THE GURGLING COD

McIlhenny Roundup

From time to time, the sheer quantity of Tabasco-related items demands to be unleashed: 

The cinetrix sent along the following good news about Tabasco shelf life. The gallon, pictured below, would make a real statement as a wedding gift, dontcha think?

Elsewhere: Fitted Sweats roots for different professional sports franchises than I do. Unfortunate, because I would enjoy toasting the success of the franchises I root for with him. Nevertheless, his  Lisa Whelchel/hot saucing reset I followed further than I might have, for reasons unclear to me. Lisa Whelchel played Blair on The Facts of Life; "hot saucing" is a fundy child rearing technique where you put hot sauce on the tongue of your child if he sasses you, or espouses a belief in the empirical epistemes popularized in the Enlightenment or something. In any case, I followed the hot saucing story in the link, and found the following:

What do sauce manufacturers say [about 'hot saucing']?

McIlhenny Company of Avery Island, LA manufacture

Tabasco. The owners of the company condemn the use of the product for child discipline. President Paul McIlhenny called hot saucing “strange and scary and “abusive.”

Glenn Garner, marketing manager for the producer of Texas Pete hot sauce also rejected the use of hot sauce as a discipline method. “Obviously that’s not something that we condone or believe in at all…as a child I ate [hot sauce] because I enjoyed it, not because it was forced on me.

Big props to Paul McIlhenny for saying this is bad, rather than running away like a normal corporate bitch. The Texas Pete's guy, too. I owe both of you a drink. Way to resist the temptation of the "100s of uses" tag: Havana Nate's hot sauce makes your shrimp sparkle, and your children tractable!

Elsewhere, propers to the Tabasco folks for their efforts to preserve estuaries and whatnot on the Louisiana coast. Read all about it here. Ironic, considering the McIlheny family's legendary role in bringing the nutria to Louisiana. The nutria is a big old South American rodent that was introduced in Louisiana and promptly started having babies, and eating the bayou.  The relevant Google search suggests a variety of options on the specific role of the McIlhennys, (see esp Tabasco myths), but in any case, the nutria is nothing nice. However, unless your friends are much more mature than the Cod's I cannot encourage the purchase of a Save America's Wetlands bracelet.

#11: Those aren't currants

Via the estimable Muse of Brazil, ten things your farmers market won't tell you. Beat the crowds, stay at home, and enjoy Chris Kula's walking tour of the Greenmarket. A tip of the fin to LaD, who remains skeptical about the power of ice to keep things cold. From what I gather, Mr. Badthings was not entirely feeling the whole article, but it did have the salutary effect of reminding me that once upon a time, the notion of farmers markets involved a savings over supermarket prices, rather than jostling other Volvo XC70 owner/operators to pay dimebag prices for arugula. Well back in the day (in this case, "the day" denotes an epoch when Messrs Farrar and Tweedy were still on the same page), I recall a classmate of mine visiting the Soulard Market in STL, and being so overwhelmed by the inexpensiveness of it all that he ended up giving away all of his purchases to those who appeared less fortunate.  The venerable Haymarket in Boston is a remaining vestige of the old kind of market--deals to be had, but the axiom that produce comes from Cali, and the Haymarket is the last stop before they tip it into the Atlantic  ocean is a good one to keep in mind. Irregardless (batting .239 is ok if the box of clementines cost a dollar) the Haymarket is one of the only places in Boston where you can squint and pretend that there is a mosaic, Dinkins stizz. Everyone has a lot of front, and it is all equal opportunity, whether it is an Haitian grandmother buying fruit from a Korean couple, an Chinese woman buying cukes from an Italian kid with a pierced eyebrow, or anyone buying the expired cheese. With world enough and time, would consider establishing widcat booth at largely insufferable Charles Sq mkt, and selling heirloom crack.

Bluefish roundup

Not long ago, I asserted that some of the best food writing these days was coming from a cartoon cat. I stand by this assertion, though the most recent installment of Ray's Place (penultimate letter) offers some new wrinkles on his seafood advice, based on the Go fish/No fish cards I discussed in an April post on Charlie Weis and Pope Ratzinger. In the little knowlege is a dangerous thing dept, knowing those cards exist, but not having one, is daunting. Asked to select an entree for the Codparents, I stood slackjawed in front of the fish case, trying to remember about monkfish, and finally settled on bluefish, mainly on the grounds that they are insane and voracious, according to John Hersey. 

I pity the fool who uses my image for a conceptual art project.

And yet. Is this what happens when you look like the guy from Nirvana? No, the other guy. The A-Team debuted after Super Bowl XVI, wherein the 49ers beat the newly garish Bengals. I recall rooting for the Bengals, (this was back when Cris Collinsworth kept his helmet on) and being a little sad I was not allowed to stay up for the A-Team. It was the other Niner/Bengal SB that produced one of my favorite non-Vinatieri moments, but it is still worth restting:

The San Francisco 49ers were down by three points with 3:10 left when Montana spotted -- no, not an open receiver -- but a personality. "There, in the stands, standing near the exit ramp," Montana said to tackle Harris Barton. "Isn't that John Candy?" And then he led the 49ers 92 yards, throwing for the winning touchdown with 34 seconds left.

Easy to focus on the cool this moment manifests, but also, what a perfect level of celeb for Joe to choose. Any famouser would be distracting, any less famous would be not credible. I like to think it was not John Candy, and Monana was just settling his guys down. A chicken soup receipt would be the obvious thing here, but it is too darn hot.

The Food Court of the Damned

The disturbing franchise restaurant  has emerged as a recent  theme on these pages. First Italian ones of cheese, then Australian nonviolent curry shacks, and now, Western-themed French Steakhouses. Is there anything gayer than French takes on the wild west? I mean gay in the sense of  irritatingly kitchy, not in the sense of two men in love. Thanks to Texas Dave, who was moved to confess his awareness of this restaurant in the wee small hours of LaD's comments. Happens to the best of us, Dave.

Ring the bell for Pavlova

I am not much on desserts generally, and have in the past had occasion to comment on the pretense of the Artisinal enterprise, but this dessert sounds just about right for this time of year, but the backstory is even better:

The pavlova, a meringue dessert topped with fresh fruit and whipped cream, is an innocent-looking dish that has inspired quite a bit of controversy Down Under: Both Australia and New Zealand have through the years tried to lay claim to creating it. What nobody disputes is the origin of the name: The pavlova was inspired by the Russian dancer Anna Pavlova who toured Australia and New Zealand in 1926.

You have to figure that this is not as, um, intense as the whole Arab/Israeli falafel debate, but the spectacle of two nations bickering over a lady who visited 80 years ago is hard to admire. Granted,  she certainly did have a flair for the dramatic:

In 1931 she contracted pleurisy. Doctors could have saved her life with an operation that would have damaged her ribs and left her unable to perform. Pavlova chose to die rather than give up dancing. As she lay dying she is reported to have opened her eyes, raised her hand and uttered these last words: "Get my swan costume ready."

Also, it is astonishing to see a freebie receipt from a business that does not demand that you purchase a variety of specialty ingredients that only they can provide. Williams-Sonoma is a chronic offender, compounding the insistence on their dumb sausages or whatever with admonitions also to purchase their tools, viz fish poacher, fish lifter, fish lifter polish, fish lifter polish cozy, and so forth.

This week

The torrent of content may trickle a bit, as Cod, 'ix, Pickler, Codparents, et al prepare for annual 4th of July extravganza. If experience is any guide, we have some shopping to do. Be careful with those sparklers, and look for some jingoism later in the week.

Fighting words

No one in Boston really loves Tito, and he sounds kind of like a sissy here, but it is incredible to hear these words from the mouth of an acknowledged Philly guy:

And he won't be eating any cheesesteaks at Geno's, home of the original Philadelphia cheesesteak.

''Oh, my god, have you ever eaten there?" Francona said, recalling a time he used to eat there with his children. ''It's horrible. It's Cheez Whiz, and I've got four kids, and the kids can't make up their minds and the guy's yelling at them.

Knowing some Philly lifers who recently spawned, I have to blame Tito. I am confident that my young friends Elijah and Mabel will come correct when they make that first trip to the window.

Cheer up Detroit

Cinetrix and I caught the part of the game where it all got sour. I'll share municipally with you what I offered individually to Our Girl by way of consolation: No one will ever really love or hate the Spurs, and not to be loved and hated is the worst curse that can be visited upon a sports franchise. Watching in a bar without sound, we were spared Al Michaels, and I could also tell by lip reading what the San Anttoes were saying:
"MELTED CHEESE! WE WANT MELTED CHEESE! FINISH THE GAME AND POUR NACHO CHEESE INTO US!"
What else do they have? The only noteworthy people I can think of to spend time in San Ant are Robert Johnson and George Gervin, and that was a while ago. Also, San Antonio did not invent techno music, and cannot claim The Electrifying Mojo as a son. Not good enough? Enjoy the image at left which is not safe at for the workplaces of jowly Texans, but fine in more liberal climes. Image is from the estimable Culiblog, which LaD hipped me to.

Sticky

"What was unsettling was that the fluid just kept coming. It was quite a lot of fluid. On a hot day like this, you have to move fast."

Thanks to Fluxblog, who also has up one of the best Cristina songs from her latter-day Weil side, as opposed too the too-smart Madonna side.