Friday, May 29, 2009

ACTING KOI

Koi Pond
Koi pond at Penang Restaurant, Kennesaw.

Anyone who thinks of a koi pond as something Zen Buddhist-like - something ineffably relaxing, a source of quiet contemplation - hasn’t walked past a koi pond filled with hungry fish who think it’s Feeding Time.

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN -
REUNIONS EDITION

Tiger Toes
Ready to reune. SWMBO shows off her Tiger Toes, complete with Class of ’74 logo.

It’s Friday, time once again for the Friday Random Ten, that insufferable feature in which I put up a list of Miscellaneous Melodies, horked out at random by the iPod d’Elisson.

This weekend, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I are on our way to Princeton, New Jersey, there to attend my thirty-fifth class reunion. It promises to be a Grand Old Time. There, the music will be coming from live bands, not little white boxes... and there will be hordes of people in varying states of bibulosity, gyrating to the best of their ethanol-fueled abilities. Joy!

But all that comes later. Right now we want to see what’s on that little white box. Here ’tis:
  1. Act I, Scene 2: “You Know We’ll Meet With Your Confrère” - John Adams, Nixon in China

  2. Grace - Mooonraker

  3. The Cold Part - Modest Mouse

  4. Father and Son - Cat Stevens

  5. Boodle Am Shake - Dixieland Jug Blowers

    This song, recorded in 1926, was written by Jack Palmer and Spencer Williams.

    The 1926 version could frequently be heard on Jean Shepherd’s radio show... and years later, it was covered by Jerry Garcia, playing with Mother McCree’s Uptown Jug Champions.

    Boodle am, boodle am, boodle am, boodle am, boo
    Toodle am, toodle am, toodle am, toodle am, too
    Ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling, now
    Ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling, wow

    I know this song don’t mean a thing
    You just do that plain old Charleston swing
    When you sing
    Toodle am, toodle am, toodle am, toodle am, too
    Boodle am, boodle am, boodle am, boodle am, boo


  6. Marie’s Wedding - Van Morrison & the Chieftains

  7. Moggio - A Tribute Band for FZ

  8. Rum and Coke - Professor Longhair

  9. Act III: “I Have No Offspring” - John Adams, Nixon in China

  10. P.S. I Love You - The Beatles

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

Thursday, May 28, 2009

YET ANOTHER TRIP...

...around the sun for Eli, hizzownself - my beloved Daddy - who turned eighty-four today.

Eli the Raconteur 1
I taut I taw a Tautology: Eli, father of Elisson.

Ya gotta admire a guy who celebrates his 84th birthday by going out and playing four rounds of racquetball... soundly walloping the Dreaded Opposition in the process. Yes, he’s in great shape both physically and mentally (keyn ayin hora). If he chose to, he could thrash me or most anyone my age on the four-walled court, through a deadly combination of physical stamina and Extreme Wilyness. Knows all the angles, he does.

She Who Must Be Obeyed and I will, Gawd willing, get a chance to celebrate with the Old Man in person: He and Toni are the next stop on our Thirty-Fifth Reunion Tour.

Onward... to One Hundred Twenty!

TODAY’S VISUAL PUN

Cones

Kohanim!

TIPTOE THROUGH THE TULIPS...

...but when you do so, be sure to wear your knee-high leather boots, in the event you should come upon one of these guys:

Copperhead

John - Donnie Joe’s brother - lives just a few miles north of us. He heard something rustling in the bushes and went out to investigate, and this is what he found. There followed a telephone call to Donnie Joe, paraphrased below...

“Hey, Donnie Joe - I found a snake in our yard!”

“Was it black?”

“No, it was brown, with a kind of pattern...”

“Holy crap - that’s a copperhead! It’s venomous - stay the fuck away from it!”

[Note: I have taken a few liberties here. Donnie Joe would never say “holy crap” or “fuck” in a telephone conversation with his brother. But if I had been on the phone... well, you get the idea.]

John is not the kind of person who willingly allows Dangerous Reptiles to make camp on his property. The landscape guys were working on his yard, conveniently enough, so he had one of them dispatch it with the edge of a shovel. The PETA folks may gripe, but tough toenails. You do NOT want the neighborhood kids stumbling upon one of these.

And besides, the meat’s tasty. Like chicken. Chicken that’s been crawling around on its belly all its life.

FUZZBALLS ‘R’ US

Thunder and Lightning

Cute for cuteness’s sake doesn’t usually fly here at Blog d’Elisson - after all, this is a place where I write about bowel movements and Taint Warheads, fer cryin’ out loud - but this was irresistible.

You’re looking at Thunder and Lightning, two dramatically-named kitties that were rescued from a dumpster by our friends David and Laurie. The Coke can is included to show scale.

David and Laurie’s dog Patches - a 75-pound Bandana-Wearin’ Dawg - has taken over the Mr. Mommy role. I’m trying to picture it...

Update: Friday Ark #245 is afloat over at the Modulator, with our Collection o’ Kitties in pole position.

If that’s not enough to satisfy your Kitty Jones, head on over to Three Tabby Cats in Vienna sometime after Sunday evening, where Kashim, Othello, and Salome will be hosting Carnival of the Cats #272.

Update 2: CotC #272 is up.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

BOIL: A 100-WORD STORY

Stu Frogmore had lived in Charleston all his life, as befit someone whose family roots stretched back to the days when the Battery was first built.

He loved everything about his home town. While others might gripe about heat, humidity, and the occasional hurricane, Stu just smiled. When Northern transplants complained about the leisurely pace of life, he simply felt sorry for them.

And he loved the food.

Only thing he hated was the massive carbuncles that would grow ’twixt his scrotum and anus, owing to the sweltering heat. There were few things more painful than a Low Country Boil.

UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS

Stair-Top Hakuna
Upstairs: Hakuna guards the top of the staircase against Unwanted Intruders.

Chair Neighbor
Downstairs: Neighbor protects a comfy armchair against Unwanted Intruders.

No, it ain’t Masterpiece Theatre. Just our kitties, and their shaky Modus Vivendi. When one is upstairs, the other generally is downstairs... and vice versa. For when they find themselves in the same general area, complications ensue.

Servants and aristocrats would likely get along better than these two. Alas.

GOING BACK

Princeton Wedgewood
1930 Wedgewood dinner plate featuring Princeton University’s Blair Hall - my home for two years. One of a series of twelve plates featuring Princeton campus landmarks.

Let’s go back to Princeton
At commencement time,
Sample each reunion:
That’s the life for mine!
Ramble round the campus,
Full of jollity,
Our location for celebration
Is New Jersee.

Going back, going back,
Going back to Nassau Hall.
Going back, going back,
To the best old place of all.
Going back, going back,
From all this earthly ball.
We’ll clear the track as we go back,
Going back to Nassau Hall.

(from Going Back to Nassau Hall - Kenneth S. Clark 1905)

Yes, beginning tomorrow, thousands of alumni will gather in Princeton, New Jersey for yet another massive bout of nostalgia, camaraderie, and drinkage. Reunions!

Reunions are held every year, but it’s been our tradition to attend every five years... and thus, we will get on the Great Silver Aerial Bus Friday morning and make the journey to that “one and only University, situated and celebrated In New Jersee” for my thirty-fifth Class Reunion.

Yes, Esteemed Readers - it has been that long. Gaaaahhh!

It’ll be different this year, because for the very first time ever, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I will be unaccompanied by Offspring. Elder Daughter attended her first Reunion in 1979 at the tender age of three weeks. From 1984 on, both girls accompanied us... until 2004, when Elder Daughter was unable to attend due to the demands of her job (!) It’s the inevitable result of the Passage of Time.

Highlights will include the one and only P-Rade, in which alumni and their families representing every class (up to and including this year’s graduates) march through the campus, each class attired in its distinctive uniform, and a fireworks show that is an out-and out extravaganza. But for me, the best part is seeing old friends... and getting better acquainted with classmates that I didn’t get to know as well as I’d have liked to Back In The Day.

Hey, I might even run into a blogger or two...

Monday, May 25, 2009

THE MEMORIAL DAY FEEDBAG

Mediterranean Orzo Salad
Laura Belle’s Mediterranean Orzo Salad.

Memorial Day.

A day to honor our Men-at-Arms, fallen in the service of our country.

A day to tie on the ol’ Feed-Bag - because that is how Americans observe moments of great solemnity as well as those of great joy. We eat everything that is not nailed down.

Memorial Day is the unofficial start of summer, never mind that the actual solstice is still several weeks away. It is also the unofficial start of Grilling Season. Unofficial, sure: here in the Atlanta area, I grill year-round, despite the fact that winter temperatures here can flirt with the freezing mark, sometimes even letting it Go All The Way. And when the weather is a balmy 75°F and the sun is (mostly) shining, it’s hard to resist the lure of the Backyard Hot-Box.

Not everything we had was grilled, but most of it was. Here da menu:
  • Chilled gazpacho

  • Laura Belle’s Mediterranean orzo salad (recipe here) - as pictured above.

  • Grilled asparagus and Japanese eggplant

  • Roasted corn on the cob with roasted garlic butter

  • Grilled rib-eye steaks

  • Cedar-planked salmon with blueberry chutney

And what did we drink? The ladies had their Margaritas, and the gentlemen - a couple of the hardier ones, anyway - had Punt-e-gronis. This last is a variation on the infamous Negroni, one that utilizes Hendrick’s gin, Carpano Punt e Mes vermouth, and Campari. You can find the recipe here, in an article that describes the drink as being
“...so gorgeously bitter that it almost stings the tongue. Drinking it is like being slapped by an ex-lover. It is such a deep ruby red that vampires would be drawn to it.”
All of that, and it packs a wallop, too.

Punt-e-groni
The Punt-e-groni, pictured with its three components. The blood orange garnish is a perfect match for the drink’s hue.

The Punt-e-groni, as well as its cousin, the Negroni, are both tipples appropriate to the day, for they combine the bitter with the sweet. Bitter, the loss of those who gave everything for their country; sweet, the freedoms they fought to preserve.

All in all, a pleasant evening indeed. More Foody-Pics below the fold.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Nina for the link to this fine article on the Negroni.]

Cedar-Planked Salmon
Cedar-Planked Salmon with Potlatch Seasoning.

Grilled Asparagus
Grilled Asparagus with olive oil and piment d’espelette.

Grilled Rib-Eye Steaks
Grilled rib-eye steaks. Mmmmmm, meat. Meaty meat.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

POLLYNOSE

A few weeks ago, a small mob of us converged on Greenwood’s on Green Street in Roswell for a Thursday evening dinner. It’s a down-home place, noted for being the home of the infamous Greenwood’s Holy Shit Chocolate by Gawd Cream Pie. Normally, dinner at Greenwood’s would involve a considerable wait, but with the economy being what it is, we had no trouble getting a table for our party of twelve.

It was after dinner, as we waddled with leaden bellies back to our car, that I noticed a powerful flowery scent, a scent that enveloped us like a cloud. Honeysuckle! There were honeysuckle bushes surrounding the parking area, and their distinctive aroma transported me back to my childhood. For back then, we had honeysuckle aplenty growing around our house, as well as adjacent to our neighbor’s garage.

One of the Childhood Rituals I remember was plucking honeysuckle flowers, pinching off the bases of the flowers, and drawing the styles out through the bottoms of the little yellow and white blossoms. The styles would pick up a few precious drops of sweet nectar, nectar imbued with that indefinable honey-like scent, and these we would touch to our tongues in order to taste that evanescent sweetness. The taste of honeysuckle is a sense-memory that I can still recall with perfect clarity - even after fifty years.

I was reminded of another Childhood Ritual just the other day as I was pruning our Japanese red maples. Maples have distinctive seedpods - samaras, they’re called - with a papery wing that extends out from the seed, causing the seed to whirl like a helicopter as it falls.

Pollynose
Seed pods of the Japanese red maple.

Back in the day, every kid knew what to do with these mapleseeds. You would crack them in half (like the one in the lower left of the picture above), split the thick end of the pod open, and affix the pod to your nose. The pod’s end, when split, exuded a sticky substance that acted as a natural adhesive... as if the pods had been designed with exactly that purpose in mind.

I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a single child anywhere in the northeastern U.S. who hadn’t worn a Pollynose at one time or another. It was a Childhood Ritual, something that had been passed down through untold generations.

She Who Must Be Obeyed was unfamiliar with this part of growing up, perhaps because she was raised in Texas. Mesquite trees just don’t have the right kind of seeds, I expect.

Do you remember pollynoses, and tasting sweet honeysuckle nectar? I do. And I wonder what today’s kids will remember fifty years down the road...

A NOT-SO-GUILTY PLEASURE

Swiss Chocolates
A happy assortment of Lindt chocolates.

Guilty pleasures are those which we enjoy apologetically... as if to say, “I shouldn’t really be enjoying this, but I do.” Watching American Idol, daytime soap operas, public executions; gaping at highway fatalities; and smelling one’s own farts fall into the Guilty Pleasure category - for some people, at least.

And then there’s Chocolate.

If I feel any guilt whatsoever as regards my enjoyment of chocolate, it’s purely a function of the unnecessary calories involved. But I make no apologies. I love chocolate.

As a young Snot-Nose, I was a devotee of the Hershey bar - who wasn’t? - as well as of the fine products of Nestlé. When we would visit the Grand-’Rents, they would sometimes trot out boxes of Barton or Barricini filled chocolates - the kosher-for-Passover alternative to the Whitman sampler. And I liked Russell Stover as much as I liked Smokey Stover.

Over time, my chocolatey experiences broadened. The fine chocolates of Europe beckoned: Godiva (the real stuff from Belgium), Corné Toison d’Or, Neuhaus, and Leonidas. I fell in love with Brussels, a city with chocolate shops on (seemingly) every corner. And twenty years ago, during my first trip to Switzerland, I discovered that the Swiss reputation for being among the world’s foremost chocolatiers was completely justified. (I’m convinced that they export their seconds and keep the really good stuff at home.)

These days, I’m partial to Lindt. That’s both fortunate and unfortunate, because I can get a Lindt fix simply by driving a few miles to the local Mighty Meaty Mega Mall. But I’m not overly picky. Hell, I’ll even condescend to eat a Hershey bar, despite its slightly off-putting sour milk pong. After all, that’s one of the flavors I grew up with.

About the only chocolate I cannot bring myself to eat is this:

Chocobama
Chocobama!

I’m not sure if was a mark of genius or of Monumental Bad Taste to come up with a hunk of chocolate molded into the likeness of the first American president for whom chocolate is the perfect sculptural medium... but when I first saw these in the Baltimore airport a few months ago, I almost hurt myself laughing.

Get ’em here, if you are so inclined. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking pissing off Republicans!

Saturday, May 23, 2009

WHEN THE TRICHY GETS STICHY...

...why, then, it is time to wash it.

I refer to the hair, that protective layer of keratin filaments that sits atop our heads. Except for that rare soul among us who has Great Farookin’ Hair - you know who you are - the amount of said protective layer has been diminishing for many of us who have attained a Certain Age. Nevertheless, even in diminished amount, it still requires a certain level of maintenance.

Unlike Scottish journalist Andrew Marr, a noted champion of the practice of leaving the hair unwashed, most of use like to wash our hair at least several times a week - or even daily. It’s not a complicated process. All you have to do is apply an appropriate surfactant (“shampoo”) which helps emulsify and remove the oily residuum that is naturally secreted by the scalp, along with any filth that said residuum may have attracted.

Most men are not too picky about the shampoo we use - unlike the ladies, who prefer to spend amounts on their hair care products that equate to the combined GDP of several African nations. Hell, I’ll even use those little bottles I find in hotels... when I’m not packratting them, that is.

The first shampoo I remember using, back in my Snot-Nose Days, was Prell. As far as I know, Prell is still around, though I haven’t seen it in years. I still remember its distinctive aroma, its bright green color. It used to come in a clear plastic squeeze tube, the better to show off the transparent emerald goop within.

I have no idea what was in Prell, but what I do remember was its ability to remove every trace of grease or oil from the hair - including the natural oils you wanted to retain. Washing your hair with Prell was like washing your hair with Naval Jelly. It was the perfect shampoo to use if you had just spent a month living out of doors, rooting through dumpsters in the back of meat processing plants for meals, without having taken Shower One. One squirt, a little warm water, and you’d be ready for dinner at the White House.

Needless to say, I do not use Prell anymore. A month of that stuff and your average Han Chinese would look like Carrot-Top on a bad hair day.

These days I’m partial to Neutrogena T-Gel Extra Strength, with the bracing aroma of genuine Coal Tar. I alternate that with Paul Mitchell Tea Tree Oil shampoo, which gives the scalp a lingering tingly sensation akin to sticking your head in a vat of liquid nitrogen.

What do you use? Ivory soap? Talcum powder? Or that Clairol Herbal Essence that gives the ladies orgasms from ten feet away?

Friday, May 22, 2009

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN - MEMORIAL WEEKEND EDITION

American Flag

It’s Friday! And not just any Friday... it’s the Friday preceding Memorial Day, which means it is the opening shot of a three-day weekend. Oh, boy!

Friday, of course, is the day for my Friday Random Ten, that infamous exercise in self-indulgence in which I put up a list of Choons coughed up randomly by my Little White Choon-Box. It’s a perfect way to get ready for a weekend that will see plenty of outdoor grilling, Hendrick’s gin-and-tonics, and general Good Times. The mood will turn more solemn on Monday as we remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice in the service of their country... thus helping to ensure that we are free to enjoy those grilled foods, gin-and-tonics, and Good Times.

Having said all that, shall we see what’s playing? Let’s do:
  1. Falling Elevators - MC 900 Foot Jesus

  2. The History - Philip Glass, Notes on a Scandal

  3. Mound - Phish

    The old man knows very well
    Going down ’round the snowbank, there’s a mound
    A mound that an old man knows good
    Look who raises his shoe all over this mound
    Right over the world in another rewind

    And it’s time, time, time for the last rewind
    For a broken old man and a world unkind
    He buried all his memories of home
    In an icy clump that lies beneath the ground

    No one knows how far he traveled
    Oh! I heard he walked miles from the little mound
    Can he find some shelter?
    He doesn’t know to behold what the cold frost can do
    At the last till he realized he’d circled back around
    Round a back circle, round a back realized

    And it’s time, time, time for the last rewind
    For a broken old man and a world unkind
    He buried all his memories of home
    In an icy clump that lies beneath the ground

    Ice is all he was made of
    The bitter blue, it’s frozen through
    He went over to the mound
    Reclining down his final thoughts
    Were drifting to the time his life had shined

    And it’s time, time, time for the last rewind
    For a broken old man and a world unkind
    He buried all his memories of home
    In an icy clump that lies beneath the ground

    And it’s time, time, time for the last rewind
    For a broken old man and a world unkind
    He buried all his memories of home
    In an icy clump that lies beneath the ground


  4. Rain Dogs - Tom Waits

  5. Low Side of the Road - Tom Waits

    Two Tom Waits cuts in a row. What is this - Eric’s iPod?

  6. Memories of Professor Longhair - Dr. John

    It was six years ago this weekend that the Missus and I were in N’Awlins at the legendary Tipitina’s, musical shrine to the late, great Professor.

  7. 111 Arthur Avenue - Mark Mothersbaugh

    From the soundtrack of The Royal Tenenbaums. Mothersbaugh also was one of the twisted geniuses behind the New wave band Devo.

  8. Oh Atlanta (Live) - Little Feat

  9. Ticket To Ride - The Beatles

  10. Cherub Rock - Smashing Pumpkins

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

SUSPICIOUS GLARE

Suspicious Glare

Hakuna gives me a suspicious glare
As if to say:
“What are you doing with that camera there?
Please go away!
I’m shedding upon this bedspread here,
In solitude.
No ‘Hello Kitty’ phony cheer
To spoil my mood.
Still there? Is your head full of rocks?
I have no doubt.
Now take your God-damned Flashy-Thing
And get thee out!”

Update: Friday Ark #244 is afloat - check it out over at the Modulator.

Not enough kitties for you? Visit Artsy Catsy Sunday evening for Carnival of the Cats #271. Kitties to the max!

Update 2: CotC #271 is up... at - surprise! - House of the (Mostly) Black Cats!

R.I.P. MICKEY MOUSE:
A 100-WORD OBITUARY

Dead Mouse

Well, not Mickey Mouse precisely... but Wayne Allwine, who voiced Mickey beginning in 1983, inheriting the Mickey Mantle (as it were) from Jimmy MacDonald, who had himself inherited it from Walt Disney.

Allwine passed away May 18 from complications of diabetes - and from repeatedly having his nutsack squeezed in a vise in order to propel his voice into those upper octaves.

Requiescat in pace, good Mr. Allwine. You leave an enviable legacy: Your squeaky voice will live on for centuries after you, embedded in late 20th-century American culture like unto a fly in amber. It is no small honor.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Cartoon Brew for the background.]

PURE GOLD

A few years ago, the Georgia fireworks regulations were loosened up a tad, permitting the sale of certain types of fireworks here in the greater Atlanta metropolitan area. From the Code:
Specifically Permitted: Sparklers up to 100 grams each; fountains (items that say “Emits Showers of Sparks” up to 200 grams total for multiple tube items or 75 grams for each individual tube; snakes, glow worms, snappers, party poppers.

Specifically Prohibited: Firecrackers, torpedoes, sky rockets, roman candles, bombs, and sparklers [presumably, those over 100 grams].

In a nutshell, it means that we can buy bullshit kiddie fireworks. Meh.

Anyone wanting more bang than that simply drives the ninety or so miles to Tennessee, where pretty much anything short of a 25 kiloton tactical nuclear warhead is legal. Assuming you don’t get stopped and searched after you re-enter Georgia, you can then set off Blowy-Up Shit to your heart’s content - or at least until the neighbors get sick of their dog throwing up from all of the bang-induced angst and decide to call the shamuses.

Fireworks regulations seem to be a lot like drunk driving laws. Enforcement is spotty, and there’s a societal tendency to Look the Other Way. In the case of fireworks, the potential damage to life, limb, and property, while significant, is way less than that of DUI... plus, fireworks are fun. (Except for the toad that Tommy, the sociopath who lives on the next street, demolished by shoving an M-80 up its ass.)

But I’m here to tell you, there really needs to be more regulation of fireworks. I’m not so much concerned that little Jimmy will blow two fingers off his right hand and be legally blind in one eye - think of it as the cost of doing business, there, Jimmy - but there are other, graver issues afoot.

Looka dis:

Golden Shower

Good Gawd - the perverts have gotten into the business!

I know what you’re thinking. “Elisson, ya feckin’ eedjit - they don’t mean that kind of Golden Shower!”

Oh, yes they do. Because I also saw - and could not bring myself to photograph - the case underneath the one in the picture. It was a case full of...

...Cleveland Steamers!

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

WHAT WOMEN WANT

She Who Must Be Obeyed made the observation, while watching his performance during the “American Idol” finale, that Lionel Ritchie was not an especially handsome man.

“No matter,” I responded. “He has what women want. A big, thick...”

“ELISSON!”

“...wallet.”

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

A CHILD’S NIGHTMARE

Roasted Broccoliflower
Roasted broccoliflower, Brussels sprouts, and garlic: your average kid’s bad dream.

To your average kid, this dish of roasted broccoliflower, Brussels sprouts, and garlic is the stuff bad dreams are made of.

But for me, it’s just Jim Dandy.

Broccoliflower is one of them new-fangled vegetabobbles. It’s a head of cauliflower with a light greenish tinge... the result, perhaps, of Mr. Broccoli and Ms. Cauliflower getting busy. Or whatever it is vegetables do.

Once you wash and hack up the veg into manageable pieces, a little olive oil, some kosher salt, a sprinkle of oregano, and a dash of piment d’espelette (Basque red pepper) is all you need. Plus about 45 minutes in a 350°F oven. (I used a convection oven, so I turned the heat down to 325°.) As for the garlic, I simply sliced the top off an unpeeled whole head, set it in the roasting pan, and drizzled it with olive oil. After the vegetables are done, you simply squeeze that roasted head to get the soft, mellow roasted garlic cloves out. (A zit analogy is accurate but unappetizing, so I’ll not use it. Oops.)

Yummy. If you’re a grown-up.

MANGO MADNESS

My recent post about Supermarket Signage elicited a comment from the ever-charming GuyK: Good price for Mangos...did ya get some?

Of course I got some. At two for a measly buck, how could I resist? That’s a very reasonable tariff in this neck of the woods.

I enjoy mango, a fruit with a sweet, yet strangely tangy flavor. Served with sticky coconut rice, fresh mango is a popular Thai dessert, one of the finest of any Asian cuisine. Compounded into Major Grey’s chutney, mango provides a sweet-sour note to Indian (and other) dishes; as the key ingredient of Indian mango pickle, it offsets the white-hot fire of that condiment’s chilli peppers.

The mango finds its way into drinks as well. Mango lassi, a yogurt-based beverage, is a fine hot-weather cooler; if you prefer something more spirituous, there’s always the Mango-Tini:


The Mango-Tini: Cran-apple juice, squeeze of lemon, and a hearty dose of Finlandia Mango Vodka, shaken and strained into a Martini glass. Garnish with lemon slice.

You can buy canned mango pulp (kesar) in any store that sells Indian specialty foods. Take some vanilla ice cream and dump some kesar over it... mmmmmmm, good! And if you have kesar on hand, making that mango lassi is a snap.

But you don’t need fancy preparations to enjoy a mango. Just slice the flesh away from that big-ass fibrous seed - careful, it’s slippery - and eat. Preferably over the sink, with a towel handy.

It’s the Mistress of Sarcasm’s favorite fruit, another reason why two-for-a-buck mangoes were irresistible. Try one today!