A Poetic Digestive Aide

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

Dorothy Parker, Not So Deep As Well (1937)

I don't often remember quotes. I wish I was one of those people who could reel off sonnets by Shakespeare, verse by Milton, divine snippets of Nabakov, and famous quotes by the famous-but I'm not. All of these things slip though my mind as through a strainer no matter how many times I try to keep them locked up there for future use. Strangely, the above is one of the few quotes that I do consistently remember. It's almost a little song. Maybe its just the cadence of Ms. Parker. Maybe it's the biting wit. But, I do remember many of her witticisms.

It might seem beyond odd. And, I might have already posted this before in this blog, but one of the few poems I can recite line and verse is by Ms. Parker as well. Not exactly uplifting Thanksgiving reading, but then when is Ms. Parker ever uplifting? Well, she makes me smile. Maybe she'll make you smile today as well.

If anyone is reading today, Happy Thanksgiving.

Here's a touch of poetry to help you digest your turkey and canned cranberry sauce.

Résumé

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful; Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

Word of the Day: Cuckold

Cuckold: (Middle English cokewald, from Anglo-Norman *cucuald, from cucu, the cuckoo, from Vulgar Latin *cuccūlus, from Latin cucūlus.)

Word History: The allusion to the cuckoo on which the word cuckold is based may not be appreciated by those unfamiliar with the nesting habits of certain varieties of this bird. The female of some Old World cuckoos lays its eggs in the nests of other birds, leaving them to be cared for by the resident nesters. This parasitic tendency has given the female bird a figurative reputation for unfaithfulness as well. Hence in Old French the word cucault, composed of cocu, “cuckoo, cuckold,” and the pejorative suffix-ald and used to designate a husband whose wife, lover or friend has wandered afield like the female cuckoo. An earlier assumed form of the Old French word was borrowed into Middle English by way of Anglo-Norman. Middle English cokewold, the ancestor of Modern English cuckold, is first recorded in a work written around 1250.

When was the last time you heard the word cuckold? I would expect, even if you are well read it was most likely in the Wes Anderson film, The Royal Tenenbaums. I picture Bill Murray, eyes cast down, confronting Margo after finding out about her sexual betrayal of him through years of marriage. Throughout history, the “cuckold” has typically been viewed as a fool, lacking in wit, power and general masculine wherewithal. In medieval times, the word was illustrated by legends of villagers donning horns and parading around to humiliate husbands.

I didn’t realize until today, that the word cuckold always applies to the male of the species (no matter what species that is). The female gender apparently gets a much cooler version- the cuckqean. It’s admittedly snappier sounding, but still unpleasant none-the-less.

Apparently, it’s little used because as far as the larger sense of the word’s meaning is concerned there has been no female equivalent of the cuckold. Wronged wives, lovers and friends have historically been figures of sympathy, not jest. The difference has stemmed from the fact that throughout history, a wife’s infidelity meant male power and privilege was upended, the natural order of things usurped. At least that’s the way it’s traditionally been.

Just a bit of lexiconography for your Monday consideration. Abiento.

Three Thanksgiving Quotes

"Thanksgiving Day, a function which originated in New England two or three centuries ago when those people recognized that they really had something to be thankful for - annually, not oftener - if they had succeeded in exterminating their neighbors, the Indians, during the previous twelve months instead of getting exterminated by their neighbors, the Indians. Thanksgiving Day became a habit, for the reason that in the course of time, as the years drifted on, it was perceived that the exterminating had ceased to be mutual and was all on the white man's side, consequently on the Lord's side; hence it was proper to thank the Lord for it and extend the usual annual compliments."
- Mark Twain

"Thanksgiving is a typically American holiday...The lavish meal is a symbol of the fact that abundant consumption is the result and reward of production."
- Ayn Rand

"Turkey: A large bird whose flesh, when eaten on certain religious anniversaries has the peculiar property of attesting piety and gratitude."
- Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

I'm such a cynic. Happy early turkey day.

Thanksgiving A Week Early- Robert Benchley's Famous Turkey

Everyone who knows me knows that I adore the writers of the Algonquin Round Table. Robert Benchley, side-kick to Dorothy Parker was one of its pithiest. The duality of his family-man façade and literary man about town make him the perfect host for this wonderful little snippet of Thanksgiving cookery advice.

Rumors persist about this recipe. This blackened turkey is part of the 1930s legends associated with Harold Ross and The New Yorker's team of contributing writers. First thought to have been contained in a manuscript given to Robert Benchley by Morton Thompson, this highly seasoned and ultimately blackened turkey pops up every year. Perhaps to console his conscience (Benchley, it is said, lost Thompson's manuscript titled, The Naked Countess) this recipe became part lore, part recitation, and part of an annual holiday toast that Benchley included in his repertoire.

:: A Seasoned Blackened Turkey :: Serve to spiced New Yorkers::"

This turkey is work... it requires more attention than an average six-month-old baby. There are no shortcuts, as you will see.

Get a HUGE turkey-- I don't mean just a big, big bird, but one that looks as though it gave the farmer a hard time when he did it in. It ought to weigh between 16 and 30 pounds. Have the poultryman, or butcher, cut its head off at the end of the neck, peel back the skin, and remove the neck close to the body, leaving the tube. You will want this for stuffing. Also , he should leave all the fat on the bird.

When you are ready to cook your bird, rub it inside and out with salt and pepper. Give it a friendly pat and set it aside. Chop the heart, gizzard, and liver and put them, with the neck, into a stew pan with a clove of garlic, a large bay leaf, 1/2 tsp coriander, and some salt. I don't know how much salt-- whatever you think. Cover this with about 5 cups of water and put on the stove to simmer. This will be the basting fluid a little later.

About this time I generally have my first drink of the day, usually a RAMOS FIZZ. I concoct it by taking the whites of four eggs, an equal amount of whipping cream, juice of half a lemon (less 1 tsp.), 1/2 tsp. confectioner's sugar, an appropriate amount of gin, and blending with a few ice cubes. Pour about two tablespoons of club soda in a chimney glass, add the mix, with ice cubes if you prefer. Save your egg yolks, plus 1 tsp. of lemon -- you'll need them later. Have a good sip! (add 1 dash of Orange Flower Water to the drink, not the egg yolks)

Get a huge bowl. Throw into it one diced apple, one diced orange, a large can of crushed pineapple, the grated rind of a lemon, and three tablespoons of chopped preserved ginger (If you like ginger, double this -REB). Add 2 cans of drained Chinese water chestnuts.

Mix this altogether, and have another sip of your drink. Get a second, somewhat smaller, bowl. Into this, measuring by teaspoons, put:

2 tsp hot dry mustard
2 tsp caraway seed
2 tsp celery seed
2 tsp poppy seed
1 tsp black pepper
2 1/2 tsp oregano
1/2 tsp mace
1/2 tsp turmeric
1/2 tsp marjoram
1/2 tsp savory
3/4 tsp sage
3/4 tsp thyme
1/4 tsp basil
1/2 tsp chili powder
In the same bowl, add:
1 Tbsp poultry seasoning
4 Tbsp parsley
1 Tbsp salt
4 headless crushed cloves
1 well-crushed bay leaf
4 lrg chopped onions
6 good dashes Tabasco
5 crushed garlic cloves
6 lrg chopped celery

Wipe your brow, refocus your eyes, get yet another drink--and a third bowl. Put in three packages of unseasoned bread crumbs (or two loaves of toast or bread crumbs), 3/4 lb. ground veal, 1/2 lb. ground fresh pork, 1/4 lb. butter, and all the fat you have been able to pull out of thebird.

About now it seems advisable to switch drinks. Martinis or stingers are recommended (Do this at your own risk - we always did! -REB). Get a fourth bowl, an enormous one. Take a sip for a few minutes, wash your hands, and mix the contents of all the other bowls. Mix it well. Stuffthe bird and skewer it. Put the leftover stuffing into the neck tube.

Turn your oven to 500 degrees F and get out a fifth small bowl. Make a paste consisting of those four egg yolks and lemon juice left from the Ramos Fizz. Add 1 tsp hot dry mustard, a crushed clove of garlic, 1 Tbl onion juice, and enough flour to make a stiff paste. When the oven isred hot, put the bird in, breast down on the rack. Sip on your drink until the bird has begin to brown all over, then take it out and paint the bird all over with paste. Put it back in and turn the oven down to 350 degrees F. Let the paste set, then pull the bird out and paint again. Keep doing this until the paste is used up.

Add a quart of cider or white wine to the stuff that's been simmering on the stove, This is your basting fluid. The turkey must be basted every 15 minutes. Don't argue. Set your timer and keep it up. (When confronted with the choice "do I baste from the juice under the bird or do I bastewith the juice from the pot on the stove?" make certain that the juice under the bird neither dries out and burns, nor becomes so thin that gravy is weak. When you run out of baste, use cheap red wine. This critter makes incredible gravy! -REB) The bird should cook about 12 minutes per pound, basting every 15 minutes. Enlist the aid of your friends and family.

As the bird cooks, it will first get a light brown, then a dark brown, then darker and darker. After about 2 hours you will think I'm crazy. The bird will be turning black. (Newcomers to black turkey will think you are demented and drunk on your butt, which, if you've followed instructions, you are -REB) In fact, by the time it is finished, it will look as though we have ruined it. Take a fork and poke at the black cindery crust.

Beneath, the bird will be a gorgeous mahogany, reminding one of those golden-browns found in precious Rembrandts. Stick the fork too deep, and the juice will gush to the ceiling. When you take it out, ready to carve it, you will find that you do not need a knife. A load sound will causethe bird to fall apart like the walls of that famed biblical city. The moist flesh will drive you crazy, and the stuffing--well, there is nothing like it on this earth. You will make the gravy just like it asalways done, adding the giblets and what is left of the basting fluid.

Sometime during the meal, use a moment to give thanks to Morton Thompson. There is seldom, if ever, leftover turkey when this recipe is used. If there is, you'll find that the fowl retains its moisture for a few days.

That's all there is to it. It's work, hard work--- but it's worth it.

Le Procope- The Very First Coffee House

Le Procope, the world’s first coffeehouse and oldest restaurant, founded in 1686, is situated at 13 rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie – just a few blocks west of the cafés. Supposedly Voltaire would drink 40 cups of its coffee per day. It was also a haunt of the young Napoléon I. Sadly; it’s no longer a coffee house, but rather an elegant restaurant. This is just another example of places that I love for their past even more than I do for their present circumstances. The last time I was in Paris (admittedly it was seven years ago) I stopped in front of Procope, but alas, was too poor to plonk down for the dinner rates. Anywhoo, it has a fascinating history, and here’s a dollop of it.

In 1686 a gentleman from Palermo, Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli, opened a coffee-shop in Paris. The excellence of his beverages and sherbets, the agreeable surroundings, the proximity of the old Comedie-Francaise; all of these factors contributed to the popularity of this establishment. It very soon became a meeting place for people of sensibility, and the first literary coffee-shop was born.

For more than two centuries everyone who was anyone (or who hoped to become someone) in the worlds of the arts, letters and politics, frequented the Café Procope. Voltaire visited, and Rousseau; Beaumarchais, Balzac, Verlaine and Hugo; from La Fontaine to Anatole France the list of the habitués of the Procope is a list of the great names in French literature. It was here in the 18th century that the new liberal philosophy was expounded; this was the cafe of Encyclopedistes, of Diderot, Voltaire and Benjamin Franklin; the history of the Procope is closely linked with eighteenth century revolutionary ideas. Robespierre, Danton and Marat used the cafe as a meeting place, and the young lieutenant Napoleon Bonaparte left his hat here as a pledge.

You may have a picture in your head of a homey little coffee shop, a quaint café of the style that Paris is famous- small tables, little chairs, and lovely coffee. Wrong. Procope is more crystal chandeliers, guilt and fine paintings. The food though is less haute than traditional-so at least that hasn’t changed. Even if you can’t afford a dinner there, it’s certainly worth the stop off. If you’re fortunate you’ll be there when the place isn’t stuffed to the gills with people and you might catch a whiff of its magnificent past.

If I Die Before I Wake- Remembering Norman Mailer

Part of a childhood prayer yes, but none-the-less, should I die before I wake I hope that the world might remember me with just a few of the praises used to uligize author Normal Mailer who passed away Saturday at the age of 84.

Gore Vidal said of Mailer; ““He was interesting, because he was interested,” and “He had a radical imagination, a way of approaching subjects that was never boring.”E.L. Doctrow described Mailer as ““He was by nature bound to a style of excess,”What an absolutely delicious way to be remembered.

There is good and bad to every man, to every human, to every living thing. Mailer was no exception. He had six wives, including the only daughter of the 11th Duke of Argyll. He stabbed his second wife, Adele Morales, at a penknife at a party-an incident that has long been a focal point for feminist critics of Mahler who have often pointed to the sexual violence against women in his work. Adele recovered completely, but needless to say, their marriage didn’t last.

I probably wouldn’t have wanted to meet him in-person, he was a man’s man from another time. He was the smoking, scotch drinking, womanizer that existed comfortably in the 50’s and 60’s but has become a thing of the past in the 21st Century. He probably would have made Frank Sinatra and feel like a wimp. I can see Mailer and John Wayne having drinks and saying things like “damn right, that’s where she should stay, at home, preferably in bed.” He’d have probably told me I was a fat, loud-mouthed broad. And, maybe he’d be right. But, takes one to know one.

In looking around today to try and sum up his life I found two remininiscences of him that seem to say it all. According to Peter Manso’s biography of Mailer, he encountered a passing punk while walking his poodles in Brooklyn one day. The punk incautiously suggested to the burly author that his poodles were homosexual. ‘Nobody’s gonna call my dog a queer,’ Mailer exploded, before throwing himself at the punk and almost loosing an eye in the ensuing altercation.

Secondly, during the 60’s and 70’s he enjoyed wandering the city with Truman Capote, the two getting up to all kinds of trouble. Mailer described once being taken to a club by Capote called Corpse- which Mailer discovered to his horror had taken its name from a cadaver displayed on a slab in the middle of the dance floor. Mailer screamed at Capote in disgust, but his diminutive companion shrugged and replied, ‘Oh Norman, don’t be angry, they change the body fresh every day.’ It turned out that the club had a deal with the city morgue.

You have to love that. Love the man. Hate the man. Or, both. He was a writer’s writer. As the Associated Press said in its obituary of him today, ‘we have only started to miss him.’

Sherlock Holmes Foiled by Fairies

In 1917, two teenage girls in Yorkshire produced photographs they had taken of fairies in their garden. Elsie Wright (age 16) and her cousin Frances Griffiths (age 10) used a simple camera and were said to be lacking any knowledge of photography or photographic trickery.

The first photo, showed Frances in the garden with a waterfall in the background and a shrub in the foreground. Four fairies are dancing upon the shrub. Three have wings and one is playing a long flute-like instrument. Frances is not looking at the fairies just in front of her, but seems to be posing for the camera. Though the waterfall is blurred, indicating a slow shutter speed, the fairies, are not blurred, even though leaping in the air.

Photographic experts who were consulted declared that none of the negatives had been tampered with, there was no evidence of double exposures, and that a slight blurring of one of the fairies in photo number one indicated that the fairy was moving during the exposure of 1/50 or 1/100 second. They seemed not to even entertain the simpler explanation that the fairies were simple paper cut-outs fastened on the bush, jiggling slightly in the breeze. Doyle and other believers were also not troubled by the fact that the fairy's wings never showed blurred movement, even in the picture of the fairy calmly posed suspended in mid-air. Apparently fairy wings don't work like hummingbird's wings.

Three years later, the girls produced three more photos.

The girls said they could not photograph the fairies when anyone else was watching. No one else could photograph the fairies. There was only one independent witness, Geoffrey L. Hodson, a Theosophist writer, who claimed to see the fairies, and confirmed the girls' observations "in all details".

Arthur Conon Doyle not only accepted these photos as genuine, he even wrote two pamphlets and a book attesting the genuineness of these photos, and including much additional fairy lore. His book, The Coming of the Fairies, is still in print, and some people still believe the photos are authentic. Doyle's books make very interesting reading even today.

Some thought Conan Doyle crazy, but he defended the reality of fairies with all the evidence he could find. He counters the arguments of the disbelievers eloquently and at great length. In fact, his arguments sound surprisingly similar in every respect to present-day books touting the idea that alien beings visit us in UFOs. Robert Sheaffer wrote a clever article drawing these parallels beautifully.

Over the years the mystery persisted. Only a few die-hards believed the photos were of real fairies, but the mystery of the details of how (and why) they were made continued to fascinate serious students of hoaxes, frauds and deceptions. When the girls (as adults) were interviewed, their responses were evasive. In a BBC broadcast interview in 1975 Elsie said: "I've told you that they're photographs of figments of our imagination and that's what I'm sticking to."
In 1977 Fred Gettings stumbled on important evidence while working on a study of early nineteenth-century book illustrations. He found drawings by Claude A. Shepperson in a 1915 children's book which the girls could easily have posessed, and which were, without a doubt, the models for the fairies which appeared in the photos.

A curious fact is that in this book, a compilation of short stories and poems for children by various authors, there's a story, "Bimbashi Joyce" by Arthur Conan Doyle! Surely he received a copy from the publisher. If Doyle had noticed this picture, and if he had the sort of perceptiveness he attributed to Sherlock Holmes, he might have concluded that the Cottingley photographs were fakes. But, maybe not. Believers are good at seeing what they believe, and not seeing things that challenge their beliefs. Or perhaps the close match of drawing and photos is a supernatural psychic coincidence.

Elsie and Frances and Mr. Hodson were still living in 1977, and continued to stick to their story, affirming the genuineness of the fairies and the photos. Then, in 1982 the girls admitted, in interviews with Joe Cooper, that they had faked the first four of the photos.

As many had suspected all along, the girls had used paper cutouts of fairy drawings. No great photographic skills were required, though the photos do show good artistic composition. Elsie had artistic skill, and had even worked for a few months in a photographer's shop retouching photographs. But the girls probably did no retouching on these photos. The simplest of means, just cut-out drawings of fairies stuck on the shrubbery, was all that was required to dupe gullible and predisposed minds like those of Arthur Conan Doyle, Geoffrey Hodson, and Edward Gardner. Many of the copies of these photos which have been circulated have been suspected of having been "improved" by retouching. This certainly may be true of the photos being prepared for publication in books, the desire being for the clearest possible result on the printed page. However, those who say the pictures are "too good" to have been taken by teenage amateur photographers, are showing an unwarranted prejudice, not consistent with the facts revealed by analysis of the original photos. Some have claimed to see a slight "blurring" of the fairy images, when, in fact, the fairies are more sharply defined than the girl's images.

On the matter of Conan Doyle's gullibility, Gilbert Chesterton said ...it has long seemed to me that Sir Arthur's mentality is much more that of Watson than it is of Holmes.

Kiss of the Green Fairy

When sundown spreads its hyacinth veil
Over Rastaquapolis
It’s surely time for an absinthe
Don’t you think, my son?
Five o’clock Absinthe-Raul Ponchon

I haven’t read an Ann Rice or Poppy Z. Brite book in dog's years, nor do I consider myself to be a Goth, or a vampire freak. These are things I relate to the consumption of Absinthe. But-its not always been that way. Absinthe is just another of the myriad of things that I find historically interesting. The actual history and how it has been perceived and been a part of history is more tempting to me than the actual elixir.

The consumption of absinthe is more of a ritual experience than a simple drink. Served with the addition of sugar and cold water through a specially pierced silver spoon, its green color is quite lovely. All true absinthes are bitter to some degree (due to the presence of absinthin, extracted from wormwood). The classic French absinthe ritual involves placing a sugar cube on a flat perforated spoon, which rests on the rim of the glass containing a measure or “dose” of absinthe. Iced water is then very slowly dripped on to the sugar cube, which gradually dissolves and drips, along with the water, into the absinthe, causing the green liquor to louche (“loosh”) into an opaque opalescent white as the essential oils precipitate out of the alcoholic solution. Usually three to four parts water are added to one part of 68% absinthe.

Historically, true absintheurs used to take great care in adding the water, letting it fall drop by single drop onto the sugar cube, and then watching each individual drip cut a milky swathe through the peridot-green absinthe below. Seeing the drink gradually change color was part of its ritualistic attraction. No other drink is traditionally consumed with such a carefully calibrated kind of ceremony. It’s part of what lends absinthe its drug-like allure (for instance, one talks about the dose of absinthe in the glass, a term you’d never use with whisky or brandy).

From all historical evidence, it seems that absinthe was almost always drunk like this – even the poorest working man, in the roughest bar or café, would prepare his absinthe slowly and carefully. It was seldom drunk neat (except by the kind of desperate end-stage alcoholics who were also drinking ether or cologne); the water was always added slowly not just sloshed in; ice was never added to the glass. The water added to the absinthe dose must always be iced, as cold as possible.

The origins of absinthe lie in Val-de-Travers, Switzerland where it was first concocted as an elixir/tincture to cure what ailed you. It took off with the smart set in Paris in the early 19th and 20th century and made its way to America among the artists and writers whose romantic associations still linger in today’s popular culture. So popular was it that lawmakers portrayed it as a dangerously addictive, psychoactive drug; the chemical thuione blamed for the most deleterious effects. Courts throughout the world ached to find a reason to ban the stuff and in 1906 a Swiss laborer gave them all the reason they needed.

During lunch on August 28, 1905, Jean Lanfray consumed five litres of wine, six glasses of cognac, one coffee laced with brandy, two crème de menthe, and two glasses of absinthe after eating a sandwich. Surprise, surprise-he returned home extremely drunk and angry, and drank another coffee with brandy. He then asked his wife to polish his shoes for him. When she refused, Lanfray retrieved a rifle and shot her once in the head, killing her instantly. His two children heard the noise and ran into the room, where Lanfray shot and killed both of them as well. He then shot himself in the head. He was discovered the next day by police after gunfire was reported from Lanfray’s house. Lanfray, still conscious, was discovered hunched over the bodies of his wife and children. After being taken to a hospital, Lanfray eventually recovered and was convicted of murder and sentenced to a life sentence. This was exactly what lawmakers had been looking for- never mind that he’d drunk up nearly all the other spirits in the village. The Lanfray case received an astonishing amount of coverage, especially by the temperance movement. Swiss law decided in March of 1906 that absinthe was to blame for the outrage, and passed a bill outlawing it, which trickled to every other European country (sans England and Spain) and the United States by 1915.

Flash to and astonishing nearly eighty years later, as countries in the EU have began to reauthorize manufacture and sale of the lovely liquor. Recently, two new brands have come onto the market in the U.S.-though they are only available in New England. On my next trip north I’m going to pick up a bottle of Lucid so I can meet the green fairy and judge all the falderal for myself.