Harissa

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Harissa is a Tunisian condiment, made from red peppers and garlic and olive oil. It burns like fire. In Tunisia, when you go to a restaurant, they begin by giving you a little plate of bread and olive oil and harissa; you learn, after burning your mouth a few times, the right way to combine them.

 

 

Harissa is delicious, once you get used to it. I, frankly, can’t live without it. But it’s not easy to find in the United States. I bought a tube of it – yes, a tube, like a toothpaste tube – in the Morocco section of Epcot in Disney World, over a year ago. I use it up very slowly, in eggs and vegetable dishes. And it always reminds me of my time in Tunisia.

 

 

My Tunisian friends always got a kick out of how Americans reacted to harissa. They’d trick them into eating it straight, and hoot with laughter when the Americans choked and spat it out. What fun!

 

 

Then an American friend spent a few weeks back in the USA, and came back with assorted oddball American delicacies you couldn’t find in Tunisia: nori, and graham crackers, and pickled jalapeno peppers. She and I were eating jalapenos straight out of the jar in ecstasy. “What’s the big deal?” a Tunisian friend said. “Are they hot?”

 

 

“Very hot,” we both said. “But delicious.”

 

 

“They can’t be that bad,” he said. And he fished one out of the jar, and ate one.

 

 

And my American friend and I hooted with laughter as he shrieked and ran around the house in pain, because the jalapeno was too hot for him.

 

 

Evidently, “hot” in one culture is not the same as “hot” in another culture.

 

 

Now: how about some nice wasabi?

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Why did Pope Benedict retire?

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Popes do not resign very often. Official Church history doesn’t even give an exact number, because several very early popes may or may not have resigned. The two most famous are these: Celestine V in 1294, who hated his job, and Gregory XII in 1415, because there were three popes at once, and – well, it’s a complicated story.

 

 

The outgoing Pope, Benedict XVI, said he retired because he’s “infirm.” Aha. Well, popes generally stay put until they crumble into dust. The previous Pope, John Paul II, was very ill for at least the last ten years of his life, but continued to do his job, and was respected for it. Here’s the reasoning: the Holy Roman Catholic Church is guided by the Holy Trinity. The Holy Trinity gives spiritual guidance to the College of Cardinals when they elect the new Pope. Presumably, the Holy Trinity will not guide the College of Cardinals to elect someone who needs to step down after a few years.

 

 

So: we are forced to conclude that His Holiness Benedict XVI stepped down for more earthly and/or carnal reasons.

 

 

Here are a few earthly and/or carnal suggestions:

 

 

-         Benedict (formerly Josef Ratzinger) was a member of the Hitler Youth, and fought in World War II. His family, and the Church, has maintained that young Josef was defiantly anti-Nazi, and went so far as to avoid Hitler Youth meetings! (Well, really, if he’d wanted to be anti-Nazi, he could have gone underground.) Is it possible that someone has positive proof that young Josef was an active member of the German National Socialist Party, and is blackmailing him with the information?

-         One rumor goes like this: Benedict commissioned an investigation into the “gay Mafia” that runs the Vatican. The report was so overwhelmingly damning that Benedict decided he couldn’t run things anymore.

-         Same rumor, different twist: the “gay Vatican mafia” got so mad at Benedict that they forced him out.

-         Benedict is a famously bad personnel / money manager, and so are his lieutenants. Could this be about something as simple as financial mismanagement?

-         How about this? There are lots of sex scandals, both within the Vatican and outside. Let’s say Benedict discovered an embarrassing one – some cardinal or monsignor – and was silly enough to think he could pay off a blackmailer. Now it’s all about sex and money.

 

 

And here’s the thing: there was a time when we would never have known the truth. But things are changing. People are speaking up. People aren’t so much afraid of the Church hierarchy anymore.

 

 

Stay tuned, kids. Who knows what we might learn?

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William the Conqueror

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I’ve done genealogy for a long time now, and I know (or sort of know) that I am descended from one of the English noble families.

 

 

And since everybody intermarried so much in those days, one way or another, I know that I am descended from William the Conqueror.

 

 

Is there any doubt?

 

 

We found William  - or rather Guillaume le Conquerant – everywhere we went in Normandy in October. William’s Ducal Palace was two blocks from our hotel in Caen, and his tomb was ten blocks away in the Abbaye aux Hommes. (His wife Matilda was buried not far away in the other direction, but we didn’t get to her tomb. Next time for sure.)  The big cathedral in Caen, Saint-Pierre, was founded by William’s grandfather. When we went to Bayeux, we saw another grandiose cathedral commissioned by William, as well as the miraculous tapestry which may or may not have been executed by Queen Matilda. (At any rate, the tapestry was commissioned by William’s half-brother Odo, bishop of Bayeux.)

 

 

We didn’t visit Falaise, where William was born. There’s a lovely castle there:

 

 

William’s father was the rascally Duke Robert of Normandy, known as Robert the Devil. His mother was Arlette, daughter of a local embalmer. Robert and Arlette weren’t married, so William was a bastard. (This would explain all the things called “Le Batard” in Caen and Bayeux.)

 

 

I was strangely moved by the epitaph on William’s tomb:

 

 

I know just enough Latin to translate it without help:

 

HERE IS BURIED

THE MOST UNCONQUERED

WILLIAM

THE CONQUEROR

DUKE OF NORMANDY

AND KING OF ENGLAND

AND THE BUILDER OF THIS HOUSE

WHO DIED IN THE YEAR 1087

 

 

I felt uncommonly solemn in that place.

 

 

Rest in peace, Grandpa William.

 

 

(We’ll get around to visiting Grandma Matilda on our next trip.)

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Papal election update

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A surprising number of my friends and acquaintances are paying attention to the Papal election. One of them wants me to be the new Pope (I’m a baptized Catholic, so I’m eligible). Another wants the Roman church to go the Anglican route: an African church, a South American church, etc.

 

 

Maybe I’m wrong, but this will not be a brief conclave. I see a couple of opposing forces here, as follow:

 

 

-         A retiring Pope, who thinks it’s within his power to name a successor;

-         A College of Cardinals whose members know very well that the outgoing Pope has no such power;

-         A largely Third World congregation, which would love to see a black or Hispanic Pope;

-         A strongly European Church hierarchy, which thinks that the Catholic Church is still a European entity.

 

 

Yikes!

 

 

The funniest part of this is that Boston Cardinal Sean O’Malley (from Ohio), is being touted (by the local Boston / Providence media) as a frontrunner. Well, nothing’s impossible. But, really: an American Pope? I doubt it.

 

 

Same for an African Pope, or a white South African Pope. Not much of a chance.

 

 

Shortly after Benedict’s resignation announcement, the Vatican leaked the implication that this would be a quick conclave; there’d be a Benedict-approved candidate (probably the Italian Cardinal Scola), and the cardinals would vote for a day or two, and it’d be over.

 

 

But I just don’t think so.

 

 

But then again, it’s all in God’s hands, isn’t it, kids?

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Salt, and MSG, and lead: Joe Jackson sings "Everything Gives You Cancer"

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I read lots of different publications. I read Reader’s Digest, which is very cheerful, but is also very conservative. I also read Mother Jones, which is unashamedly liberal. I read the Atlantic, and New York Magazine, and the Financial Times . . .

 

 

Well, I tell you, it’s exhausting.

 

 

It’s especially exhausting to figure out their takes on various issues.

 

 

Salt, for example. Reader’s Digest recently excerpted an article from the New York Times (!) which showed that maybe salt isn’t as bad as we’ve been bad as we’ve been led to believe.

 

 

To be sure: any nutrient, in excess, is bad for you. But how much is too much much? We’ve been told over the last few decades that we eat too much salt, and it’s killing us: hypertension, heart disease, kidney disease.

 

 

Except maybe the research studies aren’t supportive of this.

 

 

O dear!

 

 

Monosodium glutamate? Also not necessarily a killer, according to a British book I read recently. (Of course, they said that salt was the real villain.)

 

 

And a recent article in Mother Jones found widespread lead poisoning in urban areas, which seemed to correlate to areas of elevated crime, etc.

 

 

Sing it, Joe Jackson!

 

 

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For Sunday: Elvis Costello sings "New Amsterdam"

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I’ve loved Elvis Costello since the 1970s. This song, from his “Get Happy!” album in the 1980s, is one of my favorites. The melody is wonderful, and the lyrics are amazing.

 

 

Note: this song might or might not be about Elvis’s love/hate relationship with New York City (try thinking of NYC as the woman he’s singing about; it kind of makes sense).

 

 

But who knows?

 

Enjoy.

 

 

 

New Amsterdam has become much too much

When I have the possession of everything she touches

Can I step on the brake to get out of her clutches

Can I speak double Dutch to a real double duchess

 

 

 

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Glaucoma

Glaucoma and medical marijuana

 

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I’ve told you recently that I have been getting loads of genetic information from 23andme.com. Among other things, I have learned that I have a significantly enhanced chance of developing something called “exfoliation glaucoma.”

 

 

I have read several descriptions of this interesting condition. As I understand it, little particles of dead tissues (often described as “dandruff-like”) begin to accumulate within the eyeball. (Actually they accumulate within the “trabecular network,” but let’s not get too technical.) At any rate, your eyeballs turn into miniature snowflake paperweights, full of inert whitish material. This increases the fluid pressure within your eyeballs, and – presto! – glaucoma.

 

 

The average chance for developing this charming disease is 0.7 percent. Mine is 2.2 percent. Not huge, but more than triple the average.

 

 

This is interesting. There’s no glaucoma in my family that I know of, but we seem to be capable of generating nasty little mutations of our own, so I’m sure the folks at 23andMe.com are not making this stuff up.

 

 

So what’s to be done?

 

 

Glaucoma is treatable. There are eyedrops, and laser surgery, and other things.

 

 

Also there is always medical marijuana.

 

 

One of the first uses of medical marijuana was to reduce the fluid pressure in the eyeballs of glaucoma patients. It’s not the most highly-recommended treatment – damn medical research! – but it’s still used in many cases.

 

 

And medical marijuana gives you the nicest giggly feeling, and the most tremendous appetite.

 

 

Ah well. There are much worse things than glaucoma.

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Baba Marta

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It’s March!

 

 

Are you wearing red and white? I certainly hope so.

 

 

Otherwise, you’ll make Baba Marta angry.

 

 

Baba Marta is the Bulgarian spirit of the month of March. She is a mean old lady who’ll rain on you, and freeze you, if she doesn’t like you. February is her brother; he’s a drunkard, and lazy. He depends on Baba Marta so much that she made him give her some of her days (which is why he has twenty-eight, and she has thirty-one).

 

 

Here’s more information:

 

 

In folklore Baba Marta is presented as the wife or sister of Big Sechko (January) and Little Sechko (February). She is constantly unhappy with them; in different tales they drink her wine or do different mischiefs. She gets really angry and as a result the weather breaks.

 

One of the most popular tales tells us about an old lady, who took her goats out in the mountain. It was the end of March, the very last days of the month.  The old lady was counting on Baba Marta for blessing her with good weather – she is as ancient as I am, the old lady thought to herself, she will have mercy. Baba Marta did anything but. She got so mad, asked her brother April to land her a few days and got them. These days are what we call “borrowed days”.  Baba Marta set free all the blizzards and snowstorms and the old lady and her goats were frozen. They then became a pile of stones, from which healing water started running.

 

 

This version neglects to tell you that the old lady was frozen sitting down, and that the “healing water” was flowing from her crotch.

 

 

Happy March, everybody! And don’t forget to wear red and white. You do not want to piss off Baba Marta.

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Edward Gorey

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A while back, Google changed its logo to commemorate Edward Gorey’s 88^th birthday.

 

 

Gorey was an illustrator. I still have some paperback books from the 1960s and 1970s with covers drawn by Gorey. (His style is unmistakeable: scratchy, mock-Victorian, mock-Gothic.)

 

 

But all the while, quietly, he was publishing his own little books: children’s alphabets, morality stories, horror stories, and limericks.

 

 

If you ever watched “Mystery!” on PBS, you’ve seen Gorey’s work; that wonderful animation at the beginning, with sighing women and huge urns crashing on people’s head. Here it is:

 

 

 

 

Gorey passed away in 2000. He lived on the north shore of Cape Cod, in Yarmouthport, Massachusetts. Partner and I have visited his house; it’s a big rambling structure, with a huge bay laurel tree in the yard.

 

 

Gorey collected things. There are buckets full of doorknobs on display! (Older American readers will remember Aunt Clara, on the TV show “Bewitched,” who always had doorknobs in her purse. It’s a sweet affectation to collect doorknobs. To be sure, they can be very pretty.)

 

 

I snatched a laurel leaf from the yard before we left, and pressed it in my ancient copy of “Amphigorey.”

 

 

Happy 88^th, Edward. We miss you.

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Snow, glaciers, and the Elizabeth Islands

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We here in Rhode Island had a mini-blizzard in the middle of February, which dumped two feet of snow. A lot of it melted right away. But some of it remained, in big chunks and drifts on the roadside.

 

 

It melts, bit by bit, and the streets and sidewalks get wider and wider, thank God.

 

 

Have you ever noticed what happens when mounded snow melts? It almost always leaves debris behind, like this:

 

 

 

 

Flashback to the last Ice Age: the glaciers pushed all kinds of debris (rocks, etc.) out to their limits, and then they receded.

 

 

What did they leave behind?

 

 

Why, Cape Cod and the Elizabeth Islands!

 

 

 

 

 

Cape Cod and the Elizabeths are the fringe of debris  - the “terminal moraine” – left behind by the last glaciers.

 

 

The last Ice Age left behind all kinds of debris in southern New England: the teardrop-shaped islands in Boston Harbor, the big chunks of stone dropped at random throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut and Rhode Island (“glacial erratics”, and (most especially) the line of debris that created the ridges of Cape Cod and the Elizabeth Islands.

 

 

Debris. What a terrible word. Let’s just call it “landscaping.”

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