Good for what ails ya in north east Asia

I grow ever- slacker at this blogging lark. Soon I may have to go into a chrysalis and re-emerge with a new online presence (much like MAS did with his awesome literalist take on Handwashings).

Until then, fancy a brew?

News Synergy

Two headlines from the BBC:

Ronald Reagan 'appears to Nancy'

and:

Weekly curry 'may fight dementia'

Mr. Gorbachev, tear off some naan (and get some take away to Nance, there's a love).

Yum

Gawd bless the Pemaquid oyster, $1 a go.

Employees Must Wash Hands

Salmonella outbreak traced to Georgia peanut processing plant: process engineer Poop Fingers Magee placed on administrative leave, egg tartare taken off lunch room menu, management condemned for enhancing share holder value by replacing fresh peanuts with old ones from jar on Grandma's coffee table.

Film at 11.

Flame On

I don't patronize chain restaurants as a rule. Aside from any touchy feely reasons, I live on the end of a very long corporate supply chain and thus would rather give my $4 sandwich money to the local bloke who bought haddock caught by boats I can see from my office window rather than industrially produced and stored beef or chicken from thousands of miles distant (Yummmmmm! Fresh...not).

This doesn't mean I can't admire Burger King's absoulutely stellar advertising efforts of late (they even have Arby's trying to copy them: cf the creepy beef hat erection ad the sandwich chain is running). Case in point:

Burger King 'Flame' Cologne for Men

For many English men out there, smelling all beefy used to mean emulating this guy. No longer...

Support My Local Bug Picker

The Maine lobster fishery needs your help. I know that might come as a shock to those of you out there who think of lobstermen* as some sort of mythical ocean-going frontiersman, a breed that exists out of time and out of the soft embrace of the 21st century, but lobstermen aren't damp Paul Bunyans. Like anyone in any industry they are regular folks whose personalities run the gamut from dickheads to decent (believe me, I have hung out with a few of both and all others in between at bars and parties over the years). At the end of the day lobstermen are as vunerable to supply and demand as anyone else and right now they are hurting.

Of course lobstering is not a subsistence existence (or at least it hadn't been since the advent of canned seafood: maybe it will be again soon) and lobster is just one of many candidates for the protein on your plate. You have a choice, and I hope that once in a while (and right now) you'll choose lobster.

Why? Well for one thing, lobster is wild-caught, unlike that insipid blob of chicken or that flabby yet artificially lean beef that greets you in the supermarket case. Unlike farmed salmon, lobstering hasn't brought all the fecal joy of intensive hog farming to the open ocean. And unlike just about any other fish species you care to mention, the Maine lobster fishery is sustainable, as our bug pickers figured out long ago that without a host of conservation measures they would be as SOL as their cod fishing cousins once they overfished the resource. There's no corporate ownership of fleets of boats, no money flowing out of the community or even the country to some distant headquarters, and no injecting of water, or stablilizers, or forced feeding, or overcrowding, or labor abuses......

Lobstermen do more than responsibly manage a sustainable fishery with a delicious and healthy product. They also collectively support a range of businesses and industries on shore that enable life in this chilly little afterthought of a state to vaguely resemble that enjoyed in the rest of the United States. Everyone from trap makers and sternmen to bankers and barbers have a stake in the survival of the lobster fishery.

And what's most annoying is that the current crisis in the industry is not the fault of the lobstermen. Between their conservation measures and closed entry to the fishery, between their closely guarded individual licensing requirements (meaning no corporate sea rapists or mad bonus driven fishing) and the support of local financial institutions, the lobstermen have tried to hedge against swings in the market. They were just about making it this year despite huge increases in the price of fuel and a federal requirement to change all of their gear in order to use more whale friendly line. It was going to be a hard year, but they could weather it. Then the panic in the markets began.

Its sort of a butterfly effect: the decline in sales of the 20% of the catch sold live was pretty predictable as the hedge fund folks ate out less but sudden inability to move the 80% of the catch that went to processors (mostly in Canada) was a real sucker punch.

"Illiquid lobster": apparently the freezers and cannery stock rooms are full. And with much of the credit and financing formerly enjoyed by the Canadian plants having been supplied by the now infamous Icelandic banking sector, processors are telling lobstermen to tie up their boats and seek alternative employment. If this freeze lasts, villages and towns up and down the coast of Maine could shrivel up and die.

This being Maine however, many people are rallying around. If you are lucky enough to live here, you will probably have noticed the local businesses promoting lobsters, the restaurants offering specials, and the lobstermen themselves organizing to sell directly to their neighbors ($3.50 a pound two blocks away: guess what we are having for dinner tonight?).

Those of you who live "away" might want to think about snapping up some lobsters too. There are all sorts of special deals available. Check out the The Maine Lobster Promotion Council or look online for a shipper (they'll fly the suckers right out of the airport down the road, and you'll have them ready to cook in mere hours). You don't have to do anything (we call that the George W. Bush response to a national emergency), but how often do you get the chance to help out your neighbor and eat lobster in the bargain?


(*A gender neutral term: ask any female lobsterman. You tell them apart by their V notch).

Ahh, Norfolk, my Norfolk

After a week of conventioneering, a welcome break comes in the form of the biggest news story to come out of my ancesteral stomping grounds in many a decade:

Monster marrow a record breaker
Grown by Ken Dade in Norfolk, the 65kg (113lbs) vegetable needed two men to carry it to a stand at the National Amateur Gardening Show in Somerset.....

Add two huge pumpkins and you have the makings of the world's lagest vegetables as genitals joke.

Many people have probably already thought of this, but....

I am really glad that sports drinks were developed at the University of Florida instead of at Florida State otherwise instead of Gatorade we'd be drinking Seminole Fluid.



8/24/08: I knew there had to be an antecedent, and so with great regret I acknowledge this douchebag Admunsen to my Scott: some goober who got lucky at word play and yet is a sexist tit

Recipe Corner

Dear snack addicts;

Here's a scrummy and simple self-assembly sandwich cookie that gives a sort of satanic twist on the concept of PB and J. This does have a nutty, preservey essence but- woo- lets give it a spin off axis.

You will need the following:




Open the Goya cookies- remove two from the package. Spread one with nutella. Spread the other with orange marmalade. Press together, not forgetting to lick the excess oozage from the sides of the cookie sandwich.

Nutty, dark chocolatey, bittersweet orangey goodness. Enjoy.

(PS: Over at the Newbie Blog, the child eats, moves laundry, and dances while the Weasel speaks!)

Only a few leaves ever stand between Britain and chaos

From the fantastic When The Wind Blows
Courtesy of the BBC:

Nuclear threat sparked tea worry
The threat of a nuclear attack on the UK in the 1950s caused concern over the supply of tea, documents reveal....Government officials planning food supplies said the tea situation would be "very serious" after a nuclear war.

"It would be wrong to consider that even 1oz per head per week could be ensured," they stated...

Radiation burns, mass death, the collapse of central government, and a return to the lifestyle of the middle ages we could just about take. But to do it without a cuppa- oh, the humanity!

Mais oui, je suis Anglais. Porquoi?

British cuisine has made great strides over recent years. The rationing-blighted food memories that GIs brought home to the States in the forties might still dominate popular culture's references to Brit-grub, but as anyone who has eaten in Blighty recently can tell you most dishes are delicious (if a bit on the starchy, waterproofing side of the ledger).

So it is with a mixture of both trepidation and excitement that I offer up the bangers-and-mash cone. As described in the press release:

"It may look like a 99 Flake* from afar, but it’s just the latest sign of the British adapting eating habits due to increasingly cold summers. Aunt Bessie’s is breathing new life into the fortunes of the ice cream van by offering cones filled with creamy mashed potatoes and a banger (sausage) topped with gravy and a sprinkling of garden peas."

Yum.

(*A true delicacy).

The Business of Wisdom Weasel is Business

Tijuana: where Harlan Sanders found the inspiration for the Kentucky Fried Cocaine Mule
As regular visitors to these pages can testify, hardly a day goes by when I'm not trying to live the American Dream by hustlin' to make a dollah (or something along those lines). I've investigated numerous get rich quick schemes, tried out for Jeopardy, attempted to open a seasonal mall for the past three Christmases, and even offered to sell prints of a photo myself sporting a moustache sealed in ziploc bags- all to no avail. I am still perpetually short of the folding green and still have to resort to tricks like colouring my toes with magic marker to disguise the holes in my socks.

This Monday last I had an epiphany (which was a bit awkward, as the ecclesiastical calendar had moved on to Holy Week). Why was I busting my gizzards doing all the hard work myself when I could find some chumps (that would be you) to do the heavy lifting for me? I didn't need to work for a living, I needed to come up with ideas I could franchise!

So chumps, your time has come. Help ol' WW coin it well large by signing up today to bring one of the following exciting franchise opportunities to your community:

The Bunshole: Customers love approaching the little round window at this cinnamon bun-shaped drive-thru coffee 'n pastries joint, as the skidmarks in the parking lot demonstrate. Our franchisees ensure repeat custom by offering a cup of joe and a sticky one to go just like mother used to make back in ol' Liechtenstein (or country of patron's choice). As we always say at the Bunshole, its all gooey goodness in the end.

Big Papi's Schmears: Make your fortune servicing the ultimate niche market- baseball loving Jewish ladies in for their annual exam. Who wouldn't want a bagel before, after, or during having the groinal HVAC folks in? And to make things even better, David "Big Papi" Ortiz's beaming mug will be toasted on the outside of every delicious kosher bublik! Because as Ortiz says, Papi cares about good nutrition and Papi cares about healthy lady bits (points to sky, points to dugout, ducks down to get mobbed at home plate).

Popeye's Wiccan & Biscuits: Hubble, bubble, boiling, GRAVY! Yum.

Perv's: This is a true "fire and forget" franchise, and couples perfectly with the business profile of many north American strip- and mini-malls. Almost every town and community has a "Curves", the women-only no-pressure supportive gym. Perv's is the essence of simplicity. Where there is a Curves, there is usually either an empty Fashion Bug or Chinese buffet next door. Simply rent the empty storefront, slap some dark film on the windows, drill holes in the wall that abuts Curves, set lawn chairs in front of said holes, and watch as the dirty old men and their lovely filthy money roll in. You may want to wear gloves when cashing out.

Kentucky Fried Eggs: After signing up for a KFE franchise you won't care which came first- you'll be too busy counting your money! Eggs are cheaper than chickens and can be marketed either on their own merits or as "hen veal", exciting the traditional fast food customer and gourmet alike. And given that the word "egg" is four letters shorter than "chicken" your menus will be cheaper to produce too. Just buy a fyolator, a supply of our special blend of 11 herbs and spices (and occasionally bits of shell), dust the eggs, and cook 'em well! The only issue existing franchisees report is that their customers have difficulty getting past the gag factor involved in consuming the rapidly congealing contents of the "Family 105 piece egg bucket" but rest assured our marketing support professionals are working on it.

Remember these are limited opportunities- don't miss out on your chance to send Weasel's daughter to a good university!

Death and Taxes? You Haven't Met My Accountant.

I was chatting with some colleagues yesterday and the conversation turned to mountain lions. I mentioned that I know someone who considers being eaten by mountain lions the best of all possible ways to shuffle off this mortal coil. One of my colleagues said that he would prefer to walk off a cliff while hiking and be taken completely by surprise by the grim reaper. Each to his own I replied, adding that I had absolutely no interest in dying in a manner which would lead people to say "it was such a shock" or "at least he kept his dignity".

When I die I hope I will be ancient, in my own bed, half in the bag, and covered in crumbs from a meat pie. I want about 5 minutes warning so I can rattle off something witty and foul for my last words then its one last bite of the pie, a swig of rum, and then splat.

No "live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse" for me, thank you no. Instead, I propose we amend that trope to "live at a decent trot, die old, and leave a corpse a vulture would think twice about".

When I die, think only this of me:


And that is about as deep as my musings on metaphysics go, I'm afraid.

Now With Real Animal Meat!

Campbell's are running ads for their "chunky soup" line touting the presence of "farm grown vegetables" in their recipes.

As opposed to what?

The Fruitville Chronicles, lost count of the days

Today is the penultimate day of our vacation and I am sitting at the table, staring up at the ceiling fan like Captain Willard. Something tells me that I'm not going to drink a bottle of cheap hooch, hallucinate that the neighborhood is going up in napalm flames, and smash my hand through a mirror, although I may get up from my seat in a minute and walk over to get an oreo. Take that for a dramatic embodiment of the perpetual conflict between conscience and ego, Francis Ford Coppola.

When we last huddled together for a chat I believe I had to cut things short to go for Thanksgiving dinner. Much like in the north, family gathered, football was watched, the food staples were served (albeit in a slightly different form) and gratefully consumed. It certainly was a nice change to be able to gird up for the giant meal by walking along the beach in shorts and bare feet rather than pushing through grit and sleet whipped around by the Alberta Clipper; it was odd to feel the cold pulse of the air conditioner rather than the warming rumble of the furnace while sitting at the table. I think I shall file this year under the subjective title of "Bizzaro Thanksgiving", when everything was opposite it's normal state.

We haven't slackened in our pace and have continued to explore Sarasota and its environs. I must admit that I'm rather taken with downtown Sarasota as it still carries the air of the sleepy yet quietly prosperous town this place once was before A/C, final value pensions, cheap credit, and the ideas of Victor Gruen transformed life in the south. The main street bears the stretch marks of a revitalization in progress, with the usual crop of gourmet stores, clothing boutiques, and restaurants. It may be getting gentrified, by gentrified beats atrophied in my book. Besides the presence of the old hardware store, a less-than-elegant liquor store, and the Gator Club bar serve as anchors of authenticity for the purists. Country Mouse and I are taking advantage of the in-built babysitting to go eat at one of downtown's many restaurants tonight, and maybe a pint at the Gator.

On the subject of dining, I'm sad to report that the majority of places we have eaten at down here serve the same variation on the theme of fried/blackened white fish (substitute tilapa, mahi mahi, haddock, etc based on specific geographic location), burgers, french fries, and caesar salads that signify casual family dining from Key West to Lubec. Your vegetable for tonight will be coleslaw, once more; and would you like something fried and cheese covered on top of your romaine lettuce? I believe that there is a central distribution point, in Nebraska maybe, that handles all the food service orders for these joints on the east and west coasts (and which is also responsible for clam bellies on Iowa menus).

I know there are different options down here and that our dining out menu these past two weeks has been a function of pleasing as many palates as possible while offending none. It does sadden me somewhat however to see that while there are miles of coastline in America and much of it is inhabited, fresh fish markets are few and far between and sourcing good, fresh local produce that can stand on its own without immersion into a fryolator is still a fringe activity among restaurateurs. Nothing I have eaten has been bad and much of it has been pretty darn tasty. I just know it could be better.

In addition to exploring downtown and hitting the casual dining joints, Country Mouse, Scout, and I commandeered the Astro van this past weekend and spread our wings south and east. On Saturday we had a delightfully low key reunion with my old pal Max, who now lives in Nokomis. He and his partner Melissa have carved out an eclectically beautiful spot for themselves, as is their wont wherever they pause to lay out their bedrolls, and he proved to be a most wonderful barometer of local opinion on a whole range of topics. We stuck around neighboring Venice for that evening's holiday parade (multiple Santas [santii?] at 70 degrees F is most surreal) and were rewarded with an amazing display of rhythm and pyrotechnics from Max and his pals in the Nokomis drum circle. The evening ended with a phosphate and sundae binge at a restored 1950s soda fountain: quite excellent.

On Sunday we again took the van and this time we headed east, to Mayakka River State Park. I had never seen an alligator in the wild before yesterday: I certainly never expected to see close to fifty of them out the window of a slow moving airboat. The various wading birds and vultures were fantastic, and I was struck with the particularly pooterish thought of how much the wide and shallow (4 feet at the deepest point) tea colored lake resembled the Norfolk Broads. Mondale- if global warming continues you and I could make our names as the men who introduced alligators to Hickling Broad. Just a thought.

Once again social demands require that I finish up. People are stirring for the early evening activities and I should go lend a hand before taking Country Mouse on a date. We fly out of this lovely yet peculiar place on Wednesday: back to cold, dark, and the USB cord for uploading photos....

Ahh, Good Old Production Line Cooking

From the BBC:

McDonald's fined for bolt in meal
Fast food giant McDonald's has been fined £13,500 after a metal bolt was found in a snack at a West Midlands shopping centre. A customer chewed on the bolt, which was in a sausage and egg McMuffin, at the outlet in Merry Hill in June 2006.

The company pleaded guilty at Dudley Magistrates' Court on Thursday to a charge of producing food which did not meet required standards.

The court heard bolts were missing from a kitchen grill.

Wait for it... but aren't we supposed to get more iron in our diets? Wahey! Boom boom!

Does a Good Steak and Kidney Pie Make One Stupid?

I was most disappointed when I followed a link on the BBC entitled "High IQ link to being Vegetarian" and discovered to my chagrin that intelligence begets vegetarianism, not the other way around.

I have long held to the theory that vegetarians are cleverer than the average bod, you see. In my mind, it had something to do with having more time to read encyclopaedias thanks to the lack of meat comas brought on by a plate of chops and a quart of port. If they were intelligent before eschewing sausages, I'll have to revise my whole theory.

There lies the rub: I eat all manner of animal parts and am thus as thick as a hippy's beard. How on earth will I summon up the brain power to make the needed revisions?

Around The Houses

I keep meaning to write something about the awesome horror that is NESN's "Sox Appeal" Fenway Park dating show before it is put out of its misery, but everytime I start my hands begin to tremble uncontrollably. Therefore I will content myself by refering all and sundry to three newish-to-me blogs I rather enjoy:

Knut Albert's Beer Blog
The adventures of a Norwegian beer fanatic who writes about the suds with such glee it makes me want to trundle to the nearest pub and slump in an easy chair with brew in hand. Maniac Muser and retired spousal unit: pick your poison next time you are up...

Growning Up In Maine
Ed moved away, but he's still a Mainer in his soul and has the childhood spruce-inflicted bruises to prove it.

From Here to Paternity
Scout's chum Hazel's dad: a much more eloquent take on Rock-around-the-clock-land based fatherhood than I have so far been able to muster.

A Half Gallon of Glen MacInbred, My Good Man

England is getting its first whisky distillery in 100 years, in the Norfolk village of East Harling. The same East Harling where my mother's family lived when my grandfather was one of the village policemen, no less. Despite the presense of a bona fide pickled Scottish sailor to help them make the beverage, the drink produced cannot properly be called 'scotch'. Perhaps they should market it as 'Nortch whisky'. Then it would sound so disgusting nobody would buy it, and I'd be able to snatch it up by the caseload at a knock-down price.

Much like grape vines taking hold in southern England, I think this can be laid at the door of global warming.

A traditional West Norfolk cup holder. That's not her drink, she's watching it for a friend.

A Line In The Sand

A Cake (for illustrative purposes)
From the BBC, last week:

Woman runner-up in one-horse race
A grandmother won second prize in a cake-baking contest at a fete, only to discover she was the only entrant.

Jenny Brown, 62, entered her Victoria Sponge into the competition and was initially pleased to have come second. But she was left shocked when a friend revealed to her that she was the only person to take part.

The contest was organised by the Wimblington Sports Committee and judges marked down the cake because it had indentations from a wire rack...(the rest)"

The picture that accompanies the article is priceless:



Second place? Quite right. It is good to see that in this day and age someone is keeping up standards- the cake did not deserve first place, with its unsightly rack marks, so second place it is. Hold the line, Middle England! Hold to standards!

Dear me.