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18 matchs for Poly:
Made dinner for Linda.....Wagu Cross Beef Ribs (7 Hours @ 200 / Local Polynesian Teriyaki Sauce) + Corn + Zucchini
Krazy Kat has been described as a parable of love, a metaphor for democracy, a “surrealistic” poem, unfolding over years and years. It is all of these, but so much more: it is a portrait of America, a self-portrait of Herriman, and, I believe, the first attempt to paint the full range of human consciousness in the language of the comic strip. Like the America it portrays, Herriman’s identity has been poised for a revision for many decades now. Michael Tisserand’s new biography Krazy does just that, clearing the shifting sands and shadows of Herriman’s ancestry, the discovery in the early 1970s of a birth certificate which described Herriman as “colored” sending up a flag among comics researchers and aficionados. Tisserand confirms what for years was hiding in plain sight in the tangled brush of Coconino County, Arizona, where Krazy Kat is supposedly set: Herriman, of mixed African-American ancestry, spent his entire adult life passing as white. He had been born in the African-American neighborhood of racially mixed, culturally polyglot 1880s New Orleans, but within a decade Herriman’s parents moved George and his three siblings to the small but growing town of Los Angeles to escape the increasing bigotry and racial animosity of postbellum Louisiana. The Herrimans melted into California life, and it was there that George, with brief professional spates in New York, would remain for the rest of his life.
Very cool origami measuring spoon kickstarter.
In the earliest decades of this nation -- before this nation was even a nation -- four waves of settlers arrived from Britain. The first three waves landed in New England, the Southern Colonies and the Middle Colonies, respectively, and each defined the culture of its own region. The fourth wave came in mostly through the Middle Colonies, but it didn't stay there. Instead, it migrated inland, into the Appalachian mountain range. It spread south, then west, through the Tennessee River Valley. It crossed the Mississippi River into Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Texas. And because of its greater willingness to migrate, it's reached into almost every corner of this country.
The fact that this culture has, to a greater or lesser degree, influenced almost every part of America, doesn't mean that it is America. It's only one color in the mosaic. Yet it claims a monopoly on "American values," and incredibly, the media let it get away with that.
Here's why the media are wrong.
Isn't it cute when one monopoly sues another monopoly over who is more anti-consumer? It would be nice to see the a la carte model win. But if Cablevision can pick and chose what channels it buys, will it pass that option down to its customers?
while watching big love (which ends next week) you can forget how creepy polygamy can be. thankfully we have reality tv to remind us. though who isnt creepy on reality tv?
Bill (or anyone), any thoughts on what's being used to wrap paintings these days? I used to buy big rolls of polyethylene but this archival art materials dealer is pushing Tyvek Soft Wrap
. They claim it's better than polyethylene AND glassine. I would like something I could use for paintings but also my stretched paper pieces, that (a) wouldn't react and (b) would be easy to tape and untape. I'm also looking at archival shipping/packing tape.
((down w/ Spoff))
Big Wine and an “Omnivore’s Dilemma” to Expose It
August 20, 2009 Hannah Wallace
Thanks to the slew of recent books and movies about our food supply (led by The Omnivore’s Dilemma Big Wine and an Omnivore’s Dilemma to Expose It and Food Inc.), more Americans than ever are aware of where their food comes from and what’s in it. Readers of this column also know that mass-made juice can be loaded with “flavor packs” and concentrates from up to 12 different countries.
But what about wine?
This may come as a surprise, but most of the wine sold in the U.S. today has been processed and adulterated beyond recognition by corporate growers who are intent on maximizing profits. Is nothing sacred?
Over the last 24 hours, I’ve been devouring Alice Feiring’s excellent book The Battle for Wine and Love: or How I Saved the World from Parkerization Big Wine and an Omnivore’s Dilemma to Expose It and am quickly discovering that the wine industry in many ways mirrors the food industry. At many big wineries (both here and around the world), the life is processed out of the grapes even before they appear on the vines (with over-irrigation, which increases yield but also leads to shallow roots and extraripe fruit). Then, during the fermentation process, meddlesome winemakers add everything from industrial yeast, bacteria, and enzymes to tannins and microbial agents—all to “improve” the taste and mouthfeel of a wine, often so it will appeal to a mass-market palate. (OK: they also throw in these additives to speed up the fermentation and control the process. You know, to make the whole thing more scientific.)
Some winemakers are also brandishing hi-tech processes such as micro-oxygenation and reverse osmosis (also called “ultrafiltration”), techniques that allow them to further manipulate wines.
In today’s globalized wine scene, winemakers would like to make wine as standardized as possible. Adding industrial yeast to the wine helps. It ensures that fermentation will start and finish when the winemaker wants it to, not according to the whims of nature. This is extremely important when Costco is expecting its new shipment of wine from Gallo in April—plus, the retailer doesn’t want the customer to bring the wine back complaining that it doesn’t taste like last year’s model.
Today, there are hundreds of industrial yeast replicas, including one genetically modified strain that was recently approved for use in the U.S.
At issue here is not food safety or even nutrition (though I wouldn’t be surprised if organic, biodynamic and naturally-made wines turn out to cause less of a hangover and are proven to contain more antioxidants than their processed cousins) but diversity and complexity of flavor.
Feiring believes (and I agree) that these wines are uniformly bland and characterless—they are artificial, their unique terroir masked by the introduction of such “designer yeasts,” chestnut tannins, oak extracts, and other indignities. Often, as Feiring shows, scheming winemakers mess with their vintages solely to achieve a higher score from influential wine critic Robert Parker (which, of course, leads to a surge in sales). After Parker awarded Helen Turley’s rich, syrupy 1993 Zinfandel a whopping 95 points, for example, he started a trend that hasn’t stopped to this day. “The paradigm of a great wine shifted to one big, jammy, oaky fruit bomb,” writes Fiering. “And the whole industry adjusted accordingly.”
To me, the central dilemma with Big Wine is actually one of transparency. Though I can choose to drink wines that are made in the natural Old World-style, there is no wine labeling law that requires that GMO yeast, tannins, or bacteria (or new-fangled filtering technologies) be disclosed. Even artisanal producers have begun using these “scientific” techniques—but it is unlikely, as Feiring points out, that they’ll divulge them on labels anytime soon.
Part of the pleasure (and risk) of drinking wine comes from savoring its subtle flavors and the ineffable qualities bestowed on the grapes by the terroir, the weather, and the irrigation (and cultivation) methods. Wine made in the Old World style is alive—it changes from year to year and even, once uncorked, from day to day. It has a sense of place.
Feiring’s book is an Omnivore’s Dilemma for the world of wine and winemaking. I just hope it raises the same level of awareness and appreciation for Old World winemaking techniques as Pollan’s book has for polyculture and sustainably-farmed, honest-to-goodness food.
In the meantime, I’ll continue to seek out small producers who create authentic natural wines—people like Oregon vintners Russ Raney of Evesham Wood, Brian O’Donnell of Belle Pente, Jason Letts at Eyrie, and John Paul at Cameron. (These wines are at the forefront of my mind since I’ve just returned from Oregon. Know any amazing natural wines from other regions? Please share them below.)
I ran across this while chasing down some Wolfowitz links at Eurolegal
January 16, 1997
ALBERT WOHLSTETTER, R.I.P.
In Monday’s Wall Street Journal, editor Robert L. Bartley took note of Wohlstetter’s death by reprinting a 1991 account of his long association with Wohlstetter. It gave only hints of the extraordinary role Albert played during the most critical years of the Cold War, which was then just coming to an end. It did point out that two of the most public men of the last three decades who have been identified with shaping strategic counterforce policy, Richard Perle and Paul Wolfowitz, were Albert’s protégés. If you would connect the dots to others who were under Wohlstetter’s spell, you would soon find the late Senator Henry (Scoop) Jackson, Senator Robert Dole, and in London, Margaret Thatcher. For all practical purposes, every editorial on America’s geopolitical strategy that appeared in The Wall Street Journal during the last 25 years was the product of Albert’s genius. If Henry Kissinger was the principal leader of the "dove team" in foreign policy over much of this period, stressing diplomatic strategems, Wohlstetter was the undisputed leader of the "hawk team," which stressed military moves of breathtaking creativity and imagination.
Sad to hear that Bill
's beloved mutt, Mother, has died. I'm not the biggest fan of dogs, but Mother was as sweet as they come. Good owners make for good dogs, and maybe she was grateful for being rescued from a hard life, but she was about as laid back as a canine could be. I'll always remember tromping around Buck's County with her in the Autumn leaves. Our sympathies go out.
In better pet news, we hear that Polycat is doing well in Montana, and two slightly irregular kittens have found a home…
So I’ve got this cat
here. Polly the cat. I’m putting her up while Ruth & Nicholas are in Germany. Seems their other cats don’t tolerate her, but she’s been a model citizen here. We had cats when I was a kid, and I had my own, Kitty, for 17 years. She died four years ago, and I’ve been petless since. It’s good to have a cat around. This one is really sweet, with an even temperament. She does all those cat things: chases a toy; rolls on her back; sits in my lap purring. And sleeps a lot. It’s reassuring to see that cats are the same as ever. I’m not planning on getting one myself just now, (too little time, too little space, too much hair,) but somewhere down the road I see myself with another cat. Not Polly, though. She’s moving to Montana soon. Can’t integrate here, so she’s heading west to the RenHillWalls’. Probably a good deal for her.
My only problem is with her name. Everyone knows Polly
is a bird’s name; this must be an embarrassment for a cat. So I’ve taken to calling her Poly, as in “many”. After all, the cat is a many-lived creature. Having been rescued from the street, she’s got to be on her second life, and heading for a third, so she’s a Polycat for sure. The names sound the same, so she’s not confused, and I hope this distinction will be observed in Montana. I’m sure you guys will love her out there.
Did I mention she sheds and claws the furniture?
i have been searching Singapore restaurant sites....The Imperial Herbal Restaurant had been recommended as one of Singapore’s finest examples of Chinese cuisine and a good place to go to overcome jet-lag. It’s a place frequented by health-conscious Epicureans who have out-yanged their yin [or vice versa] and by the clients of the proprietor, herbalist Li Lian Xing, who prefer to take their medicine in a sweet and sour sauce rather than the usual tonic of bitter tea.
At the back of the restaurant is a grand old-fashioned teak pharmaceutical counter with banks of drawers and shelves full of bottles. Mr Li presides over it like a lean-shaven Confucius, grinding up powders and weighing remedies on a delicate pair of scales before dispatching them to the kitchen.
His specimen bottles are not for the faint-hearted. Macbeth’s witches would have had a field day with the contents: dried geckos and caterpillars, antler velvet, pickled snakes and seahorses, ox tendons and duck’s webs, and an array of deer penises or ‘pizzles’ that would makes Santa Claus’s eyes water.
Then there are roots, fungi, bulbs and herbs that look as weird and unappetizing as their animal counterparts but are also prescribed for a catalogue of complaints: American ginseng, for example, for ‘spontaneous perspiration and shortness of breath’; polygorum multiflorum for premature aging; fritillary bulbs for smoker’s cough; and birds’ nest for the complexion.
None of these look the stuff f the local take-away and under Sybil Fawlty’s direction there was no chance of avoiding them for a simple spring roll.
“First you will have famous appetizer - quick fried egg white with scallops and ladybell root in fried noodle basket. Good for ‘qi’ - more energy. Also,” she added, with a pointed look at my companion, “good for over-weight.”
She tugged at my hair. “Now need something for this,” she said. “Going grey already. I give you bowl of crispy black ants. Special imported from Northern China. Also good for Hepatitis B and arthritis.”
I tried to look grateful.
She continued prodding her finger at my menu. “Next you like black chicken for PMT or special Whip Soup for aphrodisiac?” By the time we had fought our humiliating way to the end of the list she had prescribed an additional course of deep-fried scorpions on prawn toast, “for the brain,” two portions of a bizarre potluck panacea called Buddha Jumps Over The Wall, and a dish of menthol jelly for desert. We managed to steer clear of her final recommendation for double boiled snow frog’s glands with rock sugar to, “improve functions of liver and kidney.”
As soon as her back was turned we ordered a couple of Tiger beers to settle our stomachs.
It is not only the medicinal aspect of food that is dished out with headmistressy insistence at the Imperial Herbal. The Chinese believe that whatever you eat has a direct effect on the body. To be in perfect health the internal ‘yin’ - the cool, contemplative forces - should be kept in equilibrium with the ‘yang’ - the more active, hot energies.
Every food has its own energy, so eating ‘cold’ foods like mussels, cucumber, snake and bean sprouts, has a calming effect on your macho hothead, while ‘hot’ foods like chocolate, beef, butter, onion and chillies can invigorate the wimp.
And some foods have a direct effect on different organs in the body. Egg yolk, for example, affects the heart, peppermint the lungs, wine the liver, salt the kidneys, and sugar the spleen. The small intestines are affected by spinach, the large intestines by pepper, the gall bladder by chicory, the bladder by watermelon, and the stomach by rice.
Every dish at the restaurant is a balanced combination of ingredients and each one should be chosen to complement the next. It’s a hypochondriac’s heaven and might have proved pleasantly diverting were any of it edible. For sheer disgustingness I rate only Fernet Branca and school cabbage higher.
Some of it was virtually impossible to put into your mouth without stomach-churning panic. The scorpion, for instance, flipped its tail up as I bit it and hit me on the nose.
Our waitress returned with gusto to see how we were doing. She was clearly disappointed to see our unfinished plates.
“Eat your soup,” she commanded, fishing about in my bowl with a spoon. “See, here is nice lotus seed - make ginseng taste better. And sliced sea cucumber, and abalone - good for sex life.”
“Will it do anything for jet lag?” I asked queasily. “For jet-lag,” she said helpfully, “you need plenty sleep,” and bustled off to persecute the next table."
No links provided by the New Yorker for one of this week's Showcase pieces titled ART JOCKS penned by Alexi Worth which focuses on the new Joel Shapiro instalation in (on?) the Met's roof top garden (that's Mr Wilson's stomping ground). He kicks it off with a reference to Ad Reinharts quote on sculpture. "...somthing you bumped into when stepping back to look at a painting", then switched "painting" to "Dakota" for the occasion. Shapiros have long been the "must have" pool-patio adornment of choice in top (and near top) LA circles. He goes on to describe the five pieces, "flying Waleda like clusters of limbs", "speed skates", "marches", "topples", "kicks". "His biggest yet at 24' in bronze, aluminum and polychrome rocket-red."
You can tell he wants to slam them, but just won't spit it out. Not untill the final paragraph, I quote :
"Over the past thirty years, Shapiro's sculptures have become more insidiously likable and less conceptually demanding. Critics have implied that this is a bad thing, a drift toward Henry Moore-ish accessability. But Moore's matriarchs invite you to carress them; Shapiro's athletes want you to get out of their way. They project a healthy impatience, linking Degas's self-absorbed ballerinas to John Woo's kung-fu fighters. Sure, they're simpler and less mobile than we are. But they're also having a better time."
Finally ! (but he will still be able to eat lunch in this town again.)
9/9/00 now on a plane to SF after spending 4 hours in Cincinnati due to a delayed departure...i am wondering which SF lunch spot to drop off the list...the Delta Airlines lunch service begins, no veggie lunch for me as i'm not really on this plane, my veggie meal was eaten by a happy hippie whom forgot to call his own in on my missed connection...lets see Land o'Lakes Classic Blend (65% veggie oil and dairy spread), what is polyglycerol esters of fatty acids?? whom made it?? how?? and why?? it really is a good match for the caramal colored sugared up and dough conditioned bun!!! i wanted to add some salt to it but i hate my salt with dextrose carbonate's and silocate's
what did all the 80's coke dealers retire to the salt industry??...i move to the salad which is unlabeled and i'm happy cause i dont want to know whats in the tomatoe
how about rocky horror picture show as saturday afternoon tv fare? it seems a little off the wall and sexually explicit for that hour. which is not to say im not enjoying it. much funnier than a tiger woods temper tantrum. i guess at this point its really not much beyond the realm of zena. well except for the cross dressing and overt homosexuality or should i say that polyphonic perversity? ohh those crazy 70s. they were so......sumpin.