MOLLY IVINS, TEXAS ORIGINAL

The ranks of Texas Liberals - a unique species that is in many ways distinct from others similarly-named - thinned out just a little more with the passing of columnist Molly Ivins from complications relating to breast cancer, only four months after cancer claimed Ann Richards, a former Governor of Texas who shared Ivins’ political views.

The Library d’Elisson formerly housed a copy of Shrub: The Short but Happy Political Life of George W. Bush, one of Ivins’s trenchant little screeds that has since gone missing, an unfortunate consequence of my lending it. I may or may not have agreed with Ms. Ivins on a great many things, but she and I shared the opinion that George Bush was, as Governor of Texas, a complete and utter bumblefuck. (I lived there at the time, Esteemed Readers.) History will be the judge of his performance in his subsequent role.

Houston-based blogger Laurence Simon has written an eloquent valedictory for Ms. Ivins, who, like her friend Governor Richards, was a “Tough Texas Broad”:

If you’re going to talk about her, you need a drink in your hand and it had better be your fourth or fifth one that night. Plus, everybody still facing you when you say it needs to blush, not counting those that have turned away in shock and disbelief.

Read the whole thing.

Ave atque vale, Molly. Hope they got barbecue and cold beer in Heaven.

SIPPY

Those of my Esteemed Readers that have young children (or grandchildren!) know what is a Sippy Cup.

It’s a drinking cup, generally made of impact-resistant plastic, with a tight-fitting lid. The lid has a little spout out of which one may drink.

The Sippy Cup is generally the first step in weaning a child away from the bottle or breast. Tots who have enough hand-eye coordination and muscle control to hold a cup in a more-or-less vertical position, and who can master the complexities of tilting the cup to their little faces, are prime candidates. The whole point of the Sippy Cup is that while it’s easy to slurp liquids from it, the flow rate is restricted. That way, when it gets inverted or thrown on the floor, spillage is minimized. For the runny-nosed kid who always manages to drop his drink on his crotch, the Sippy Cup is a veritable godsend.

How our antecedents handled the travails of the weaning process without the Sippy Cup, I cannot imagine. Think of it: Toddlers...drinking from open cups! Millions of gallons of milk spilled upon the linoleum floors of America! The wastage! The cleanage!

We grownups have our Sippy Cups too.

Stop at any roadside fast-food place, any filling station. They sell coffee there, and along with the coffee they provide plastic lids, the purpose of which is to help keep you from spilling boiling hot coffee on your nutsack while you’re cruising down Interstate 95 at 78 MPH. Most of these lids are designed so you can drink the coffee without removing the lid.

Enter the Great Corporate Salt Mine.

The GCSM is an extremely safety-conscious corporation. Cynics may say that the safety consciousness arises from the desire to protect valuable assets, or to minimize exposure to lawsuits that target the GCSM’s exceptionally deep pockets, but the fact is that the safety culture here is real and all-pervasive.

And here, when you drink coffee, you are impelled by the Safety Gods to use a lid on your cup.

I’m generally a supporter of the Coffee Cup Lid. People walking down corridors or up and down staircases while carrying cups of hot liquids should have lids on their cups. It’s common sense. Who wants to be standing in an elevator when someone accidentally jostles the secretary with the big mug of steaming java? Not I.

But lately, the Accepted Practice here is to keep that lid on the cup even while you are seated comfortably at table, enjoying your lunch. Gotta use the Big-People Sippy Cup, lest disaster befall!

Is it safer? Sure it is...although the risk of getting your ’nads drenched in a pint of boiling liquid when you’re sitting down to eat is minuscule. Especially if you avoid dining with people who are (1) extremely clumsy, or (2) who talk mostly with their hands.

But this morning, as I was sitting in a meeting, sucking my coffee out of (of course!) my styrofoam Sippy Cup, it occurred to me that the coffee sucked, too. Why? The coffee here, if not excellent, had always been serviceable. Now it was completely flavorless. And then I flashed back on other times - mostly on long car trips - when I had consumed my coffee from a lidded cup. Flavorless!

The fact is, drinking coffee from a Sippy Cup denies one the true Coffee Drinking Experience.

When you drink coffee, a lot of the pleasure comes from bringing that cup to your mouth. Steamy, aromatic vapors waft upward, filling the nostrils and warming the face. And the sense of smell is a far more important part of the sensory experience of eating and drinking than the sense of taste by itself. By drinking from a container with a lid, you bypass 80% of the flavor of a cup of coffee...and almost all of the pleasure. It might as well be (feh) water.

One could (if one were so inclined) draw a crude analogy between Sippy Cup Coffee and “safer sex.” Sure, the risk/reward equation’s a little different, but it's still a tradeoff between safety on the one hand and pleasure on the other. And with coffee, at least, there's a real benefit to “going bareback.”

So: What’s the right balance between safety and sensuality?

AQUA TEEN HUNGER TERROR FORCE

My name is Shake-Zula,
The mike rulah,
The old schoolah,
You wanna trip, I'll break it to ya.
Frylock and I’m on top
Rock you like a cop,
Meatwad you’re up next with your knock-knock.
Meatwad make the money, see,
Meatwad get the honeys, G.
Drivin’ in my car,
Livin’ like a star,
Ice on my fingers and my toes and I’m a Taurus.
’Cause we are the Aqua Teens,
Make the homeys say ho and the girlies wanna scream.

Frylock looked at Master Shake and cocked his eyebrow.

“What the hell is the story with these electronic ‘packages’ you’ve been leaving all over Boston? Do you know you created a major panic? The cops all thought they were bombs planted by some terrorist cell! Are you on crack?!!?”

Master Shake began to mumble, embarrassed. “It was Meatwad’s idea...”

Frylock was having none of it. “Meatwad ain’t smart enough to think up something this...boneheaded. He doesn’t have any bones, anyway. Pull the other one.”

“It was a marketing ploy! The consultants and the media geniuses thought it was a great idea!”

“Damn, Shake! This is the stupidest thing you’ve done since Carl was trying to hide from those fast-food dudes that wanted to saw his dick off! And you kept tellin’ them where he was! What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Well, we’re getting some major media exposure...”

“The only exposure you’re gonna get is to that 300-pound dude in the prison shower when you bend over to pick up the soap.”

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair,

What is the proper course of action when one has sneezed, causing the expulsion of a great big Wad o’ Boogage?

Sincerely,
A Proper Canajan Lady

Dear Lady,

The issue of how to deal with Nasal Mucus has, alas, been with us humans since before the Dawn of Time. And, sadly, many of our fellow humans continue to treat the matter in much the same way our Troglodytic Ancestors must have done.

The proper course of action is, when a sneeze is coming on, to cover one’s mouth and nose with a Pocket Handkerchief, preventing the potential escape of Unpleasant Substances. If one does not carry a Pocket Handkerchief - an unfortunate possibility in these Culturally Degenerate Times - then one may use a Facial Tissue.

Under no circumstances may one use a Restaurant Napkin. Mr. Debonair, in fact, has observed, on rare occasions, people indulging in the evil practice of blowing their noses in restaurant napkins. This is unspeakable. (Were I a waiter in a restaurant and I saw someone doing this, why, I would feel absolutely no compunction about adulterating that patron’s food with Vile Materials, the identity of which is best left unsaid in a Family-Friendly Weblog.)

When caught unawares by the Sneezing Impulse, it is acceptable practice to direct the sneeze into the crook of one’s arm rather than covering the mouth and nose with one’s bare hand. This is, in fact, preferable from a disease transmission standpoint.

If nasal mucus is expelled in the course of sneezing, it is completely unacceptable to (1) consume the mucus, or (2) to attempt to manually reinsert it in the nares. The first alternative is revolting; the second is not only revolting, but also completely ridiculous.

If one is off by oneself and feels the need to clear the nostrils, the ancient practice of using the “Farmer’s Handkerchief” (AKA the “Bowery Blow”) - closing one nostril with a finger while forcibly expelling air (and other materials) from the other nostril directly onto the ground - may be tempting. Resist the impulse to revert to behavior more suited to the cave-dwellers of prehistory! Are we not men?

CONEY ISLAND DAYS

Photograph ©2006 MalNino.

This photo of Coney Island at sunset (courtesy Erica) reminded me of a week-long Summer Vacation of sorts, spent with my grandparents in the sweaty heart of Brooklyn back in my Snot-Nose Days.

I should preface this by saying that the Coney Island skyline was a familiar sight to me, growing up. Every few weeks, we would drive into the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn to spend a Sunday with my grandparents - the ’Rents d’Eli - at their fourth-floor walkup on Bay 26th Street, hard by the corner of Bath and Cropsey Avenues. As we would approach our destination, cruising on the Belt Parkway, I would look for all the familiar landmarks.

There was the Mill Basin Bridge, an old-style drawbridge. Instead of the usual automatic railroad crossing-style gates, the attendant would get out of his booth and pull a steel gate across the lanes of traffic when the bridge was to be raised.

There was the gigantic railyard just north of Coney Island...and there, off in the distance, we could see the familiar skyline. The Wonder Wheel. The Parachute Jump. The Cyclone. That meant we were nearing our destination.

Later, after my grandfather suffered a heart attack, the Grand-’Rents moved to 21st Avenue, where they found a building with an elevator: Stair-climbing was no longer a possibility for him. But my early memories are of that place on Bay 26th Street, the apartment in which my father grew up. On warm evenings, I would look out over the fire escape at the Sinclair station on the corner, watching the comings and goings of daily commerce. The building had its own unique aroma, the mingled smells of ethnic cooking that I can conjure up simply by closing my eyes.

It was the summer of 1960 when my folks, no doubt in need of their own Summer Vacation, arranged for my brother and me to spend a week in Brooklyn with the Grand-’Rents.

A summer week in Brooklyn? You may chortle at the thought, but to a suburban kid like me - not quite eight years old - it was like a Mysterious Sojourn in an Exotic Land. Every day, we would go somewhere different, taking the subway for what was then the modest fare of fifteen cents.

Most days, we would go to Coney Island. There was a beach there, with real sand - but for Grandpa Jack, the main attraction was the Ravenhall Baths, where he would go for a long schvitz in the steam room. Now, that was an experience for a seven-year-old kid - gasping while trying to breathe the hot, steamy air, looking at all the Old Guys with their sagging chests and pendulous scrota. It was a glimpse at Future Present in a way, for those Old Guys were, at the time, not much older than I am today. But it was also a real Grandpa-Grandson bonding moment.

We would stroll along the Boardwalk, me gazing up at the horrifyingly precipitous Parachute Jump from underneath, hearing the screams of the passengers as they reached the top and then free-fell in their chairs about ten feet before the ’chute would kick in. I vowed then and there that I would never ride that thing - a vow that I am pleased to say I have kept.

We would eat hot dogs from the original Nathan’s - none finer - and Yonah Schimmel’s knishes. I can still taste ’em. Hell, I’m probably still digesting ’em.

There was the last Great Amusement Park there, George C. Tilyou’s famous Steeplechase, named for a ride that involved metal horses that ran on an outdoor track. Indoors, there were carnival-style rides, along with gigantic wooden slides. You sat on a blanket to use the slide, and the penalty for touching its surface while you were in motion was a painful burn.

One day, we went in to Manhattan to go to Radio City. I remember nothing about the movie we saw there except for its title - Fanny - but the rest of the experience, which included seeing the Rockettes and hearing the Mighty Wurlitzer Organ, was indelibly engraved on my little-kid mind.

After a week, I was ready to go home, back to the familiar landscape of the ’Burbs...but my week in Brooklyn still sits in the cobwebby Memory Banks of my younger days, filed under “Seven Days of Magic.” Walt Disney, with all his Disneyland charm and wiles, could never compete.

IMITATION

The sincerest form of flattery.

Submitted for your approval is today’s Pearls Before Swine comic strip:


[Click to embiggen.]

Of course, we all know who thought of it first...



Colander Borg-Man!

(W)RAP STAR

On a cold evening, there’s nothing as reassuring as a warm, wooly blanket - even if Miss Matata has a fur coat of her own.

MR. DEBONAIR, TALMID CHOCHAM

(“Talmid Chocham” is a Yiddish term meaning “Talmud Scholar,” in case you were curious.)

Courtesy of Notes from Nancy’s Noodle, here’s one of those Stupid-Ass Quizzes that is making the rounds.

This one touts itself as the “Ultimate Bible Quiz.” Well, I don’t know about that, but it was pretty challenging - mainly because more than half of it concerned itself with the New Testament, which falls outside of what we Jooooz study in religious school. That knowledge is stuff I picked up from (1) osmosis, (2) Gideon bibles, and (3) American popular culture.

As for the questions drawn from the Hebrew Bible (what many of y’all call the Old Testament), those were easy for someone who reads that book in the Original Language several times a week.

But enough Egotistical Tub-Thumping. Here are the results...

You know the Bible 92%!

 

Wow! You are awesome! You are a true Biblical scholar, not just a hearer but a personal reader! The books, the characters, the events, the verses - you know it all! You are fantastic!

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Boo-yah!

VEHICULAR NOMENCLATURE

Some people like to name their cars.

Eric, for example, has an Audi convertible he calls Sylvia. It’s a perfectly appropriate name for a beautiful little machine.

I, on the other hand, have owned many motor vehicles, upon few of which I ever saw fit to bestow a moniker. Except for The Great Red Shark, a 1976 Caddy Coupe de Ville we owned briefly back in the late 1970’s (we dumped it when the Iranian oil shock of 1979 jacked up the cost of a fill-up to $30 in 1979 money), I can’t think of any names I may have applied to our cars. Beyond “You Stinking Piece of Shit,” an all-purpose handle I would trot out in times of trouble, that is.

But every car has its own unique personality, the current Elissonmobile being no exception. And anything with a personality, be it a dog, cat, monkey, or Process Server, deserves its own name.

Do you have a name for your car?

And what would you call the Elissonmobile?

I’m thinking “Clusterfuck McQueen.”

Not that it’s a bad car. I just like the way it sounds.

[For instructions on Photoshopping your own Pixar Car, go here. Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora goes to Amid of Cartoon Brew for the link.]

JUST CURIOUS...

Have you ever stuck a Q-Tip in your ear and fished out an Earwax-Booger so horrifying that your first impulse was to flush the offending Q-Tip down the toilet rather than chuck it in the trash can?

Yeah, me neither.

A SUNDAY MORNING MISALIGNMENT

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I sat at the breakfast table, the scattered remnants of the Dutch Baby Pancake she had made cooling on our plates. I took one last pull on my coffee.

The Missus tossed her head, indicating the stairs in the back of the kitchen.

“Well, we might as well go and get this over with.”

We looked at each other.

She continued, “It’s always so much harder to do it again if you put it off.”

We looked at each other once more. This time I wore a sly grin.

“Are we thinking about the same thing?” asked The Missus.

“Aren’t we?” I said.

“You’re thinking about sex, aren’t you?” asked The Missus.

“Well, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“I was thinking about going to the gym.”

CARNIVAL OF THE RECIPES

Wonder what to eat for your daily ration?
Check out the Carnival at Right Wing Nation!

Yes, indeedy - the latest edition of the Carnival of the Recipes is up at Right Wing Nation. It’s chock-full of recipes for Comfort Food, but with the occasional Fishy Horror thrown in to make it interesting. Stop by and check it out!

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

It’s a beautiful Friday morning in Sweat City.

Yes, Sweat City. I’ve been here since Wednesday a.m., when I was greeted by a day’s worth of cold, rainy misery. But the front finally blew on through, leaving moderate temps and the deep blue sky that marks this town’s most glorious days. Not that I have had much of a chance to enjoy ’em. Sadly, my packed schedule of Bidnis-Related Activities has prevented me from doing much more than collapsing into my hotel room late at night.

It’s been a bit frustrating, that hotel room. Pleasant enough, but the hotel’s internet access has been on the fritz for the entire length of my stay. This is both good and bad news: It keeps me out of my Great Corporate Salt Mine e-mail, but it also keeps me out of Blodgyland. (Some of you may think that’s a good thing.)

This evening, I’ll get back in that Silver Aerial Bus for my ride home. After the debacle I dealt with last Sunday coming back from “Ballmer,” I am hoping for an on-time flight. Shyeah, right.

But it’s time for the Friday Random Ten, and I shall not be deterred. And I’m the guy that put the “turd” in deterred.

Here followeth this week’s Random Selection of Moozikal Miscellany from the iPod d’Elisson:

1. Kalfou Danjere - Boukman Eksperyans
   
2. Honeysuckle Rose - Django Reinhardt
   
3. Hunting Bears - Radiohead
   
4. Something/Blue Jay Way - The Beatles
   
5. It’s Hard To Be A Saint In The City - Bruce Springsteen
   
   I had skin like leather and the diamond-hard look of a cobra
   I was born blue and weathered but I burst just like a supernova
   I could walk like Brando right into the sun
   Dance just like a Casanova
   With my blackjack and jacket and hair slicked sweet
   Silver star studs on my duds like a Harley in heat
   When I strut down the street I could feel its heartbeat
   The sisters fell back said, “Don’t that man look pretty.”
   The cripple on the corner cried out “Nickels for your pity.”
   Them gasoline boys downtown sure talk gritty
   It’s so hard to be a saint in the city
   
   I was the king of the alley, mama, I could talk some trash
   I was the prince of the paupers crowned downtown at the beggar’s bash
   I was the pimp’s main prophet I kept everything cool
   Just a backstreet gambler with the luck to lose
   And when the heat came down and it was left on the ground
   The devil appeared like Jesus through the steam in the street
   Showin’ me a hand I knew even the cops couldn’t beat
   I felt his hot breath on my neck as I dove into the heat
   It’s so hard to be a saint when you’re just a boy out on the street
   
   And the sages of the subway sit just like the living dead
   As the tracks clack out the rhythm, their eyes fixed straight ahead
   They ride the line of balance and hold on by just a thread
   But it’s too hot in these tunnels you can get hit up by the heat
   You get up to get out at your next stop but they push you back down in your seat
   Your heart starts beatin’ faster as you struggle to your feet
   Then you’re outa that hole back up on the street
   
   And them South Side sisters sure look pretty
   The cripple on the corner cries out, “Nickels for your pity.”
   Them downtown boys they sure talk gritty
   It’s so hard to be a saint in the city
   
   
6. Take Time - The Books
   
7. Busted Bicycle - Leo Kottke
   
8. Zol Nokh Zayn Shabes - The Klezmer Conservatory Band
   
9. Nature’s Way - Spirit
   
10. Cigarette - The Clarks
    

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

The Friday Ark has set its sail
The beasties all stand by the rail
They beckon towards the Internet
As if to say, “Ain’t you visited yet?”

Yes, Friday Ark #123 is up at (surprise!) Modulator.

In fact, I am a wee bit surprised. My post concerning Ligers was relegated to the “Other Vertebrates” category rather than included in “Cats.” I mean, last I checked, the Liger was a cat, am I right? Or should the latter category be retitled “Felis Domesticus” and its entries restricted to housecats?

This Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats swings by Mind of Mog for its 149th outing. Be sure to stop by and say hello to alla them kitties. Including my Liger friend.

Update:
Carnival of the Cats #149 is up.

FISH HEADS, FISH HEADS

Fish heads, fish heads
Roly poly fish heads
Fish heads, fish heads
Eat them up, yum!

[Subtitle snatched from El Capitan, who in turn snarfed it up from Barnes & Barnes.]

In these Electronic Pages, I have written numerous times about the bizarre things in the Elisson diet. Snake soup, Shanghai hairy crab, poutine, jellyfish - all these have, at one time or another, been Fair Game for my relentless and bizarre appetite.

Even sardine and Laughing Cow tacos, as I related in a recent post.

Peanut butter pizza? Yes indeedy. Sounds horrendous, no? But spreading a thin layer of peanut butter on a pizza crust before adding the tomato sauce, cheese, and toppings actually enhances the flavor of the ’za, adding a subtle depth. It also has a few other side benefits: (1) horrifying all of your friends, and (2) keeping any people with peanut allergies away from your pizza. Try it!

But we started this thing with Fish Heads, and by Gawd, that’s what I wanted to write about.

The very idea of eating fish heads fills most people with fear and loathing. Back in my Snot-Nose Days, I would watch my grandmother make gefilte fish from scratch, grinding the fish in a meat grinder, adding the matzoh meal and other ingredients, and then carefully stuffing the mixture back into the eviscerated fish before poaching it. (The term gefilte - stuffed - betrays the origins of the dish.) None of that store-bought crap for her.

I would stand, slackjawed and horrorstruck, observing the whole repulsive process. Feeesh! With their heads! Yaaggh! Never mind that it actually tasted good. Kids never care whether something might taste good - not if it looks evil enough.

But let’s face it. Eating the head of another creature is not for the squeamish. The eyes! The braaains! Mr. Debonair, my friends, is no zombie. He does not eat brains.

And yet...

At a banquet in Thailand, I was once served a ferociously hot chicken curry. In Asia, people tend to eat anything that’s not nailed down, so nothing goes to waste. As the guest of honor, I was served the chicken’s head...and I was expected to eat it. To demur would have been insulting, as well as denying the locals a good laugh at my expense, so I chowed down. Mmmm, chicken head.

When we lived in Houston and the girls - all three of ’em - were only beginning to get acclimated to the idea of eating sushi, I used to horrify them by ordering ama-ebi, AKA “sweet shrimp.” Unlike “regular” shrimp sushi, which was lightly cooked and headless, ama-ebi was served in two courses: first, the beheaded shrimp, raw, on the basic Sushi Rice Pad; and second, the deep-fried heads, served in their own little dish. Let me tell you that everything tastes better fried, even if it has little beady eyes and monster antennae. The Mistress of Sarcasm and Elder Daughter would scream blue murder when the waitress would deliver my Shrimp Heads unto me.

And then there are Fish Heads. Fish head curry, as it happens, is a speciality of Singapore. On my last visit there, we stopped at a restaurant hard by the causeway to Johore, Malaysia, where I enjoyed a steaming, fragrant bowl of the local fish head curry. Almost a soup, it was redolent of the exotic spices of the East, with ingredients too numerous and mysterious to name - and with just a little bit of rice to add substance. And fish heads. Lotsa fish heads.

But it was Damn Tasty. The cheek meat (a Doctor Lecter favorite) was especially tender. I didn’t even mind that my luncheon was staring back at me as I ate it. It put me in mind of C. S. Calverley’s poem “To a Baked Fish”:

Preserve a respectful demeanor
When you are brought into the room.
Don’t stare at the guests as they’re eating
No matter how much they consume.

Fish heads! Fish heads! Eat them up, yum!

I LIKE BIG CATS AND I CANNOT LIE

If you want to see a honkin’ big Kitty-Cat, check this out...



Holy Crap. A Liger! The humongousized hybrid offspring of a male lion and a female tiger: Now, that is One Big Pussy.

No doubt, you are as horror-struck as I. Looka the size of that thing! What do it eat? Probably anything it pleases. Elephants, Steve Irwin, sperm whales, the Elusive Giant Squid...

Thank Gawd these things do not live in the wild.

Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to KeesKennis for the link. Scary, innit?

THE LAW OF THE SEA

“...while our nation building capacity is pretty much maxed out right now, our nation taking apart capacity is largely sitting idle.”

The words of wisdom above are from Neptunus Lex, a site that was recommended to me by the estimable Eric.

“Lex” is a naval officer and aviator; a former TOPGUN instructor; and a Virginia gentleman to boot. And that is just scratching the surface of his most impressive curriculum vitae. He writes primarily about matters military and political, with an exceptional degree of clarity and intelligence.

Good stuff. Go check him out and tell him Elisson sent ya.

THE BENCH OF JUSTICE IS A ONE-HOLER:A 100-WORD OFFENSE

In the Land of Looxembourg, Fecal Matters were adjudicated by the Duke of Dookie.

He did not come to sit on his throne by noble birthright alone. He had studied Excremental Existentialism at Poopoo University - where the official Pootball Team Cheer was “Squeeze another touchdown out for Old Poo U!” - receiving his Dooktorate in Defecation for proving that shit, in fact, exists. De Facto Defecatio.

Now he was faced with a difficult case. A Stool Pigeon had caught the Vice-Chancellor adulterating his turds with Undigested Corn, a felony.

The Duke did his duty. “I sentence you to die...arrhea!”

[My entry for Weekly Challenge #41 at the 100 Word Stories Podcast, for which the topic is Fecal Matter. Right up my alley, some might say...and a most appropriate (hah!) selection for my 2000th published post.]

GETTING BAKED

A Back in the Day Baby Cake.

Cast your envious eyes upon this product of the Back in the Day Bakery, a pleasant little shop within a short walk of the Mistress of Sarcasm’s digs.

This little fella is a Baby Cake. Only four inches in diameter, it may be thought of as either an extra-large fancy cupcake or as a Dinky-Ass Layer Cake. Either way, it is delicious.

Somehow, this one - a gift for our friend JoAnn - survived the potential depredations of Mickey (the Mistress’s boyfriend) while it awaited transport to Atlanta; and of a late-arriving, famished Elisson once it was relocated to our refrigerator.

Cheryl, flanked by the Food Network’s Bobbie and Jamie Deen.

Back in the Day is an unassuming little place that bills itself as “Savannah’s only Artisan Bakery.” In addition to the little gems pictured above, they crank out cupcakes, artisanal breads, and the best honkin’ brownies on the eastern seaboard. They make a curried chicken salad sammitch that will knock your socks off, thanks in part to a liberal dose of ginger. Best I’ve ever had. Oh, yeah - and handmade marshmallows. Big, pillowy, square-cut suckers that sit atop a mug of hot cocoa like the Rock of Gibraltar.

Cheryl and Griff, the owners, were recently featured on a segment of “Road Tasted” on the Food Network. And Cheryl has a blog, too. Check it out - there’s a link on the sidebar as well - and let her know I sent ya!

A SUBTLE TRIBUTE...

[©2007 Tribune Media Services, Inc.]

...is embedded in this Brewster Rockit strip from last Saturday. (Click on the image to embiggen.)

Are you nerdly enough to find it?