We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
A Florentine Steak is generally considered the ultimate of Secondis in Tuscany cuisine, but it can be had in provinces close to Tuscany too.
It's usually a Porterhouse cut, but it's huge because it comes from the Chianina cattle - the tallest and heaviest breed of cattle. One steak feeds several people. They are all free-range, and no feed-lots, so they aren't as juicy as American steaks.
Florentine steak is cooked over a wood fire, and flavored with fresh Lauro - the Mediterranean Bay leaf which is nothing like the American Bay Leaf - and salt and pepper. Simple, and served rare.
At dinner with friends last weekend, a pal said to me "When it comes to important things like health and education, I'd rather have Washington make the decisions than my dopey neighbors."
I replied "But is that Washington's proper role, given our inheritance of supposedly limited central government? "
He said "All that really matters is what is effective."
I said "All that really matters is our dopey neighbors. In America, we're all somebody's dopey neighbor - and the dopiest end up in politics."
Anyway, I dropped the topic, but felt like I was not conversing with an American. I do like the guy otherwise. Yes, he is a Progressive.
It was less encouraging to discover how easily the nose can be led astray by the eyes. For his next stupid human trick, Wysocki produced two jars, one labeled "Food," the other "Body." I was told to sniff each. I actually was one of the few people not fooled by the experiment: I said both jars smelled like vomit. In fact, both jars contained the same chemical compound, butyric acid, which can be perceived as vomit but also as perspiration or Parmesan cheese. Wysocki told me he often conducts this test at seminars and that, on average, 60 percent of the people in the room will claim they enjoy the aroma in the "Food" jar, with most saying it's redolent of Parmesan cheese; but when he asks if anyone found the "Body" jar pleasant, no hands go up the participants invariably claim that it smells of puke or body odor. He mentioned similar work done with wine by Frederic Brochet, a French cognitive psychologist. Brochet has shown that people given a white wine that has been dyed red will describe it exactly as they would a red wine. He has also found that if he serves the same wine in two different bottles, one labeled a cheap vin de table and the other a pricey grand cru, people invariably lavish praise on the latter and scorn the former. Brochet has dubbed this phenomenon "perceptive expectation."
I have no interest in being a "super-taster." I want to continue to enjoy red wines under $25/bottle.
Althouse's post on ticks reminded me of the Kit Cat clock I had on my wall as a kid. It was a Christmas present, as I recall. I wanted a clock in my room, and kids did not have watches in those ancient days. Did its tail and eyes move and did the eyes and numbers glow in some radioactive way, or am I remembering wrong?
That memory of my Kit Cat clock was like a Madeleine to the sentimental Proust in me. I see my room, the window overlooking my Mom's hosta garden, my bookshelf-turned-rock-and-fossil collection, the Revolutionary War prints on the wall, my little desk and chair with my chemistry set in one of the drawers, my first precious little transistor radio, the big aquarium set up with rocks and sand for my various lizards, and my bed that I hid my forbidden Mad Magazines beneath to read with a flashlight after lights-out.
And I remember Question Time as a young lad.
Every night, at lights-out time, my Dad would stand silhouetted in the doorway to invite one question. It would be things like "Why do snow crystals vary when quartz crystals don't?" or "What's this new Continental Drift idea?" or "How do birds navigate?" or "How do sails work?" (We sailed quite a bit.) Being a Harvard guy, an MD, and highly curious about everything in this world, he usually had an answer.
Oh, I also remember asking "Where do babies come from?" (My parents were constantly making annoying new babies, it seemed.) The answer, as I recall, sort of freaked me out but he always did - and still does - say it straight. Except when he doesn't want to. When he was young, he looked like Gary Cooper, was 6'3, never tolerated fools, had Commie politics, and was inner-directed to a fault. The latter three still apply to the laconic and enigmatic old Yankee guy, who would be still working today if his eyes and ears hadn't worn out.
But back to the clock. Remarkably, you can still buy them, but the new ones need batteries. The originals plugged in, which made much more sense because time marches on whether you can find any C batteries or not.
This is a lovely hymn written in 1868. The music, I think, is derived from a traditional British Isles tune, similar to a tune I have heard the Clancey Brothers and Dylan use.
A fine old New York carnivore's delight, on W. 36th St. since 1885. Actually, it was a club before that, back when Herald Square was NYC's theater district.
Keen's is famous for their mutton chops (photo). How do you like your mutton done? (don't say "Dressed as lamb").
I'm getting hungry. Need to get back there soon. Remember when manly pubs were termed "watering holes" and hearty meat-eaters were termed "trenchermen"? The good old days, before wimpy metrosexual scaredy-cat men, and before we had a President who eats arugula. (Confession: I like arugula, and dandelion greens too, but I could happily live the rest of my life without salad or vegetables.)
Everybody in the NY metropolitan area has his own favorite steakhouse, and NYC has tons of them. It's a guy thing. Wives prefer their favorite Italian or French bistros, and those are fine with me too.
it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street I used to get drunk and throw the radio through the window while it was playing, and, of course, it would break the glass in the window and the radio would sit there on the roof still playing and I'd tell my woman, "Ah, what a marvelous radio!" the next morning I'd take the window off the hinges and carry it down the street to the glass man who would put in another pane. I kept throwing that radio through the window each time I got drunk and it would sit there on the roof still playing- a magic radio a radio with guts, and each morning I'd take the window back to the glass man. I don't remember how it ended exactly though I do remember we finally moved out. there was a woman downstairs who worked in the garden in her bathing suit, she really dug with that trowel and she put her behind up in the air and I used to sit in the window and watch the sun shine all over that thing while the music played.
I have a buddy who will not eat roast chicken, or any poultry, without homemade Cranberry sauce on the side.
I understand that. I love roast chicken, but it needs some zip. Readers know that I freeze many bags of fresh cranberries in my freezer every fall.
My Dad, who loved to travel around Scandinavia, was a Lingonberry fan. When we cleaned out his house, we found his stash of around ten jars of Ikea Lingonberry preserves. They are as good as cranberry, tart and lively.
Mrs. BD says that, in the women's prayer and study groups she is involved with, her most useful inspirations lately come from C.S. Lewis' The Great Divorce.
A number of the women in these groups are "searchers," "questioners," etc., and not committed or reborn Christians, but they are bright and curious. It's a good mix of people, it sounds like.
The book seems to focus on the emotional, intellectual, and psychological obstacles and resistances to faith, presented in allegorical form. It's the only CS Lewis that I have not read. It's said to be sort-of a pop version of The Divine Comedy.
What are the obstacles to accepting the offer of a life "in the Kingdom"? One view would be that it is addiction to self, or addiction to the material world, or similar attachments to intellectual vanity and other things - all supported by various rationalizations. The point, if I understand Mrs. BD's exposition, is that the offer of life in abundance in the Kingdom is now, but, just like afterlife (which I am dubious about), you have to leave some baggage behind to get there. It's a free choice to live in the darkness or in the light.
We're getting into wedding season. Wedding season brings up the topic of engagement rings, which brings up the topic of manipulated prices - stocks, gold, diamonds, oil, etc.
“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”
Wiki says that Gibran is the third best-selling poet of all time, behind Shakespeare and Lao-Tzu. I happen to be one of those who does not like The Prophet very much.
Well, as Mrs. BD pointed out, it can be expensive to get that old-timey vigorous WASPy in-the-woods time these days in remote places. A condo on a beach with WiFi and TV, hotel menus, and Pina Coladas and lounge chairs around the pool would be less than half the price tag, but boring as heck. She believes that my Yankee-types, as a matter of taste, like either grand luxe or rustic roughing-it, and nothing in-between. Probably right. In addition, we do not like to sit on vacations. Go Go Hi Ho.
As she also pointed out, the price at Little Saint Simons is all-inclusive - all meals (no menu choices, of course - family-style), all of the naturalist adventures, all the boats and kayaks and bikes, all the booze and cocktail hours and oyster roasts and shrimp boils at the beach. And the entirely private 7-mile island, just for you. Chef is a grad of the CIA (Culinary Institute of America for those of you in Yorba Linda) but he does home cookin like his grandma.
So who was there (all with spouses)? A self-selecting elite bunch of folks. A recently-retired career Army Ranger from Colorado who discovered an interest in natural history. A retired Memphis cotton broker. A NYC doctor. A high school teacher couple from Salt Lake City. An 8th-grade Science teacher from Michigan. A famous nature artist from Massachusetts. An Ornithology prof from Georgia Southern (not a railroad - a university). A professor of something from Boston. A fund manager from Chicago. A jolly, congenial, and intelligent crew, and a tattoo-free zone for sure. Lots of laughs at mealtimes.
Despite the skeeters, they have a high repeat rate. I would recommend March-April-May or October for a place like this. Too hot and too many bugs in the summertime - for me, anyway.
Our temps last week were daytime highs around 76 and nights high 50s-low 60s. Constant sea breeze. Perfect.
I remarked to Mrs. BD that it must be a rare "resort" vacation spot indeed where, when one of the resident naturalists asks for a show of hands for the next morning's 7 AM birding in the marsh, almost everybody present raises their hands.
"Meet at the trucks at 7 on the dot."
More boring travelogue pics and nature details below the fold -
Music. I like to immerse in it, as fully as my feeble senses are able. I want to appreciate the author's efforts, intents, and talent, and to be enlivened by it.
With serious, ambitious music (as opposed to catchy pop music like Verdi opera, and ZZ Top), I am best with no distractions, lying down with eyes closed. My lack of a musical brain and of musical talent has been a lifelong disappointment to me.
My music education (to become a more discerning and considerate listener) was limited to my Dad, to a college music history and appreciation course, lots of listening, info via Mrs. BD who had the benefit of a wonderful music education - and to the music courses from The Teaching Co, now Great Courses.
Isn't it the same way with everything? Art, music, littacher, woodworking, auto mechanics, tree-felling, masonry, gardening, shooting, and race-car driving? It's all called "eddication," but the best of it is not formal. We pursue it because it adds to being alive, "enriches" life as they say.
When I was growing up, Dad liked to take us all to the opera. The preparation for it included reading the story and the history and context of the opera, listening to it through at least a time or two, and going over the libretto. German, Italian, French - we'd muddle through it with the original and the translations, and after a while we'd sort of get the gist of these languages - the rhythms of them, the sounds, the flow, some of the grammar and lots of the vocab. (With his five kids, he approached opera, Shakespeare and Sophocles the same way. He did not want us to miss out on the glories. Thanks, Dad and Mom, for the cultural heritage and for opening so many doors. You could call it Home Schooling.)
I am slowly getting to the point of this meandering post, which is about Dvorak's String Quartet No. 12 in F Major, Op. 96. aka "American Quartet." It's probably his most popular quartet piece, and it's a doozy. We heard it performed last month, and, despite my ADD, Restless Leg Syndrome, etc., I do my best to let myself sink into music as if into a pool of water. I did notice that the First Violin gal played the entire thing with her eyes closed, immersing herself physically and emotionally and letting the others follow her lead.
The Vivace is wonderful, but the whole thing is emotional.
My point is that I listened to it again on Youtube when I got home, and twice again in the early morning and a few more times since. Then I started to really get some idea and flow of the piece, and only now I am ready to hear it live again. I think I am now at the point where the serious listeners with good ears begin to hear this entertainment.
For people with shortcomings (now called " musical learning disabilities") like me, live concerts should just do one piece - three times. Then go out for supper. Give this three times if you are as musically-retarded as I am, and see what you think. It's a cool piece:
I posted on the important subject of the Chef's Knife a couple of months ago.
Pretty much all anybody really needs is a good paring knife, a good bread knife that won't mutilate bread, a Chef's Knife, and a meat carving knife.
It's time to post about meat-carving/slicing knives. We have a few of them around, old fancy bone-handled ones, newer supposedly-effective ones, etc., but I have never had a knife that could slice beef, steak, ham, turkey, or lamb as well as this one. It's like a butter knife through butter, as thin or thick as you want it to be.
The pros buy much more expensive ones, but this one is excellent. The 10" would have sufficed, but what the heck.
I understand now why chefs keep their knife collections in metal cases. They are fine tools.
Here’s a shocking idea: liberals should be liberal, especially on college campuses. To be truly liberal, you must endorse the free exchange of ideas. The university doesn’t exist to swaddle students in a protective cocoon, safe from any possible offense, insult, or challenge to their beliefs. It exists, in part, to prepare students for the rough-and-tumble of real life. It cannot do so by coddling students and warding off any possible “triggers” that could upset them. By practicing illiberal liberalism, colleges are failing in yet another way to prepare students adequately for real life.
Wine tasting, and taste in general: a quote from 
Althouse's 
A friend of mine loves these things: 
A fine old New York carnivore's delight, on W. 36th St. since 1885. Actually, it was a club before that, back when Herald Square was NYC's theater district.
I have a buddy who will not eat roast chicken, or any poultry, without homemade Cranberry sauce on the side.
Mrs. BD says that, in the women's prayer and study groups she is involved with, her most useful inspirations lately come from C.S. Lewis' 
I posted on the important subject of the 
Our prolific friend has 
For Some, 
