. . . Miracle of Digestion

. . .

Supperly Mobile: I come from peasant stock. The kind that makes good soup.

. . .

The Just War: Good news from the Penzeys Spices Harvest 1999 Catalog of Seasonings:

The quick resolution of the conflict in Kosovo seems to have averted the anticipated sage shortage.
Not since Ronald Reagan sent troops to protect our nation's vital supply of grenadine have I been so proud of a culinary police action.

. . .

Support Our Sponsors: I'll Shoot Anyone Who Tells Me This Isn't Butter, And Then Myself!

. . .

Cholly's just back from Los Angeles, and the big news in the LA Weekly seemed to be cosmetic surgery, which takes up as much space as the Web and sex combined in San Francisco papers: thirty large ads before the movie listings. Breast implant before-and-after shots, skin abrasion, nose breaking, bone scraping, hair reshaping, wrinkle stuffing, lip puffing, liposuction, hard questions ("Incision - Underarm vs. Nipple Vs. Bellybutton?"), and one thing so awful I don't even know what it is and I don't think I want to, either:

If you are self-conscious about showing
"THE FULL MONTY" there is a solution
Our board-certified gynecologist of the Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation
Center of Los Angeles can completely re-sculpt and rejuvenate the
vagina with a one-hour laser procedure.

Complimentary Power Pill with consultation!

This is the most disturbing mystery I've wanted to keep mysterious since reading the conclusion of Chinese Gastronomy's entry on "live monkey brain of Kwangtung":

"Any sauce?" we asked. He just shrugged. "The usual soy sauce and ginger." He went on to the description of another small horror called "Three Peeps" -- a descriptive name which requires no further elucidation. It was served with the same sauce.

. . .

Science News: The miracle of digestion is a glorious thing. Thus the expression, "No guts, no glory." Most of the human body seems to be devoted to the process, often tripping over itself in eagerness to get on with it. Perhaps it would be healthier for the body to occasionally pursue some outside interests, or catch a movie, but no, digestion is pretty much the only game in town -- where "town," of course, means "internal organs." Thus the expression, "Paint the town red."

The miracle of indigestion is slightly less glorious, but it has been attested to by many witnesses since that early morning of April 19, 1743, in the little village of Petite-Village in Bas-Armagnac.

Digestion (and indigestion even more so) comes from the Latin; that is, "di," meaning "two," and "gestion," meaning "jokes." And since no demands seem to be placed on the quality of the jokes, I'd say we've pretty well covered things.

The Queen of Digestion
The pancreas (from the Greek: "executive" + "producer") in happier days

. . .

The Miracle of Digestion: I've finally finished off the large bag of Vietnamese coffee I was given a couple of months ago, whose distinctive Vietnamesisity was that the beans had been roasted in butter.

It's tempting to say that the odor while brewing was unimaginable, but in fact it was pretty much exactly what you'd imagine except more intense. I'm just sorry I never got around to trying a mug with one of my other favorite treats, microwave popcorn dredged in Dutch cocoa powder, for the complete colonial experience.

. . .

The Miracle of Digestion (via Cardhouse): What finer way to celebrate Halloween than with a prepared foods professional convention?

This most recent association of vodka and vitality was probably suggested by the renaissance of the Finnish film industry.

. . .

Spinach: Eat what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law.

. . .

The Miracle of Digestion, as adapted from George Clinton:

Fried turkey is a reality.
Fried turkey is a reality.
Fried turkey is a reality.
Fried turkey is a reality.
Fried turkey is a reality.
Fried turkey is a reality....

"(That's only 35 minutes for a 10 pound bird!!)."

. . .

The Passable Kingdom

Mares eat oats
and does eat mares
and little lambs eat those does.
A kid'll eat little lambs,
wouldn't you?

. . .

Our motto

"That is what he liked, what most of us really like: to eat and drink in disorder and endlessly in continuous ingestion, alternating a little bite here and a little swallow there, all day long."
-- Chromos by Felipe Alfau

. . .

m. panse

c'est un film Paramount!
datefrancestill more franceother
06.20.00 hippy toast
only a silly, dirty, lazy, stoned hippy would be silly enough to try to make toast out of hamburger.

bob hope was so right about hippies! and everything else.

or maybe this is some kind of horrible retort to "french toast".

french toast is delicious but you never know what will offend french people.

[thanks Juliet.]
le chat perfect
cats are good.

we are all agreed that cats are good.

but parisians know that anyone can be better if they make an effort. even cats!

simply unstrand their pearls and you will see.

thus we stride proudly with verve toward the perfect cat.

[thanks Juliet again.]

mr. pants
i am sorry.

. . .

Fudger Rotunda

I don't understand why some of the same Yankees who'll gladly order plaintains with black bean sauce from an upscale Caribbean restaurant nevertheless mock our more luscious domestic equivalent, peanut butter and banana sandwiches. But when even the English sneer at a food, my mind goes suspicious.... (link via LinkMachineGo)

(Admission: I'm upwardly mobilized enough to prefer grilled [margarine on the outside and sandwich on the skillet] to fried, to usually choose plain bread or toast or bagel over grilled, and to slice-and-tile rather than mush [allowing for interstitial fragments of chocolate].)

. . .

Beef to the heel

The most successful cult of the new millenium explains how to maintain an illusion of extravagant indulgence, maximize damage to the world at large, and still achieve the ultimate goal of self-starvation.

And that seems appropriate enough.

And I can well believe that it attracts the same sort of people who devote limitless funds and non-renewable resources towards ever more closely approximating a pad of paper.

But I must shake my head (I have a tremor) at the selfishness of it all: Me, me, me. Aren't there other people to consider?

Sure, we got rid of the estate tax, but do we really want our children to inherit our awful regime of fad malnourishments and exercise machines? Do we really want to allow any competitive advantage to sexy, wiry convicts and migrant labor?

It stands to reason that if you give a big, strong, bored, and lazy animal unlimited access to appealing food, it'll get fat. So if you want to stop the plague of obesity, stop it at the root.

You know, people often ask me, "Cholly," (they call me Cholly, I don't know why) "given your indolence and deliciously varied gluttony, how do you stay so svelte?"

And I answer, "Millie," (I like to call people Millie) "it's on account of smoking, boozing, and traumatizing can precipitate the premature birth of an underweight infant with metabolic inefficiencies and a damaged immune system."

By simply following a few simple principles like those (all easily found [frequent repetition, large typeface, plenty of margin] in my series, The Unwed Teenage Mother Way To a Thinner Tomorrow), you can save a child's self-esteem.

More to the point, your child's self-esteem.

Can you afford not to?

. . .

Ba-lue Mun-deii Ba-lues-Are

Trifles light as air.
"Carve Dat Possum"
by Sam Lucas
(with an assist from "Go Down, Moses")
(as performed by
Harry C. Browne & Peerless Quartet,
The possum meat am good to eat.
Carve him to the heart.
You'll always find him good and sweet.
Carve him to the heart.
My dog did bark and I went to see
Carve him to the heart.
And there was a possum up that tree.
Carve him to the heart.

I reached up for to pull him in.
Carve him to the heart.
The possum he begun to grin.
Carve him to the heart.
I carried him home and dressed him off.
Carve him to the heart.
I hung him that night in the frost.
Carve him to the heart.

The way to cook the possum sound:
Carve him to the heart.
First parboil him, then bake him brown.
Carve him to the heart.
Lay sweet potatoes in the pan.
Carve him to the heart.
The sweetest meat in all the land
Carve him to the heart.

Carve that possum,
Carve that possum, children.
Carve that possum,
Carve him to the heart.
Oh, carve that possum,
Carve that possum, children.
Carve that possum,
Carve him to the heart.

As environments grow harsher, biodiversity becomes chaff. It's winnowing time again. A good time to know one's species.

Couple years back, the Fantagraphics web site posted a recording of a Nixon-era on-stage interview with stogie-chompin' obscenity-tossin' 100%-pure-bitter Walt Kelly.

I recollect one moment in particular, when, after repeated attempts to get him to admit to harboring some last splinter of child-like wonder and hope, Kelly roared, "So what you're saying is I'm a fairy."

Having worked on Pinocchio, Kelly knew from fairies, so I guess we can take his word he wasn't one.

Me either. I'm more a Jiminy Cricket type, 'ceptin I remain one of those folks Jiminy bets don't believe that.

Riddle me, riddle me, rot-tot-tote.... Squirrels have been suggested as an avatar, but I feel no bond to the greedy beggars.

I admire the white bear, but my wagging jaws lack tenacity.

And The Man's best friend, like poor poopy Hitchens, uplifted from brick-dodging junkyard dog to yapping Corgi, I pity you. You can't beat them, so you join them. Once you join them, they beat you more. Now they beat in sport instead of in earnest, but still it's more.

Also "a deer in the headlights of history" I'm not. I'm not so decorative, nor so herbivorous, nor so ignorant of trucks.

Nor am I a pedigreed, primped, and tenured gerbil, exercising my wits against a bell and mirror and sleeping on a bed of shredded Marcus.

A scavenger of garbage, a hisser, a sulker, urbanized but un-urbanable....

When nuance becomes an established technique of sabotage, us quibblers feed the revolution only in the most literal sense. We try to play possum and find we're playing Shmoo.

But I got nowhere else to go, so still I go Pogo. It's what's for dinner.

Berkeley, California – Wien, Osterreich.
For Phil Cubeta.


I think it would fly as a rap: "I'm the real Walt Kelly / I really rock 'em / I'll shoot you dead / An' ya won't play possum" etc. - RQH

An old friend anonymously inquires:

But what about Daffy Duck?

"When have I last looked on the round dot eyes and the long wavering bodies of the little black ducks of the moon?"

Josh Lukin triangulates:

First time I read Swamp Thing 32, I cried for five days straight. But I would not have objected if anyone'd thought my lachrymosity had a different orientation.

Phil declines.

. . .

What's so great about being "stone free"? "New Cocoa Pebbles Now Stone Free!" I could understand it if Jimi Hendrix had been French. Then he would've been singing about stone fruit.


Ask a kidney!

. . .

Second Opinion
(after Zukofsky)

Liverfever, everfasting.

. . .

The lineaments of Gratified Desire are very round.


Peli writes:

Oh 'Gratified' not 'Garfield.' Took me a moment.
Un-gratified desire, however, has got that razor-sharp crease

. . .

To Matt Cheney's "Drifting"

The revelation that Matt Cheney skims or skips block quotes shattered my (admittedly distant) Matt-Cheney-conception. As my father always said while I tweezered chunks of pork fat to the far side of my black-eyed peas, "That's the best part!" I do crave the sort of complicating ornament that Will Elder called "chicken fat"; what bothered me were the clarity and simplicity of the chunks.

Speaking of/in quotes, "irksub" is a lovely word. A submerged, suffocated version of feeling irked and irking others. A vector of what might be subversion if issued from a position nearer power, but absorbed by mulch instead. Where Melville's poor devil of a Sub-Sub realizes he might as well join Melville's scrivener.

Speaking of not speaking, Tom Lehrer is another one who took that Abyssinian trip. I hope Cheney doesn't follow them, of course, but of course I'm not the boss of anyone.

I keep worrying at how much more puritanical I feel about COVID-19 than I did about AIDS. Partly it's that my-life-for-love seems a more worthwhile gamble than unknown-number-of-lives-for-a-haircut-and-sitting-in-a-restaurant. Mostly, though, I suppose it's the difference between being in one's early twenties and being in one's late teens or early sixties.


Copyright to contributed work and quoted correspondence remains with the original authors.
Public domain work remains in the public domain.
All other material: Copyright 2015 Ray Davis.