, so we don’t need as much petroleum, why don’t we?

Hmmm, lessee. Ethanol is made from corn. In this country, at least, thanks to the powerful Corn Lobby.

Corn is a high-yield crop that sucks nutrients out of the soil, necessitating the use of chemical fertilizers.

Chemical fertilizers are made from petroleum.

We’re using oil to grow corn to replace oil. So: Just how fucking stupid are we?

Nation of Pinheads, I tell you.

COBBLE, COBBLE

There’s an old saying: The cobbler’s children have no shoes. Whether that’s true or not, I cannot say - but one thing is certain. Eli’s children have cobbler.

I submit for your delectation a photograph of the blueberry cobbler prepared by The Other Elisson and served forth on our Daddy’s eighty-fifth birthday alongside gargantuan slabs of layer cake and chunks of melon.


The Other Elisson’s Blueberry Cobbler.

Sexy, huh?

I permitted myself a taste of the berries. They were packed with delicious fruit flavor, enhanced by the one-two punch of lemon and cinnamon. Unbelievable.

People who have been reading this site for several years know that I loves me some blueberries. It was four years ago this week that I was in New Brunswick, Canada - home of some of the finest blueberries in the world - so I know whereof I speak.

Until this bad boy showed up on the table, I had never known my brother was a Dessert Maven. Normally, the Other Elisson lives a fairly ascetic life, being very careful about what he eats. But apparently he’s not ashamed to cut loose now and again.

As for how he did it, I’m pretty sure this is close to the recipe he used. It will serve six to eight... or four really serious cobbler lovers:

The Other Elisson’s Blueberry Cobbler

Filling
½ cup granulated sugar (3½ oz)
1 tbsp cornstarch
Pinch ground cinnamon
Pinch table salt
6 cups fresh blueberries (~30 ounces), washed and picked over
1½ tsp grated lemon zest
1 tbsp lemon juice

Biscuit Topping
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (5 oz)
2 tbsp stone-ground cornmeal
¼ cup granulated sugar, plus 2 tsp for sprinkling
2 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp baking soda
¼ tsp table salt
4 tbsp unsalted butter (½ stick), melted
⅓ cup buttermilk
½ tsp vanilla extract
⅛ tsp ground cinnamon

Preparation

Adjust oven rack to lower-middle position and preheat oven to 375°F.

To make the filling, stir the sugar, cornstarch, cinnamon, and salt together in a large bowl. Add the blueberries and mix gently, using a rubber spatula, until evenly coated; add the lemon zest and juice and combine. Transfer the mixture to a 9-inch glass pie pan. Place the pie pan on a rimmed baking sheet and bake until the filling is hot and bubbling around edges, about 25 minutes.

While the filling is baking, get the biscuit topping ingredients ready but don’t mix the wet and dry ingredients together until just before the berry filling comes out of the oven. Whisk the flour, cornmeal, ¼ cup sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a large bowl to combine. In a separate, small bowl, whisk the melted butter, buttermilk, and vanilla together. Mix the remaining 2 teaspoons sugar and cinnamon in another small bowl; set aside. Just before the filling is ready, add the wet stuff to the dry stuff and stir until just combined. You don’t want any dry material left, but don’t beat the crap out of it.

Now it’s time to put the cobbler together. Take the berry filling out of the oven and jack up the oven temp to 425°F. Pinch off eight equal-sized globs of biscuit dough and place on hot berry filling, spacing them at least half an inch apart. Sprinkle each dough-glob with the cinnamon sugar mixture you prepared earlier. Stick the whole mess back in the oven and bake until the filling is bubbling like blue lava and the biscuits are golden brown on top - about 15-18 minutes. Remove the cobbler from the oven and cool on a wire rack 20 minutes or so. Serve it forth with lashings of vanilla ice cream or lightly sweetened whipped cream.

And then, loosen your belt. Oof!

IRRIGATION

It was sometime in the late 1960’s that a new appliance found its way into our home.

Not an electric coffeepot; not a waffle iron or toaster. This was something new, something health-related. It was a Waterpik, a device whose function was to irrigate and massage your gums with a high-pressure pulsating jet of water. Years later, I would see similar devices in use at the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s refineries and chemical plants, where the process is known as hydroblasting.

Both of my parents were long-time sufferers of gum disease, probably spending as much time or more with their periodontist than at their regular dentist. For them, the Waterpik was a godsend.

Waterpik oral irrigation devices were very popular in the 1970’s, but since then they have settled back into a minor slot in the American consciousness. Which is unfortunate, because they really are that rara avis: devices that actually perform a useful function... unlike half the crap I own.

After I moved out of Chez Eli and went off to university, I didn’t think about the old Waterpik all that much. But eventually, one would end up in our house, mainly used by She Who Must Be Obeyed, whose closely-spaced teeth made using regular dental floss a near-impossibility. A few years back, she bought an updated model to help manage her oral hygiene while she was wearing braces... and just recently, I went and got one of my own.

Believe me when I tell you that your mouth will never feel cleaner than right after you have used a Waterpik. It blasts all the hidden guck out from under the gumline, including all the crap you thought you had gotten out by flossing. And if you really want to clear out your head, you can do what I did after my nasal surgery seven years ago...

I had had a septoplasty... correction of a deviated nasal septum. As part of the postoperative regimen, I was supposed to irrigate myself with warm salt water, for which purpose I had been given a rubber bulb syringe. But I had a better idea... and it involved using our old Waterpik. You can do it too!

You simply take one of the regular dental irrigation tips and cut off the end with a hacksaw, leaving only a one-inch length. You then fill the tank with warm saline solution, jam the irrigation tip up one nostril, and hold the other nostril closed. Now start the machine running - at the lowest pressure setting, of course - with your mouth open over the sink.

Once you get used to the remarkably disconcerting sensation of having your head fill with warm salt water (it’s a bit like drowning), Waterpikking your head out is not all that bad. That is, until you look at the stuff being washed out of your sinuses. Yeef. One time as I was Head-Pikking, something that looked like a cross between a Big Mac and SpongeBob SquarePants came floating out...

Maybe you’d better stick to using the Waterpik on your gums, at that.

WHACKED CHICKEN

I have a confession to make. I sometimes get to jonesing for Small Kitchen Devices the way most of us guys get a Hardware Hard-On when we wander the aisles at Home Depot.

Problem is, I can buy a lot of useless crap in a chef’s supplies store, the kind of crap that finds its way to the back of one of the overly cluttered drawers in the kitchen. Then I feel like a Prize Jackass. When was the last time I used that Prune Zester?

But one device that really does come in handy is the Meat Pounding Mallet. This little beauty has a comfy rubber grip and a business end of solid steel. One side has a gridwork of points, useful for tenderizing shoe leather or round steak (really the same thing), while the other side is smooth. That’s the side I find myself using almost all the time.

I like boneless chicken breasts - they’re a nice base for a lot of sauces, they’re chock full of healthy protein, they’re low in fat. Problem is, they are a bitch to cook properly. If you’re not careful, they will be totally dried out on the outside while the interior is a nice, salmonella-bearing pink. Yecch.

But all’s I do is lay a piece of Saran wrap on a heavy chopping block, then place the quivering Chicken Breast on it, then cover with another piece of Saran - and then I pummel the crap out of it with the smooth face of that mallet. After a minute or so of wailin’ on that chicken, presto! Nice, thin chicken scallopini.

Now, sometimes I’ll take those pounded breasts, lay ’em in a Pyrex roasting pan and drizzle ’em with olive oil, then sprinkle with Montreal chicken seasoning. Thirty minutes at 350°F, and it’s Dinner Time!

And if you want something a tad more elaborate, how ’bout this:

Chicken Stuffed With Smoked Mozzarella

This will make six servings, unless you are ravenous. Allow 40 minutes, including 25 minutes oven time.

You will need:

6 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves (about 1½ pounds total)
¼ cup finely chopped shallots
1 clove garlic, minced
Olive oil (you’ll need just a few tablespoons all together)
½ of a 10-ounce package frozen chopped spinach, thawed and well drained
3 tablespoons pine nuts
¾ cup shredded smoked mozzarella cheese
¼ cup seasoned fine dry bread crumbs or panko (Japanese bread crumbs)
¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese
salt, pepper

Take one of the chicken breast halves and place it between two pieces of plastic wrap. Using the flat side of a meat mallet, whack them bad boys into rectangles about 1/8 inch thick. Remove plastic wrap. Season (the chicken, not the plastic wrap - duh) with salt and pepper. Repeat process with all chicken breasts.

If you haven’t already toasted the pine nuts, heat up a dry, heavy skillet and toast the nuts, stirring often. You want to get a nice, light brown - whatever you do, don’t burn ’em. Set aside.

To make the filling, heat a few teaspoons of olive oil in a medium skillet and cook the shallots and garlic until tender but not allowing them to brown. Remove from heat; stir in spinach, nuts, and smoked mozzarella. Now you’re ready to roll.

In a shallow bowl combine bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese. Roll each flattened chicken breast half around 2 to 3 tablespoons of filling. You’re looking for that cylindrical, burrito-like structure here. Stick a wooden toothpick into each roll to keep it from unraveling. Then lightly brush each roll with olive oil; coat with bread crumb mixture. Place rolls, seam side down, in a shallow baking pan. Bake, uncovered, in a 400°F oven about 25 minutes or until chicken is tender and no longer pink.

Remove toothpicks before serving, if you know what’s good for you.

Serve with a cool white wine. We Georgians are fond of “Peanut Grigio.”

CARNIVAL OF THE CATS #125

Welcome to the 125th Carnival of the Cats!



This week’s Carnival is brought to you by Hakuna and Matata, the Resident Kitties at Chez Elisson.



Hakuna: Oh, I love it when other kitties come to visit! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go hide. Now!

Matata: I am happy to welcome all of my Kitty Visitors...and their Human Companions. Fresh meat!

And now, on with the cats...

Share some memories of Archie, who left us for the Scratching Post in the Sky two years ago, in this touching post by anniemiz.

Mensabarbie is off on a trip and must leave Butterscotch behind...and Butterscotch does not like it one bit.

Just Between Strangers gives us some pictures of Pixel and Pasha at play. Hey, that’s alliterative!

Fellow East Cobber Myke, of Myke’s Weblog, tells a harrowing tale of his cat Scooter nearly using up one of those fabled nine lives. More harrowing than that is the fact that Myke himself had his own brush with the Unexpected Visitor shortly afterward...

At Mélange, Nicky is King of the Hill. Meanwhile, Tucker and Nyssa are So Happy Together...and who can blame them?

For those who like their cats well-rounded, head on over to Jelly Pizza and check out whaleshaman’s Circular Kitty.

Chameleons do it. U.S. Marines do it. And now Russ’s sister’s cat Lou does it, too. What izzit? Hiding in plain sight...with camouflage, of course!

Let Chris Dolley bowl you over with these photographs of Kitties in Hemispherical Vessels.

Blueberry, at Texas Oasis, tells us about Duncan, a cat so cute that he can be forgiven for the Bad Habit of pissing on the couch. Bloob knows, as did my late Grandma, that all such problems are solved with just two words: Plastic. Slipcovers.

The redoubtable Mister Gato of enrevanche knows how to have fun. Chow Fun, that is. Check out this post about a couple of Unlikely Buddies.

Debra deals with a mystery at Manx Mnews. Suspects abound: Boo, Jinx, Ping, and Gracie are all under the shadow of suspicion. Will Inspector Abby find all the missing socks and identify the perpetrator of this Foul Deed?

Princess Lotus Blossom shares her thoughts on the important Issues of the Day in a series of Video Interviews at Anchored by Grace. Kimberly has managed to tease some intriguing sound bites out of the Princess, who says, “Sure, I know I’m an indoor kitty, and it’s for my own safety while I’m out here...but this cage sucks!”

Roll on over to Far Cartouche (“In Far Cartouche did Kukla Fran a Silly Pleasure Blog Decree”) and check out Lady and Houdini, the Kitty Minions of the Robot Vegetable. And at the Vegetable’s other site, Middle-Fork, Lady adopts a Newtonesque role.

Huckleberry needs to lay off the catnip...or turn down the volume, over at Stereophile. Meanwhile, Bagheera tries her hand at being a Modern Art Model.

A wealth of Recumbent Kitties awaits the visitor to Rahel’s site, Elms in the Yard.

At composite drawlings, there is an Implied Concept that cats are good for the blood pressure. True that may be, except for the times Matata wakes me up at 5:30 a.m. playing “Smacky-Face.”

Aloysius, at Catymology, shows us his fluffy and enormous tail. Actually, there seems to be much more tail than Aloysius. Where’s the rest of him?

Da Nator, at Delectatio Morosa, offers up a Cautionary Tale: Don’t Drink & Groom.

At Athenamama, the question of the day isn’t “Where’s Waldo?” It’s “Where are Thalia, Angel, Jacqueline, Salem, and Ebby?” OK, not all of them are cats, but they do make on big happy pile of Animal Love!

Perhaps an appropriate Motto of the Day at Watermark is “My karma just ran over your dogma.” For it is here that you will learn the secrets of Kitty Yoga and Feline Meditation. Remember to concentrate intently while repeating your meowntra!

Say hello to Cosmo, who has timed his sojourn with Maggie Katzen’s parents to coincide with Maggie’s own visit. Coincidence? I think not...

Nothing beats a man and his meezer...over at Crazy Meezer’s place.

Aunty Holly offers some Useful Tips and Tricks for the aspiring Feline Model.

Babeth van Son lives in a House of Chaos...and at houseofchaos, you can see what happens when Loup-Garou and Bean Sidhe (love those names!) mix it up. Action-packed...and featuring a Guest Appearance by Mr. Rubber Chicken his ownself!

Rondi, who operates the Blog With A Freakin’ Long Name, Begin Each Day As If It Were on Purpose, uses Pushkin to illustrate the simple concept behind Tummy Tuesday.

And while we’re on the topic of Tummy Tuesday, Mog has a great shot of Ritzi in the Belly Shot Attitude. The Mogster also has the answer to the question, what do you do with the last shot on the memory card? You take a Kitty Picture, of course!

At EclectEcon, Mystery investigates the Hot Tub in the act of being refilled. “Why, what is that Strange and Potentially Unpleasant Substance in there?”

Arrrh, ye scurvy scum of the Seven Seas! Here be a picture of a Piratical-Looking Kitty at What Did You Eat? Arrrh, I don’t know what Upsie ate, but I wanted to eat the Black Cod in Tomato-Saffron and Fennel Stew that was posted just below (befArrrh!) the Pirate Kitty pic.

Brian J. Noggle isn’t all about the musings. Sometimes, he reads books...and sometimes, the bookshelf has eyes.

Rico Loco, of the eponymous Web-Log (“The MISAdventures of Rico Loco”), is a cat with several aliases. Crazy Loco, man!


Sammy says, “Rico may be loco, but I’m totally nuts...about my Daddy Eli!”

At The Wide Awake Cafe, even the best catnip is poor consolation when one of your favorite humans goes away to school.

Kimberly (Music and Cats) wonders whether yawning is contagious. I’d say yes, but I can’t afford to go to sleep and miss out on the batch of Kimberly’s Blueberry Chutney I cooked up this morning.

Beezer - a handsome cat, indeed! - makes a pitch for the Conway Area Humane Society...

...so that Ramona can see her Big Dream come true. Check out the story over at Caturday.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina
You see, we got us plenty kitties
Some are quite fuzzy
Some are insistent
Just give them kibble
Or keep your distance...

The Cats of Argentina are the topic of the day at Red Peonies. ¡Las gatitas somos muy hermosas!

They say a cat can look at a king, but in this post at Keewee’s Corner, Rocket looks an awful lot like a Kiwi.

Laurence Simon almost had a new addition to his Kitty Harem, but then common sense took over.



Neighbor, here, can tell you that it’s not easy being the New Kid on the Block in an established household full of kitties. It’s Puffy Tail Time, for sure!

Meankitty Says...check out this pretzel I found. And what’s this? A hamster with nunchucks? Are those metal nunchucks? Or are they wood ’chucks?

Valerie, it would seem, has just given Tigger a once-through on the old Fluff-Dry Cycle. Check out that bushy tail...

Rafe and Rico display a little Brotherly Love at No Deep Thoughts.

My buddy KeesKennis - that’s Baboon Knowledge, for all you Afrikaans speakers out there - will occasionally do a little catblogging...as will his Better Half. But usually, when I’m looking at Kees’s site, I see a different sort of cat...



Ah, here’s a more typical post. Hungry kitty, that first one.



Pishalou says, “Where do you think you’re going with my zebra, bub?”

Well it looks like that’s all the Carnival entries for this week. Let’s check in with Hakuna and Matata, shall we?



Matata: Thanks once again for stopping by, Esteemed Readers!

Hakuna: Be sure to visit next week’s Carnival, to be hosted by the gang at Red Peonies. And, lest we forget, ’Ta and I want to thank our co-hosts Sammy, Neighbor, and Pishalou. You guys are the best! Really. Just stay the hell away from me, OK?

[Linked to the TTLB ÜberCarnival Home Page]

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