Maybe I'm the flake

Every recipe for fish I've ever seen always wants me to cook it until the fish flakes easily.  I had always assumed that all fish flakes easily, because every fish I've ever eaten did.  Every fish I ever cooked certainly did.  At least until tonight.  I now know what a fish fillet looks and feels and tastes like when it isn't done enough to flake easily. 

These were thin-ish Tilapia fillets, baked in a bath of seasoned butter in the oven at 350° for 15 minutes, which is what the recipe called for.  But it was rubbery and couldn't be cut with a fork.  It didn't flake at all.  Three minutes in the nuker took care of that.  Then it flaked just fine.

And while I'm on the subject of food and flaking, I found a web site with recipes they claimed were from the early 1900's.  One woman bragged that her recipe for something called "Potato Puffs" was her great-grandmother's and was from 1910.  One of the ingredients was instant mashed potato flakes.  My research says potato flakes -- of the sort instant mash potatoes are made from -- were invented in 1962.

So is she stupid, or does she think I am? 

Bring on the over-processed American junk food. Please.

I love reading old recipes, and a little Googling led me to a cookbook from 1764, called English Housewifry Exemplified by one Elizabeth Moxon. There are over 450 recipes, which she calls “receipts,” for all manner of food and drink.

There are lots of homey little touches, as in the recipe for French Bread: “To half a peck of flour, put a full jill of new yeast, and a little salt, make it with new milk (warmer than from the cow)...”

By the way, a jill (also gill) is half a cup.

I think I may actually try this sometime:

157. To make RICE PANCAKES.
Take half a pound of rice, wash and pick it clean, cree it in fair
water till it be a jelly, when it is cold take a pint of cream and the
yolks of four eggs, beat them very well together, and put them into the
rice, with grated nutmeg and some salt, then put in half a pound of
butter, and as much flour as will make it thick enough to fry, with as
little butter as you can.

As soon as I figure out what creeing is.

And, of course, the other thing to marvel at is the absolute crap people used to eat 250 years ago. This book gives us such things as Fried Calf’s Feet in Eggs, Fricassy of Tripe, and Liver Pudding.

Also found here are answers to questions nobody will ever ask, such as how to collar a calf’s head to eat hot (or cold, your choice), how to “do chicken’s, or any fowl’s, feet,” how to pickle nasturtium buds, and how to dress ox lips.

Gag.

Say Cheese!

An article in this morning’s New York Times reviewed a new study on smiles, with emphasis on telling the difference between a real smile (when someone is happy, friendly, loving) and a fake smile (when someone is trying to sell you something).

That got me thinking about Julia Roberts smiling in the movie “Pretty Woman.” Now I like Julia Roberts movies well enough, although I’m not sure she’s really all that good an actor. Her smiling ability is the telling factor.

In the scene where she is apprehensive about being at the polo match, Edward tells Vivian to smile, and she does. And when she does, it is not a fake smile. It is not one of those smiles that doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s a real, happy, having-a-good-time smile, a beautiful smile that lights up her face. I’ve seen that movie 90 times (because somebody in my household loves it a lot), and I notice that happy, genuine smile every time.

You might think it takes a good actor to produce a genuine smile. But actually, in those circumstances, I think Vivian would have smiled a fake smile. If Julia were really good, that smile would not have reached her eyes.

Blah blah blog

OK, we are abandoning the poll.  It added nothing to this here blog thing.

And the most recent one was kind of scary.  If there actually are people out there who really would like Sarah Palin to be President of the United States, I don't want to know about it.  Just thinking about it gives me the willies.

There's an interesting expression.  According to dictionary.com, it's been around since about 1895, origin obscure.  Well, yes, I should think so.  No self-respecting person named Willie is going to admit that it referred to him, is he?

"Hi, my name is Willie.  I'm the village idiot and I creep people out."

Well, on second thought ...

Thanks for the warning

In downtown Lansing, Michigan, there is a building whose unusual facade makes it more prone than most buildings to collect winter precipitation which will, at random moments, become dislodged and fall to earth.

The safety-conscious occupants of the building, concerned for the well-being of passersby, have, therefore, placed orange cones along the sidewalk in front of the building which are topped by small signs that read:

      WATCH FOR SNOW AND ICE
        FALLING FROM ABOVE

Apparently there is no danger of snow or ice jumping up from below or slamming into people from the side, which in itself is a relief.

Did I also mention "eclectic"?

Today is the birthday of Johann Herrmann Schein (1586-1630), an early Baroque composer.

A number of years ago I was in Barnes & Noble looking for a recording of Schein's most famous work, a series of dance suites collectively called Banchetto Musicale (Musical Banquet). They didn't have one. They did not, in fact, have anything by Schein. I broadened my search to other composers from other countries and other periods, but I was disappointed again.

I was probably muttering, because a clerk approached wanting to know if he could help me, so I took the opportunity to complain that they didn't have anything by Johann Herrmann Schein -- which I was careful to pronounce Yo-hon Hair-mon Shine. I also aired my views of the entire classical music section in general.

I am sure the young man was duly impressed with my high-class musical tastes, especially when he rang up the one CD I decided to buy: Ricky Nelson's Greatest Hits.

As seen on TV

I have managed to live my whole life without a Memory Foam Pillow, a set of Ginsu knives, or a Veg-O-Matic.  And I admit, I do get a little smug about it.  But Santa got me this year.  Right there under the tree, it was:  a Pasta Boat.  Yes, this thing:

Like the world needed yet another useless Popeil product.

First of all, it takes twice as long to cook pasta in the Pasta Boat in the microwave than it does on the stove in a pot of water -- 2 cups of macaroni requires 23 minutes.  The box says 11 to 12.

It has handy round handles that double as spaghetti measurers.  Oh, puh-lease.

You leave the lid off so that the chances of it boiling over in the microwave are good, and nowhere in the instructions that deal with the amount of pasta and the amount of water and the amount of cooking time does it mention you might want to put some salt in it since, as every cook knows, the only time you get to season pasta is when it's boiling.

Well, just to prove that Ronco needn't bother, I gave it a try.  I figured half a box of macaroni was a small price to pay.  I grudgingly admitted that it was relatively easy to get the thing in and out of the microwave.  The handy straining lid let me pour off the water without the sorts of mishaps I have when I'm aiming a pot of pasta at a colander.  And then, the worst of all -- the macaroni was perfect.  Oh -- and it cleans up in the dishwasher beautifully.

I have since used it to cook spaghetti and more elbow macaroni.  Also perfect.

Damn it. 

Yes, I see.

I was thinking about the oddball things the Aussies say, which I’ve picked up from watching “McLeod’s Daughters.” Some of it is well-known Australian slang, but there are other locutions that make me wonder.

One is sort or sort out, as in “I’ll sort something out,” or “You’d better get that sorted.” The same way we would say figure out or straighten out. But -- is that typical Aussie-speak, or is it the person who wrote the script?

Writers do that. Sue Grafton (A is for Alibi, B is for Burglar, etc.) uses “at this point” and “at some point” a lot.

If it was just her main character, you would credit her with giving Kinsey a distinct manner of speech, but when every character says it, then you know it’s Sue who uses that expression a lot.

On my all-time favorite TV show, “Upstairs Downstairs,” somebody is always saying, “Yes, I see.” It happens so often that one can only conclude that it is something the writer says all the time, or else the writer isn’t clever enough to come up with a different line. Maybe “Okay, I get it,” isn’t idiomatic British for 1910, but still, there must be some other way to say it.

Perhaps I’ll get this sorted at some point.

Bears win!

Another step closer to the Super Bowl.

I hope everyone noticed I didn't publish a new post yesterday.  After that whole business I wrote Friday about feeling pressured into putting out a new post every day, I decided I should have the courage of my convictions.

Well, I need a new poll too, don't I?  So far these haven't been any great shakes.  I need something with some teeth.

Over our Sunday dinner we were talking about comfort food.  Apparently when people vote on their favorite comfort foods, ice cream, chocolate, and potato chips get lots of votes.  For me, it's homey things like Mother used to make -- potato soup or meatloaf or a grilled cheese sandwich.  But, if it provides an emotional warm fuzzy, I suppose anything could qualify.

After dinner we watched "Driving Miss Daisy," which is definitely a comfort movie.  Lots of warm fuzzies from that one.

Think I'll go make myself a comfort cocktail.

Now what?

A long time ago -- in fact, 1974 -- a friend suggested I keep a diary.  I had tried that when I was in high school when somebody gave me a diary for Christmas -- a smallish book of red pretend leather with a strap that fitted into a lock and the date printed on every page.  That didn't last the whole year.

My main objection was the notion of having to write in the diary every day.  My friend assured me that it was not necessary.  She said it was most useful for times when I wanted to vent.  So, I gave it a try, beginning with a 5 x 8" spiral notebook, a blue ball-point pen, and plenty to vent about.  I did not write every day -- there are gaps of days and weeks and even months.  But I filled eight such notebooks by 1998, at which time I started word processing my journal instead of writing it out by hand.  Now they are saved on CDs.

I still don't write in my journal every day, but I do manage to record the highlights of my life, and the lowlights, but since it's just for me it doesn't matter if there are gaps.

A blog, on the other hand -- well, do you see where this is going?  I am starting to feel the pressure of having to post something every day.   If I miss a day, I hear about it from some loyal reader or two.  I love having fans, and I really hate to disappoint anyone, but some days I have absolutely nothing to say.  Take today, for instance.

So, loyal readers, and casual ones too -- unless you want more tedious expostulations similar to the foregoing, please don't complain if I don't publish a new post every day.  It's hard on both of us.

It may not matter since the DSO is on strike

Our local NPR station (from MSU) interviewed an economics professor from MSU named Charles L. Ballard this morning. For solving the problem of Michigan's budget crisis, he advocates imposing a state sales tax on services to make up for the tax dollars the state is not collecting because its businesses are going bankrupt and its residents are unemployed.

He tried to head off the argument that it would hurt the poor, who are already burdened with the sales tax on goods, by saying that poor people don’t buy a lot of services. According to Professor Ballard, in fact, it’s the upscale folks to who hire lawyers and accountants and who go to tanning salons and professional sports events, and then he said – and if this isn’t verbatim, it’s freaky-close to his exact words -- “When I go to the symphony I don't see a lot of poor people."

Really, Charley? How could you tell? You didn’t see anybody dressed in rags? Or it wasn’t the first of the month right after the welfare checks arrive? And how close were you to the upper balcony where the cheap seats are, Charley?

OK. I’m done blasting this guy for being an insensitive lout. After all, he's right – poor folks can’t afford tickets to the symphony.

And isn’t that a shame?

And then there were ... fewer

So, it’s lunch time, and I’m surfing a little, and I decide to check the obituaries in my home town – no, I don’t do that often. But I did today.

There were 21 people in one list I was looking at. Three or four names were pretty WASP. There were a couple Polish names, and at least one each of Spanish, Italian, and German origin. I saw one Bohemian name, which pleased me, and a few I wouldn’t guess at.

But then I ran straight into Govostis, Grammatikakis, Kouchoukos, Manikis and Pappas. Holy cow -- 25% of the deceased were Greek.  I never knew there were that many Greeks in Chicago's northwest burbs.  And they're dropping like flies.

This sudden desire to read the obits must come with the Social Security. That’s the only thing I can think of that’s changed. I don't know if there will be other behavior alterations because of it.

But I can tell you that if you’re looking for me on the day the monthly checks arrive – try the bingo hall.

It's Official

I'm a senior citizen.

I've been planning for a year to retire the end of next month.  My last day of work will be February 25.  In addition to taking all the necessary steps to arrange for my official retirement from the company (so I can get my pension) -- and also planning the party -- last week I put in my application with the Social Security Administration.  A representative (one Ms. Uchinski) called me yesterday from the Chicago office to ask a couple questions, let me know what options I might like, and get me all signed up.  My first check (for January) will be direct deposited in my checking account on the second Wednesday in February.

So -- it's official.  I am a senior citizen on Social Security.

A Name by Any Other Name

If this week's poll is lame, which I have freely admitted, how about last Thursday's blog title -- "Today's Blog."  That was clever.  I presume the topic just didn't lend itself.

Back in my days as an academic musician when I used to compose music, I had a real flair for naming the pieces I wrote.  For instance, I wrote a string quartet called String Quartet, and a set of five short pieces for piano is called Five Miniatures for Piano.  My real triumph in naming, though, was just a little something I wrote for solo xylophone called Something for Solo Xylophone. 

Probably I used up whatever creativity I had in composing the music and there was nothing left for the titles.

There was one piece for orchestra that I never finished.  I was going to call it Rug because all it did was lay there.  Maybe that's why I never finished it.

The title of yesterday's post -- "A Couple Thoughts" -- is accurate, if uninspiring.  Of course, when I do get whimsical, nobody gets it.  Like the one about homophones that I called "Homophone T. E."  If you read it more or less backwards, you almost get E.T. phone home (although actually it looks like I'd be telling him to call a gay person). 

I prefer to end a post with a punchline, but I can't today.  I'm depleted.

A couple thoughts

There were seven (7) votes cast in last week's poll:  two yes, the Bears will go to the Super Bowl; two no, they won't, and three who cares?  Well, I care. I'd like the Bears to go to the Super Bowl. I'd like them to win this time, if they do get there. I'd like to win the lottery too.

The new poll is lame, I know, but I am not feeling particularly creative today.

Here's a better question. How hot does water have to be to kill germs? I've been wondering that for around 55 years now. I got to thinking about it again when I was washing the dishes yesterday. When I was a kid, I tried to get away with using cold water for the final rinse because the hot water out of the tap was very hot and hurt my delicate little hands. My mother told me that was completely wrong and categorically unacceptable. When I asked why, she said, "Because cold water doesn't kill germs."

An autoclave heats up to about 250°F. But if water boils at 212°, then 250° would be steam, and I would blister myself. Maybe it has to be as hot as the inside of a safe piece of chicken, which I think is 160°.

Well, more on that later. I'll have to go see how hot the water is that comes out of the tap.

I said in a previous post that I was going to come back to the subject of putting peanut butter and mustard on a hot dog, one of my favorite gastronomic delights.  If you've never tried it, you should -- peanut butter and mustard together makes a whole new taste – it doesn’t taste like either one, really. My only advice is this: don't put them both on the same side of the bun, especially if you're using chunky peanut butter.  It looks too much like what you might find in a diaper when a baby ...

Never mind. Just trust me on that.

How could you?

So, Netflix has this deal where you can stream movies right to your television through the miracle of a wireless router and your Wii game.  You can place videos in your streaming queue just like you do for your regular one where they mail you one or more DVDs at a time.  You can only stream the ones Netflix has marked as streamable, but they are plainly marked -- they're the same ones that you can watch instantly on your PC.

Taking advantage of the available streamabilities, we have been watching an Australian television show called "McLeod's Daughters" that first aired Down Under in 2001.  It's all about these people who live and work on cattle and sheep ranches, which they call farms -- all very western, except that instead of the west USA it's South Australia.  But they ride horses and wear cowboy hats and cowboy boots and have rodeos and do line dancing at the pub, and if it weren't for the horrendous accents with which they speak English and the fact that it apparently never snows there, you'd think it was Wyoming.

This show was a number-one ranked hit in Australia for at least the first six of its eight years on the tube.  Each season comprises 32 episodes which, commercial-free, are 42 minutes long, but if you whack the closing credits, you're down to about 40 minutes each.

We have slugged our way through these episodes, sometimes three or four at a sitting, until last Tuesday when we finished Episode 8 of Season 7.  We tuned in Wednesday night to see Episode 9, and lo and behold, it isn't there any more.

Netflix, apparently the sole arbiter of what can and cannot be streamed, has removed it from the instant-playability list. 

I hope Netflix rots in jingle-bell hell forever.

Today's Blog

I have come across another one of those locutions that is unique to my family. It came to me while I ate my lunch today -- a Braunschweiger-on-rye sandwich.

When Mom made those, she didn't slice it, she just sort of gouged out pieces from the casing and applied them to the bread, using her knife to spread them around a little. Hence our name for it was "spread meat."

I think my brother was too embarrassed to call it spread meat. At least in polite company he called it liver sausage.

I must not fail to mention that today is Joan of Arc's birthday (1412), or at least the best guess as to her date of birth. She probably didn't even know. She's 599, which means next year we'll have to throw a big 600th birthday bash for her.

I'll make the spread-meat sandwiches.

A Happy Anniversary

Seven years ago today was the first day of the rest of my smoke-free life. I smoked my last cigarette the day before.

The previous fall I had chosen January 4, 2004, as my quit date. In anticipation thereof I had already started taking Wellbutrin, and I had put in a supply of nicotine patches. Michigan’s big cigarette tax increase, effective January 1 of that year, provided further motivation.

And, as if that were not enough, I caught a cold the week before that turned into pneumonia. I could barely breathe on January 4, 2004, much less smoke a cigarette.

All these factors, along with herculean willpower, combined to make my quitting a success. I now cheerfully refer to myself as a recovering nicotine addict.

The magic seven-year cycle of cell regeneration is now complete, and although pink is not my favorite color, I think it is the perfect shade for lungs.

I would be remiss if I failed to note that my beloved partner in life (with patches and determination, but not pneumonia) quit smoking that same day and has also remained smoke-free. That’s two more pink lungs for the record books.

Congratulations to us, I say.

But who's counting?

Observant readers will have noticed a counter to the left called Total Pageviews. I added it a week or so ago to see if I could determine how many people might actually be reading my blog. It increments whenever somebody views this page, although there is no way to know if the viewer actually reads it.

I had my choice of counting hits for the last week, the last month, or forever. I chose the latter. Just now it reads 1013, but I think 950 of those hits are probably from me logging in. After I publish a new post, I always click on "View Blog" so I can see that it actually is out there. Kind of like when you put a letter through the slot of the street-corner mailbox. You always have to open the lid again to make sure it went down. And then I reread, and find typos, and edit and republish -- it's a vicious circle.

As far as I know, there are only about six people who have ever read my blog, and I estimate only 2-1/2 of them (on average) read it regularly.

But, perhaps a better indication of readership is the other new feature -- the Poll. I've chosen to leave it out there until next Sunday at noon EST. And then we'll see. Of course, if somebody votes more than once, that would skew the numbers too.

Oh, well. I'm going to vote now. (Sorry, Bears.)

Is it the beginning of an era?

I can hear enough of the television in the living room to know it is tuned to OWN, the Oprah Winfrey Network which launched yesterday.

I am inclined to think that Oprah Winfrey is going to take over the world. God knows she has enough money to buy a good chunk of it. And anybody who can make a star out of Phil McGraw and a bestseller out of The Bridges of Madison County can do pretty much anything.

But I'm going to hold on that prediction for now. I used to think the same thing about Sears Roebuck and Co.

By 1974 when it built the world's tallest building in Chicago, Sears was poised to take over the world too, what with their retail stores that sold almost everything; catalogue sales for everything else; private label major appliances, automotive products, electronics, tools, hardware, furniture and farm machinery, among others; All State for insurance, Dean Witter Reynolds for investments, Coldwell Banker for real estate, and the Discover Card. The only thing Sears didn't sell was cars.

But then hard times came, Sears started divesting itself of various parts, and it sold the world's tallest building and moved its headquarters to Hoffman Estates, Illinois. Then it merged with K-Mart.

Hoffman Estates began as a housing tract in 1959. We used to call it Cardboard Heights, because there were rows and rows of houses that were all made out of ticky-tacky and they all looked just the same.

Oprah and Sears have Chicago in common, but, for her sake, I hope that's about all. I hope she doesn't end up moving Harpo Studios to Rolling Meadows. And I wish she'd make me a star.

Can a bank be egotistical, or is it just marketing?

I've just seen Michigan State get pulverized by Alabama in the Capital One Bowl. If this was a bowl game with a real bowl game name, like the Rose Bowl or the Sugar Bowl, the loss might affect me more, but who cares about a game named after a bank?

It was originally the Tangerine Bowl. Then it became the Florida Citrus Bowl, and then the Capital One Florida Citrus Bowl. Apparently the bank decided that was too much of a mouthful and eliminated the fruit altogether.

I suppose if I was putting up a crapload of money to sponsor something, I'd want my name on it too, which is how we end up with the "Rose Bowl Presented by Vizio" and the "All State Sugar Bowl." At least the original names are still in there somewhere. But will these succumb to capitalistic greed and become the Vizio Bowl and the All State Bowl?

All I know about Capital One is what I see in their credit card commercials, so I think they would have been better off to call it the Capital One Viking and Goat Bowl instead. A loss in that one might really get me down.

Happy new year, everyone.