I don’t know much about regional Chinese cuisine, but the one I’ve explored a bit is Sichuanese. If you imagine the map of China as Mickey Mouse’s head, Sichuan province is his right eye.
Sichuan is considered “western” China even though it’s (now) in the middle, much as the Midwest is in the middle of the U.S. Ah, those expansionist empires……
The food has a not-entirely undeserved reputation for being spicy (as in hot), and developed supposedly as a foil to a damp, cold climate. Many of the dishes are indeed hot, but many aren’t.
Most of what I know about Sichuanese cuisine (“SC” from now on) is from “Land of Plenty,” a cookbook by the rather amusingly named Fuchsia Dunlop (only in the UK…..). There don’t seem to be any very good/comprehensive websites.
If you wanna cook SC, there are two essential ingredients, by which I mean they’re typically Sichuanese, and there is no good substitute. Not that there are no substitutes at all — just that, if used, your food won’t have that “Sichuan flavor.”
Essential #1: Chili bean paste.
This is a mixture of chili, fermented beans, garlic and salt. It’s a little hot from the chili, but mostly has a deep, intense flavor, which is hard to describe, from the fermented beans. Ms. Dunlop recommends Lee Kum Kee brand, so that’s the only one I’ve tried.
At $3.29 for 13 oz., it’s a little pricey and a jar doesn’t last for long, especially since a lot of recipes start out with “fry 3 Tbsp. chili bean sauce….”
(Update: I’ve tried few more of these and made my own, search on “doubanjian” if interested.)
Essential #2: Sichuan pepper.
Which has nothing to do with pepper as we know it, and is in fact the dried husks of the Prickly Ash bush (Zanthoxylum sp.) Even more than chili bean paste, it has no substitute.
When you open up the bag, there’s a huge hit of lemony, citrusy smell, but the real effect is on your tongue. Place just one of these babies in your mouth for a minute, without chewing …..and your tongue will go half numb and a bit tingly (prickly, even). A Chinese co-worker compared it to novocaine an hour after you’ve left the dentist, although the effect only lasts for a few minutes.
It’s the “ma” in “ma la,” numbing and hot, chili peppers providing the “la.”
I would strongly, strongly disrecommend getting the powdered version. More than most spices, Sichuan peppercorns seem to lose their potency quickly, and you want maximal “ma.” 🙂
Non-essentials:
These are ingredients that are used in SC, but also in other regions of China, and for which there are reasonable substitutes.
Xiaoxing (Shaoshing) cooking wine, black vinegar, and chili oil. Dry sherry can substitute for the first, and (especially if it’s cheap) balsamic vinegar for black vinegar. Ms. Dunlop recommends making your own chili oil, since it’s….yup, chilis in oil. If you do try any of her recipes, keep in mind that she uses her homemade version, much less hot than the commercial versions.
I would recommend trying varieties of black vinegar, which vary quite a lot. Some have more of a mellow balsamic flavor, whereas others are much more acidic.
Fuchsia also mentions that another ingredient, “pickled chili paste,” is essentially the same thing as sambal oelek, or in a pinch, sriracha (Rooster Sauce.) I use both:
As for soy sauce, I’ve settled on Pearl River Bridge, which has a real depth of flavor, and is a bargain at $4.99 for 0.475 gallons
The one other ingredient that Ms. Dunlop often calls for is “pickled vegetable,” which goes under the name of “ca gai/zhao gai” and a few others. They’re all variants on a theme, leafy/stemmy vegetables that have been pickled. The real variation seems to be not in the particular vegetable, but rather in the relative amounts of salt/vinegar used.
Of the ones I’ve tried, the one I didn’t like was the one in the (surely faux) earthenware jar.
Speaking of salt….a lot of recipes in SC seem excessively salty to me. I immediately ignore any call for salt in a recipe that contains soy, pickled chilis or chili bean paste, and for all recipes, start out with half the soy. Except for long-cooked dishes, it doesn’t seem to make much of a difference if you add soy near the end.
Dan-Dan Noodles
There are two completely different versions of this dish, one calling for sesame paste/peanut butter and the other without. I much prefer the version with sesame paste.
1. (optional) Fry off 8 oz. ground pork or beef in oil, breaking it up as you go, and set aside.
2. Sauté 3 Tbsp. finely chopped garlic, 2 Tbsp. peeled and finely chopped ginger, and 4 Tbsp. finely chopped onion in 4 Tbsp oil until fragrant (1-2 minutes).
3. Boil 12 oz. dry thin Chinese egg noodles for 5 minutes or 2 minutes for fresh. (or use ordinary egg noodles and cook according to package directions).
4. Mix 2 Tbsp. sesame paste or peanut butter, 2 Tbsp. dark soy, 1 Tbsp. chili oil, 1 tsp. sesame oil, 1 Tbsp. ground Sichuan pepper, and 8 oz. chicken stock. Add to (2) and simmer for 5-7 minutes (it will thicken as it cooks).
5. Drain noodles well and top with (1), if using, and sauce. Sprinkle with chopped roasted peanuts.
(This recipe would be perfect if it weren’t such a PITA to chop 3 tablespoons of garlic and 2 of ginger, but don’t skimp on the amounts. I usually make a double batch…the sauce keeps/freezes well.
How could one artist both sculpt 12 heads of animals of the Chinese zodiac and do a large chandelierish-lit cube, and both of them turn out interesting and good?
I assumed that Ai’s fame was mostly due to the incessant hype about his political situation, not to mention his skillful self-promotion. The fact that he works with so many different forms and media made me doubly suspicious.
A major part of the exhibition at the Hirshhorn, both as you first enter and later on, are his color photographs of redevelopment and building sites in China. Slightly disorienting because the pictures are plastered together in giant collages on the walls and….floors. No one wants to walk on art! I can’t find any pics of that on-line, so you’ll have to use your imagination.
Ai’s black & white photography is also a major feature of the exhibition. His pictures line the walls of a few of the rooms, and some of them are interesting, but honestly, if they weren’t part of the larger whole, I probably wouldn’t have given them a second glance.
The bad:
A surveillance camera carved out of marble left me cold.
And to get the worst of the bad out of the way, there’s this:
I can’t imagine any context in which that would be considered as anything other than juvenile 🙁
The rest was either good, very good, or at the very least intriguing, and occasionally infuriating (in a good way).
Here is “Moon Chests,” seven of 51 (IIRC) constructions he made from recycled wood from a temple (recycling/repurposing, and reclaiming the past are major themes in Ai’s work). Fun to play peekaboo from one end to another.
Teahouse. Three small (a couple of feet tall) houses made out of tea, on a “lawn” of tea. A contrast between the (desired) solidity of dwellings and the material they’re constructed of. And that lovely scent of tea….
Bowl of Pearls: From a distance, it looks like three bowls of rice, and should just be a rather crass joke of scale, but was somehow affecting:
This is “Harmony,” a pile of plastic crabs. For some reason, I found this annoying.
Wenchuan Steel Rebar:
This is a large piece, about 40 or 50 feet long, and my favorite of the show.
Rebar is used to strengthen concrete, so it’s supportive, both literally and figuratively. But here it’s naked, stripped of (or so I thought, never has been subjected to) its role of support, and now supports itself, which it can easily do because of its weight and the ridges on the side of every bar, which makes a pile of rebar more solid than it might be otherwise. In places it’s built up into ridges (and thus valleys) that made me want to walk on it in soft-soled shoes, to feel the ridges and see if maybe some of them would collapse a bit under my weight. And that long gash in the middle….I wanted to sit down on the side of the gash, and run my fingers along the ends of the rebar, like running my fingers over the banks of a stream.
The label explains that the rebar was reclaimed from a schoolhouse that collapsed during the Sichuan earthquake of 2008, and we were meant to feel sympathy for the children. I still like my (admittedly fanciful) interpretation 🙂
Unfortunately, I can’t find a pic of my other favorite piece. Hidden in plain sight, it’s light blue porcelain lizard, maybe 7 or 8 inches long. But it’s kind of a mutant, with chopped-off veins exposed, and a single leaf growing on its back. Exquisitely detailed…and confusing because it’s another beautiful object in a completely different medium.
So, anyhoo…..a fascinating exhibit, and to answer the Telegraph’s question, I’d say yes, Ai Weiwei’s art is any good.
The often-unheralded Mekons must surely vie with the Fall as the most long-lived band from the post-punk era. They initiated Bob Last’s FAST (Human League, Gang of Four) label in 1977, with “Never Been in a Riot,” only interesting as a wanky art studentish riposte to the Clash’s “White Riot”:
Then, on Virgin, they hit their stride with “Teeth,” to my mind one of the best of the early post-punk songs, part of a double 45 with an endearingly austere cover, never mind the goofy scribbles in the inner fold:
Their first album, also on Virgin, wasn’t very good, other than its cover:
A funny pun on the whole “Shakespeare monkeys” idea, and possibly self-commentary.
Their second album, cleverly named “The Mekons” (although later reissued as “Devils, Rats and Piggies, a Special Message from Godzilla,” which I’m not sure is an improvement) was much better. This is the CD that made Unka Scott jealous because the boy behind the counter at the CD store commented on my good taste 🙂
Then they took a bit of down time, but there were sporadic releases, like “Fight the Cuts,” which seems to be missing a letter. Somewhere in this period they took a right turn at Albuquerque, and ended up doing/deconstructing English folk music, which resulted in the magnificence that is 1983’s “The English Dancing Master” EP.
Here is the wonderfully shambolic track “(A Dancing Master Such As) Mr. Confess.”
Apparently unsatisfied, they then turned to country ‘n’ western, which has been a more-or-less constant in their careers since then. These days they’re mostly known as an “alt-country” band, but keep in mind that that genre didn’t exist (at least not as a label) back in the day.
Here is “Trouble Down South,” one of the best tracks from 1985’s “Fear and Whiskey.” Great title for an album…..seems more of a continuation of their experiments with folk music than country.
This is one of their lovelier songs, “Ghosts of American Astronauts.”
“A flag flying in the vacuum Nixon sucks a dry Martini Ghosts of American astronauts Stay with us in our dreams”
1989’s “The Mekons Rock ‘n’ Roll” is anything but. This is the first track, “When Darkness Falls.”
In the last 20 years, they’ve become less interesting. Some of their better releases since then have been EPs, namely “F.U.N. ’90” and especially “The Dream and Lie of the Mekons” (from “The Mekons Rock ‘n’ Roll”) (always interesting titles!)
Also worth checking out are “I (Heart) Mekons” and “OOOH! (Out of Our Heads)”. All of their latter-day albums have some gold in the dross.
My Mekons DID is an odd 1989 release from Twin/Tone, “Original Sin.”
It includes all of “Fear and Whiskey,” along with selections from “The English Dancing Master,” “Crime and Punishment” and “Slightly South Of The Border.” Sadly OOP 🙁
More than you ever wanted to know about The Mekons, including a rather frighteningly detailed discography, at http://www.mekons.de/
I bought The National Lampoon Encyclopedia of Humor when I was 13, which may explain a few things.
First Blowjob
A Young Girl’s Senior Prom Can Mean Many Things: A Bouquet Of Memories … Or a Pillow Full of Tears…
by Doug Kenney
“Connie! Connie Phillips! You’d better hurry, Jeff will be here any minute!”
Mrs. Phillip’s call from downstairs found Connie, still in her freshly ironed slip, sitting crosslegged on the bedspread to put the finishing touches on her nails. A startled glance at the clock on the bureau reaffirmed her mother’s warning — it was almost half past seven. Fanning the air with her hands to dry the polish, Connie gulped and hurried to dress.
Carefully, she drew the sheer nylons over her tan, athletic legs and slipped on the white organdy gown that hung in its plastic bag on her closet door. Thank heaven Mrs. Phillips had relented at the store in her preference for the green taffeta — a high-necked confusion of bows, flounces, and spaghetti straps that looked more like a circus tent than a party frock. Connie fastened the three simple strands of cultured pearls around her neck and took the rhinestone bracelet Mrs. Phillips had lent her especially for tonight from the dressing table. Blotting her cherry-frost lipstick on a tissue and giving her pert, blonde curls one last flick with her brush, Connie sighed and stepped back from the mirror for final inspection.
Looking at the unfamiliar figure who peered back from the glass with equally wide-eyed astonishment, Connie suddenly felt a curious sense of elation. What this afternoon was only a gum-snapping, floppy-shirted teen with one ear glued to the telephone and the other permanently cocked toward the hi-fi had been miraculously transformed somewhere between this afternoon’s bubble bath and that teetering test-walk in her new yellow satin pumps — into an undeniably attractive, grown-up woman.
Good looks aren’t a passport to a happy and productive life, Connie reminded herself as she lingered another moment before the mirror, but is it wrong to know you’re pretty and be glad of of it… at least for one special night?
“Hey, nobody told me Grace Kelly was in here! I wonder where that dumb old Connie is?”
Connie started from her reverie and quickly flushed with embarrassment as she saw Didi’s reflection behind her. Didi Phillips was a pesky, pug-nosed, freckle-faced imp who Connie’s parents persisted in maintaining was her own little sister.
“And I suppose no one told you it’s impolite to barge into other people’s rooms without knocking either?” retorted Connie, whirling around to confront her impudent sibling.
“No-o, but I hear you can get stuck-up from looking at mirrors too long,” Didi returned airily. “Anyway, Prince Charming’s in the living room getting the Third Degree from Mom an’ Pop, so you’d better trot on down before he shrivels up like a raisin.”
Snatching her handbag from the bureau, Connie brushed by Didi and, pausing at the top of the stairs to take a deep breath, descended in a slow, “ladylike” manner to the living room, where she found Jeff sitting on the couch chatting amiably with her parents. Everyone turned toward Connie as she appeared and Jeff, rising to stand, stared at her with an appreciative grin.
“Ho-ly Bananas,” exclaimed Jeff, making a comical bow, “I didn’t know I had a date with a movie star!”
“And I didn’t know I had a date with such a smoothie!” laughed Connie, joining in the general amusement.
“Oh yes,” chuckled Mr. Phillips as he lit his pipe, “Jeff and I have just been discussing that forty-yard pass he made against Hillcrest last season, and now I see why you think he’s such a ‘dreamboat.’”
For the second time that evening, Connie blushed, then joined Jeff, whose tan, athletic good looks were set off by merry blue eyes and a bow tie in a smart green plaid.
“Now, Wayne,” said Mrs. Phillips, “leave the jokes to Jack Benny and let the children go — they don’t want to sit around listening to us.”
“You’re right, Ruth,” said Mr. Phillips sheepishly as he knocked the ashes from his pipe and slipped it into the pocket of his cardigan sweater. “You know, it wasn’t until you came down those stairs that I realized what a beautiful young woman my little Connie has become.”
“Oh Daddy, don’t be silly,” chided Connie affectionately, as she kissed her father’s cheek. “You know I’ll always be ‘your little girl.’ ”
“I know you will,” said Mr. Phillips, “and I also know that Jeff is a fine boy —- but there’ll be other fine lads around when you go to State in the fall, so I’d like you to promise a prehistoric old dad one thing. . . .”
“Sure Daddy,” said Connie, giving a mock conspiratorial wink to Jeff over her father’s shoulder, “what is it?”
“Just promise me,” said Mr. Phillips, fumbling for his pipe cleaners, “that no matter how wonderful the dance may be tonight, and no matter what Jeff and you may be feeling…promise me that you won’t give him a blowjob.”
“A blowjob,” Mr. Phillips repeated. “You know, when a fellow forces his dork down your throat and makes you suck on it until he eventually shoots his pecker-snot all over your tonsils.”
In the silence that followed, Connie, suddenly quite pale, looked beseechingly from Mrs. Phillips to Jeff, both of whom could only avert their eyes to the carpet.
“You bet it is,” replied Mr. Phillips, puffing his pipe alight, “just ask your mother.”
Once in Jeff’s convertible, Connie tactfully passed over Mr. Phillips’s unusual behavior and admired the single, perfect white gardenia Jeff had brought. “What a gorgeous flower,” she said as she admired the blossom in Jeff’s rear view mirror, “but you shouldn’t have spent so much!”
“Oh, a couple of weekends at hard labor on my pop’s lawn mower,” Jeff admitted, “but seeing how fabulous you look tonight wearing it makes it a bargain.”
“It is a grand evening, isn’t it?” Connie said, inhaling the fresh late spring greenery as they sped along Lakeshore Drive to the prom.
“And a grand date for me,” Jeff returned. “I feel like the luckiest senior in the history of Parkdale High.”
“And I’m the luckiest girl,” Connie smiled, “After all, it isn’t everybody who goes to the Spring Bounce with Jeff Madison — co-captain of the Varsity Football Team, chairman of the Student Senate, and Hi-Tri-Y activities coordinator !”
“Aw, cut the softsoap,” Jeff laughed. “Let’s just say that we’re both lucky before we get swelled heads!”
“Fun ahoy!” Jeff sang as he turned off Glenview Boulevard into the already crowded parking lot. “Last one on the dance floor is a wall-flower!”
“Not me!” cried Connie excitedly, “and you’d better’ve eaten your Cheerios because I’m not going to sit out a single dance!”
The Senior Bounce was everything Connie hoped it would be, and together with Jeff she floated and swayed to the lilting rhythms of foxtrots, sambas, and polkas until Connie thought her heart would burst.
“I have to powder my nose,” said Connie, excusing herself at the break as the crowd eagerly gathered at the tempting tables of Hawaiian Punch and gingersnaps. For Connie it was a perfect evening, or almost perfect, for when Connie went to the coat rack to get a handkerchief from her wrap, she overheard Mary Ellen Peterson and Doris Wilkins whispering by the drinking fountain.
“Doesn’t Connie Phillips look . . . sophisticated tonight?” said Mary Ellen archly.
“Who wouldn’t,” Doris sniffed, “with that swanky rhinestone bracelet of her mother’s?”
“Well,” said Mary Ellen, “she certainly seems to have Jeff Madison on a string. Do you think they’ll get engaged?”
“Maybe,” said Doris vaguely, “although I can’t imagine Connie not minding Jeff’s personality problems….”
At that point Connie “accidentally” dropped her compact and the two gossips, both red-faced, ended their discussion in mid-meow.
“Hel-lo girls,” said Connie. “Did I hear you mention Jeff ?”’
“W-well, as a matter of fact,” began a flustered Mary Ellen, “I was just this minute telling Doris that… with a personality like Jeff’s he certainly has no problem snagging the most popular girl in Parkdale!”
“Oh,” said Connie uncertainly.
The band tuned up again, but this time as Connie whirled around the floor in Jeff’s appreciative arms, her happiness was clouded by the snatch of conversation she had overheard in the Ladies Room: Even the intoxicating, quicksilver arpeggios of the accordion could not drown out the two false notes in the evening. Personality problems … blowjob … personality problems … blowjob, a small, nagging voice kept repeating.
Too soon, the band struck up “Good Night Ladies” and it was time to go. Connie and Jeff were invited to join some of the crowd at the Snak Shoppe for post-prom munchables and, it was darkly hinted, some good-natured hijinx. But Jeff begged off and, as he held Connie’s hand, shyly murmured that there was something he wished to ask her alone.
As they drove away under a sky pin-pointed with stars, Connie noticed that he was strangely silent. Finally, she asked Jeff if something was troubling him.
“Yes, Connie, there is something,” Jeff replied as he turned off Lakeshore Drive onto Clinton Avenue. Without a word, he reached into his breast pocket and offered Connie a tiny, velvet-covered box.
She still was staring at the unopened box in her hand when Jeff pulled off Clinton Avenue into a deserted alley next to the Apex Dry Cleaners.
“Oh Jeff, I don’t know what to say,” Connie began. “I know we’ve talked about marriage, but I really feel we both should complete our college education at State before I could even think of accepting your ring.”
Jeff shut off the motor and turned questioningly to Connie. “State …marriage … ring?” Jeff said puzzledly. “I’m not going to the State College. My folks are sending me to the State Mental Hospital — that box I gave you has a couple of Dramamines in it so you don’t gag too much when you give me my blowjob.”
“Y-your what?” said Connie tonelessly.
“My blowjob,” Jeff explained. “You know, where a guy crams his meat into your gullet and you eat on it until he goes spoogy all over your uvula.”
“Aaah!” Connie screamed, fumbling at the door handle, “No! Jeff, no!” But before she could escape, Connie felt inhumanly powerful hands seize her by the neck and force her head down below the dashboard. There, plainly revealed in the green flourescent glow of the “Apex” sign, Connie saw Jeff’s tan, athletic penis straining toward her.
“Oh God, please no!” Connie pleaded a last time before Jeff pried her clenching jaws apart with his powerful thumbs and began by inches to introduce his swollen flesh past her cherry-frost lipstick. As Jeff plunged and withdrew with pistonlike insistence, Connie felt her glottis constrict involuntarily, seizing the intrusive column.
“Atta girl, Connie,” encouraged Jeff, “shake hands with it!”
At last Jeff rose to his final, shuddering spasm and Connie felt a wad of viscous fluid splatter off her palate and slowly begin to trickle through her vitals.
“Not bad for a beginner,” reassured Jeff as he tied Connie’s wrists and ankles to the steering wheel with his matching plaid suspenders. “You should learn to breathe through your nose, though,” he added thoughtfully.
When Connie was firmly trussed and secured to the wheel, Jeff excused himself and returned a few moments later wearing a makeshift Nazi uniform, a snapped-off car aerial clutched in his hand.
“Gee,” exclaimed Jeff as he began to lash out viciously at her unprotected body, “I’ve been wanting to try this ever since I first heard Negro music!”
It was many minutes past midnight when a blue convertible screeched to a stop in front of the Phillips’s home. A car door could be heard opening, and, under the yellow radiance of the streetlight, a limp weight was kicked from the automobile on to the sidewalk before it roared off with a muffled growl.
Slowly, the girl began to stir. Connie, still only semi-conscious, opened her eyes to a brilliant starscape. This puzzled her because she had landed face first. Sky up, not down — Connie reminded herself with the characteristic common sense that had made her one of the most popular seniors at Parkdale, why stars on ground? Then, as her eyes began to focus, Connie realized that the twinkling array before her was not stars, but a scattering of precious rhinestones on the pavement.
“Uh-oh, gonna get it now, . . .” Connie sang to herself sadly as she crawled across the moist green lawn to her door. Hauling herself to her feet with the aid of a pair of lawn flamingos, Connie used them as simple crutches to stagger the last few steps to the front porch. There, she collapsed and began to scratch feebly at the screen.
Answering the door, Mr. Phillips was surprised to find Connie’s crumpled form on the steps, her half-naked body crisscrossed with red welts and her tattered nylons seamed with thin rivulets of dried blood.
“Well, it certainly looks like you’ve had your fun,” said Mr. Phillips, “do you have any idea what time it is, young lady?”
Connie remained motionless on the steps as Mr. Phillips puffed his pipe angrily. Finally, Mr. Phillips sighed and lifted the dazed girl to her feet and leaned her against the sereen door.
“I suppose you think your old Dad’s an ancient old stick-in-the-mud,” said Mr. Phillips. “But I can sympathize with the problems facing young people today… heck, you may not believe it, but I’m even ‘hep’ to a lot of your kookie teen lingo.”
With that, Mr. Phillips’s fist struck Connie in the face and sent her somersaulting through the screen door back out onto the lawn, the force of his blow immediately closing her right eye.
My two favorite supermarkets in my neighborhood are Great Wall and Super A Market.
Great Wall, as you may have surmised, is an Asian market. But unlike most of the Asian markets around here, the emphasis is on Chinese products.
This place is amazing. It’s larger than any of the Safeway or Giant supermarkets around here, and just about anything Chinese-food related you can find there. For example, on my last visit they had yellow chives, which I’ve never seen in any other Asian market. At $18.99/lb. I passed 🙂
They used to have maybe 50 aquariums with live fish….you can’t get any fresher than that!
They’ve now done away with the aquariums and just display fresh fish on ice. (This may or may not be related to their being busted [twice!] by Virginia authorities for selling live turtles as food. Honestly, I don’t see what the fuss is about, and I have a sneaking suspicion that if they had put up a sign saying “Pet Turtles” they could have skirted the law.)
Super A Market:
This used to be a dirty, nasty Magruder’s, but now it’s gone Latino, and is 10000% better :). Much like Great Wall and Chinese ingredients, this is your one-stop shop for Latino ingredients. Don’t like Salvadorean crema (cream)? Well, you can buy the Mexican version, or Honduran. Or Guatemalan, etc. It’s also the only Latino market around here that sells Oaxacan string cheese.
Super A has bargain prices on produce, and offaly-good prices like beef liver for $1.29/lb. and chicken gizzards/hearts for $1.59/lb. If only they had beef tongue for less than $5.99/lb!
As in many ethnic markets, English is the second language for many of their employees, so it can be frustrating to get help. This is less of a problem at Super A, but at Great Wall, the language barrier can be difficult to overcome. For things I don’t think I can find easily, I write down the names in Chinese characters.
What was the title of this post? Oh right, “Good Ole American Values.”
I loved the cinematic jumps in time/space/character in “Manhattan Transfer.” This book doesn’t use the same technique, rather the narrative is interrupted by Newsreels, Camera Eyes, and Bios. The newsreels are cut-ups taken from (actual) contemporary newspaper writing; the “camera eyes” are introspective, impressionistic recountings of events from Dos Passos’ life; and the bios are non-straightforward and surprisingly interesting biographies of political figures of the time (early 1900s), mostly lefties like Eugene Debs, since Dos Passos was a socialist at that point in his life.
And the language! Dos Passos said that America is its language. Even moreso than his interesting narrative techniques, his writing style is fantastic.
Some of his passages sound even better when spoken aloud, like the very first paragraph from “The 42nd Parallel.”
“The young man walks fast by himself through the crowd that thins into the night streets; feet are tired from hours of walking; eyes greedy for warm curve of faces, answering flicker of eyes, the set of a head, the lift of a shoulder, the way hands spread and clench; blood tingles with wants; mind is a beehive of hopes buzzing and stinging; muscles ache for the knowledge of jobs, for the roadmender’s pick and shovel work, for the fisherman’s knack with a hook when he hauls on the slithery net from the rail of the lurching trawler, the swing of the bridgeman’s arm as he slings down the whitehot rivet, the engineer’s slow whoaing the mules, he yanks the plow from the furrow. The young man walks by himself searching through the crowd with greedy eyes, greedy ears taught to hear, by himself, alone.”
Sheer poetry!
A bonus is that the book is just old enough (it was published in 1929) that the language, and even more so the spelling, are slightly anachronistic. Even putting aside the Dos Passos-isms (often omitting articles and possessives, mashing words together), his writing is very much a product of its time, which I mean in a good way.
So far I’m just 100 pages into the book, the first of a trilogy. 1100 to go 🙂
After a month of eating almost exclusively Indian and Chinese food, my body and mind rebelled and told me it was time for some Good Ole American food, so I went back to the mother of it all, Fanny Farmer. Her cookbook, although updated many times since it first appeared in 1906, remains retro-tastic. And by that I mean e.g. that a good 50% of the vegetable recipes call for both cream AND butter 🙂
My copy is slightly crispy around the edges because I inadvertently left it on an electric burner that I was preheating. The back cover, until it fell off, had a nice set of concentric ring burns as a reminder.
So I made myself a big pot o’ Pickled Pigs’ Feet, which I hadn’t had since I was a kid, until last year in Mexico. And bought the ingredients for Stuffed Green Peppers, Chicken & Bacon Crepes (French-ish), and Scalloped Corn.
I had a hankerin’ for that most American of dishes, Bangers & Mash, but I substituted kielbasa (Polish sausage) and added sauerkraut (German-ish). I forgot that I no longer have a working mixer, so after a good ten minutes with a pastry blender and whisk, and a good dose of elbow grease, ended up with still very lumpy, but yummy (the secret ingredient is nutmeg!) mash.
Good Ole American food!
This recipe is copyright Fannie Farmer AND delicious!
Scalloped Corn
3 Tbsp. flour
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. paprika
1/4 tsp. dry mustard
Pinch cayenne pepper
3 Tbsp. butter
1 small green pepper, chopped
1/2 onion, chopped fine
1 cup milk
2 cups corn kernels, fresh or canned
1 egg yolk, slightly beaten
2/3 C. buttered bread crumbs
Preheat the oven to 400 degrees (205 Celsius). Generously butter a 1-1/2 quart baking dish. Mix the flour, salt, paprika, mustard, and cayenne pepper together; set aside. Melt the butter in a skillet, add the green pepper and onion,and cook until soft. Stir in the flour mixture and cook, stirring and smoothing, for 2 or 3 minutes. Add the milk, stirring constantly, and bring it to the boiling point. Stir in the corn and egg yolk. Spoon into the baking dish and sprinkle with the crumbs. Bake for 25 minutes until the crumbs are brown.
For a couple of years I’ve been a member of the Concerned Women for America. Keep your friends close . . .
Their latest mailing.
What’s surprising isn’t their pathetic attempt to equate homosexuality and pedophilia, but rather how extremely blatant and unsubtle they are. Then again, like an evangelical TV preacher who says that Satan will cancel his broadcast unless you send him a check RIGHT NOW, they know their audience.
Note that what looks in the scans like yellow highlighter and an attempt on my part to highlight CWA’s more ridiculous statements is in fact present in the original text, apparently CWA’s attempts to highlight their own ridiculous statements.
During the Chinese Cultural revolution, from 1966-1976, all operas had to be approved by Madam Mao, and in ten years, only 18 made the cut.
Supposedly “The White-Haired Girl” was one of her faves. Here are some scans from a set of postcards from the opera. Vintage from 1987 (I think) and a total bargain at $3 for 16 postcards.
I have a copy on VCD, fun to watch even without subtitles. Unfortunately VCD->AVI programs seem a bit rare these days, so I can’t post it. Use your imagination!
