BotMan Returns: The Petty Annoyances of A.I.

What’s he doing? I’m sure it’s benevolent. Just look at those peepers!

I know you’ve all come to think of this site as your spot for the hottest takes, so here’s one: I’m more or less aware of the dangers of unchecked A.I., but honestly, I rarely have a beef with specific robots. The bleep blorps from Star Wars were innocuous, and I’m a big fan of the charming electroacoustically-generated “Harvard Sentences,” (Seriously. Do you know about this project? Serve the hot rum to the tired heroes, indeed!) Heck, I’ve even come to tolerate that googly-eyed doofus “Marty,” who gets in the way at Stop & Shop.

But lately, I’m starting to distrust one algorithmic entity in particular. No, it’s not M3GAN, the sassy, murderous babysitter/gay icon. It’s not even that disembodied head who hates the bus and gets human talk therapy.

The one whose circuit board needs a scramble is that smarmy WordleBot, with its absurd suggestions (“In this case, it’s best to pick the word you think is most likely”), and smug responses (“This choice wasn’t my favorite”). Like life isn’t hard enough? We need judgments directly from our trifling diversions?

Zoog and I typically do the Wordle together, and he, in particular, likes to push the boundaries of words the Bot will accept. The limits on non-English words, we have found, are almost non-existent. Recently it was Zoog’s turn to choose the first word, and he went with paseo, which is more English than Glückspilz, but less English than teapot. The Bot accepted. In fact, we were commended for a “strong opening guess,” and recognized as having more skill than luck. So true! It’s this kind of patronizing pablum that sustains me. No colored letters, but we’ll call it strategy.

As a side note, I’ll say that I’m also generally pleased with the robot’s own choices for guess number two; its go-tos seem to be GUANO and CHRONY and GROIN. Surely someone’s writing Wordle poetry with these beauties.

But of course those are long-recognized, orthographically supportable words, which the Bot’s picks are not always…

This leads us to a few days ago, when I chose the conservative STAIR as a first guess. Botty liked this choice, and commended me for being strategic, and as it happened, pretty lucky.

Then Zoog suggested VIGOR for the second spot, and we started getting some attitude (see below). “No worries,” Bot? Like your opinion matters so much to me? As if my day is somehow always better when you give approving feedback?? YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!!

Truth be told, I had a funny feeling the Bot wasn’t gonna like VIGOR, but love is letting your partner make a bad Wordle guess, and that’s the kind of magnanimous hero I am. Then I played FINER, hoping to fall back into Botty’s good graces, and that’s when things got weird.

"FINER was a good guess, but PWNED would have been more efficient,” said the analysis.

Say what, Bot? PWNED? I mean, there are probably many combinations of letters that “would have been more efficient” (whatever that means), but THEY’RE NOT WORDS. That’s like playing JXQZKK in Scrabble. The point is not just to compile high-flying phonemes. They need to be WORDS. PWNED? Was botty dropped in the bathtub? Is that just a typo?

As it turns out, yes, kind of.

Can’t you see this Zuckerberg Bro in flip flops and a hooded sweatshirt?

You can bet I took this straight to Google, and it looks like the Wordle Bot is a bit of a tech bro. Ugh. And he could have been such a nice boy, patrolling grocery store aisles like his cousin Marty. Apparently, according to the geniuses at haveibeenpwned.com, pwned means something akin to “controlled or compromised”— hacked, basically. It’s part of a group of “modified spellings” called “Leetspeak,” primarily used on the internet. I guess because “p” and “o” are near each other on the keyboard, you might mistype “owned” as “pwned.”

Oh, give me a break. Typos are now allowed in our word games? Being one letter off on the keyboard helps you solve puzzles? This is how A.I. rolls? No offense, but I call BILLSHOT.

Cookie Crimes: Holiday Edition

Like many people, we’ve found ourselves trying new things these last…oh, what’s it been, now— six years in quarantine? We’ve tried things we never thought were on the docket, like not visiting anyone or going anywhere, or not wearing pants while speaking with colleagues (sorry, friends), or shunting most major and minor holidays.

…like this one. I wanted to make this one. (I did not make this one.)

Perhaps it was the complete lack of Christmas this year— no travel, no family, no presents, no crowded concert halls full of people aerosolizing the Hallelujah Chorus— it was that lack of Christmas that pushed me to a brink I’d never previously known: I realized that for the first time in my life I wanted to make a gingerbread house.

No— this one. I wanted to make THIS one. (I did not make this one.)

Now, being 1) Jewish and 2) bad at baking, Christmas confections aren’t really my milieu, but neither is smelling my own tuna burps, and I’ve been doing that for a year, so maybe this could be a moment of enlarged milieux.

So I bought molasses and confectioners sugar, and a reusable pastry bag, and the dobobbies that go on the end of the reusable pastry bag, and I watched 50 videos online, and then, brimming with Christlike love (or at least Kahneman-like sunk cost fallacy), I traced templates, I measured and geometried, I bought horrible candy (lookin’ at you, dollar store spice drops and Red Hots), and spent hours mixing and rolling and baking dough so heavy I could barely lift it.

Then I spent hours more mixing up what amounted to spackling compound, spreading it over uneven surfaces, shoring up the weak points with corrugated cardboard, and telling myself it was pretty good for a first try. Right?

…but I did make a mess.

What I ended up with wasn’t quite what I had hoped. In fact, it made me wonder if I’d been too harsh on the nuts who denounce hysterically the War on Christmas. My gingerbread house could only be best described as a crime scene. So… I made like Sheryl Sandberg, and leaned in:

BREAKING NEWS:

It’s a crime that’s shaken a community. Early in the morning on December 23, 2020, SnowEllen Icy-Tubbs, a longtime exotic dancer at The Freezer, a club on the what some call the wrong side of the North Pole, was walking to her car, after a night of work. She’d made better money than usual—folks were in the holiday spirit—and she stopped briefly to count her dough.

Just then, from out of the shadows, a dark figure wielding a sharpened candy cane, confronted Icy-Tubbs and demanded the cash. Tubbs refused, and an altercation ensued, resulting, sadly, in a condition known as segmentation— fatal in snowpeople of her age (106 yrs).

Shocked and mourning, the town has opted to shut down Freezer operations, and demolish the site, but its clientele have vowed to seek “historic landmark” status for the building, which is made of Sweetdough, a thick, industrial half-inch gingerbread siding, comprising no corn syrup—only molasses (and cinnamon, for structure!).

I like Christmas, guys, I swear.

Fans argue that architectural details, including now-crumbling Romanesque rainbow spice drop roof finials and rare Red Hot quoins, should be enough to keep the edifice from the wrecking ball. “You don’t see craftsmanship like this anymore,” said Officer Brisk Winters, who asked us to use an alias, as he, himself, is a frequent customer at The Freezer. “And since you’re not usin’ my real name, I’d just like to say that you don’t see craftsmanship like what put SnowEllen together, either; it’s such a shame she came apart.”

City historians are confident that elements of the structure, which was first built 150 years ago as St. Olaf’s School for the Frigid, can be salvaged, including the (Jolly) Ranch(er)-style windows, and much of the glossy egg white trim.

“Basically, the question we’re asking,” says former mayor Kyle Shivery, “is this: just because an ancient stripper gets shivved outside a dilapidated adult entertainment establishment, does that mean it’s better for the community to erase all the happy memories of said establishment? To just forget the cheer and…hope… the establishment brought to our residents? The Freezer offers something for everyone, from unique structural details, to a sense of fellowship, to up-close snow booty. It’s an institution.”

Impassioned residents hope to create a memorial fund in SnowEllen’s name, which will be used to preserve the building, and establish a scholarship to send high school students to architecture school and/or [North] Pole dancing classes.

“I’m just happy to see such a cold-blooded crime leading to positive outcomes,” former mayor Shivery says, “and I do think they’ll keep the building intact. You put so much work into something, you buy all the materials, you spend untold amounts of time—even if it’s not perfect—I do think they’ll keep it. At least until March.”

Smoked Kippers and Lipstick

These were the contents of a package we received last month, from the WMPolar Seafood Company: A case of smoked sardines (half jars, half tins), which we’d ordered after Zoog ate some at a friend’s house and fell in love, and a package of makeup remover wipes, which we had not ordered from Polar Seafood, or at all. Happy Mother’s Day! the card read, Here’s a little gift from us as promised.

Here’s what I imagine must have happened at the fish plant…

Fish Plant Worker Guy: Eight hundred pounds of WIPES?? I ordered eight hundred pounds of WIPER!

Hybrid striped bass, AKA “wiper.”

Fish Plant Worker Guy’s Colleague: Listen, I think we can get ahead of this thing before The Boss finds out. What’s the only thing our customers care about?

Fish Plant Worker Guy: Fish!

FPWG Colleague: And what group does that leave out?

FPWG: Mothers!

FPWGC: And what does every mother need to feel refreshed, abluted and whole?

FPWG: A pack of wiper! I mean…WIPES!

FPWGC: That’s right, Chumley! And better yet, we can write up a little card that makes them think we’re fulfilling a promise by including a pack of wipes with every order! Good thing we’re thinking of all the moms out there, even if our ingrate customers aren’t!

FPWG: Errr…no chance we could re-brand them as a way to get the smoked sardine stench off your fingers, is there?

FPWGC: Smoked fish stench? Aren’t you listening, Chumley?! We’re talking about our legacy! We’re the seafood company that’s saving Mother’s Day! Now, open up every box we’ve just glued shut, and jam a package of these things in there!

-AND SCENE-

Well, I, for one, am not sorry about our supplemental gift. I plan to douse them in grain alcohol and wipe the COVID (and smoked fish stench) off my countertops.

Tray Chic?

I don’t always make irredeemably horrible craft projects, but when I do, I like to spend as much money on them as possible.

It all started with an interest in finding a faster way to get all the…crap— let’s just call it what it is— off my coffee table, which doubles as a blanket box. Sometimes I need access to my 6th grade bathing suit, or to the one pointed purple bootie a friend of mine knitted back in college. And I don’t want to have to clear off all the computers, watering cans, goldfish, salad cookbooks, succulents, etc. off it individually first.

A tray, thought I, surely a tray will revolutionize this process, allowing the…crap…to sit ON the tray when it’s NOT in use (though I defy you to think of a time when a succulent is NOT in use). Then I can just lift up the tray, rather than 1000 individual paperclips, when I need access to what’s underneath!

Like THIS genius….

Note how this young innovator transports the snacks themselves in a high-walled, corner-less glass tray, and how THAT container rests inside a SEPARATE, rectangular wooden tray.

The only problem is, purchasing a tray from The Man or from The Pottery Barn, or even from The Goodwill, is about 12% fun. Looking to increase the fun factor, I decided I’d decorate an unfinished wooden tray (about 70% fun). Then, knowing that any idiot can decoupage, and in the end, the tray is covered by crap anyway, I decided I’d cover the inside of the tray in tiny tiles, making one extraordinary picture: I’d make a MOSAIC! (98% fun, which is the legal limit in Massachusetts).

And the mosaic would probably look like this:

…except 11”x17” and flat. And rectangular.

Now, I’d sort of half-reared a “stained glass” project in seventh grade art class that was supposed to look a little like a mosaic, so I wasn’t starting from scratch, or anything. The only thing was New York State taxes had paid for that project, and this time, I’d be on my own.

So first, I had to buy a tray, which I understand is where the whole thing could have ended, but let’s not forget about Fun Factor, OK? So I went on Etsy and found one from Poland that was big, and sort of cheap (before shipping), and seemed like the thing to do. It arrived quickly, but likely flew here itself, because it was basically made of balsa wood. No matter, I thought; if it were really nice then I’d feel bad tinkering with it anyway. Here I am winning, AGAIN!

Then I needed tiles. May I ask you: Where does broken glass get off being SO DARN EXPENSIVE? Since I’m overly-optimistic (and maybe a little short on sense), I had to go back to the craft store, and back again, eventually buying 4 bags of tiles, and liking only about 23% of the shapes and colors they come in. But remember: I wanted a LARGE tray to hold ALL of my table crap. So I had a LOT of surface area to cover with devastating beauty, and only about half the materials. And I’d already spent like… like as much as what two of these are going for on Etsy:

Here is where I will insert an apt analogy: You know how when you’re starting to learn to hand sew—maybe for a day in Home Ec., or something— and there’s always a kid who doesn’t understand why you can’t just close a hem with ONE BIG stitch? Or, maybe, three? So instead of making a ton of little stitches like - - - - - - - -, they just wanna be all like

…and be done with it already? Well , I felt a small twinge of that as I entered TILE TO GO, or whatever the store is called, and was immediately drawn to eight, large, colorful (budget-friendly) tiles that I figured I could smash for authenticity. Sorta like making a few big stitches, eh?

NOW ALL I HAD TO DO was buy the goop that you stick the tiles down with, the goop you fill in the cracks with, the doobobby you smush it all in with, paint the tray, smash the big tiles, arrange the little tiles, and put it all together!

So a few dozen more dollars later, and there I am, realizing that if you want things to sit flat on the tray, the tiles need to be the same height, and I have purchased tiles that are NOT the same height.

I’ll just make up the difference with a thicker layer of goop, eh? That’s what you do with a lopsided cake. WHY DIDN’T I JUST MAKE A DANG CAKE??

And here is a closeup of one of the tray’s many stability issues. The tray and I may have more in common than I thought…

Notice, also, how the mastic (*I did learn some fun new vocabulary words) is cracking conveniently around the tiles. Incidentally, the tray now weights 800 pounds, from all the cement I’ve smeared on it.

But am I gonna let this giant waste of time and money win? No, ma’am! Since we all seem to have a little bit more time (and grout) on our hands, my plan is to put all the lipstick I can on this pig, including taking the plastic dobobby and scraping off whatever is stuck to the tiles. That should decrease the tray’s weight significantly, at least.

PSSHHHT. I didn’t even want to make it look nice, anyway. I mean, who even wants a tray to be beautiful? It’s just gonna get covered with crap.

The Snack That Tastes You Back

Greetings, throngs!

While I could fill you all in on the reasons for my relative absence over this last temporal stretch (new job, new city, New England), I would rather pay tribute to an unavoidable truth. The last 24 months have invited a nearly global need, shall we say, for diversion and Trazodone-- I mean good cheer and community engagement. No. What I actually mean is diversion and Traz, but since I'm rooted in a rather more "hugs-not-drugs" model,  we'll have to settle for substances that follow the same neurological pathways in the brain, the abuse of which can also land you in the E.R., or at least in the on the hunt for some waistband extenders... the greatest anxiolytic of all: Food. 

In these divided times, I think it's a good place to start. To quote a genius: "All of humanity has one thing in common: The sandwich."

Not so long ago, (OK, a really long time ago), Zoog and I were ambling around DC's Mount Pleasant neighborhood, and as often happens, we were stopping at every one of those Little Free Library jobbies that are popular now. Mostly we look because Zoog feels best when he is near trash, but this particular Little Free had a couple absolute gems, one of which was a copy of Women's Day magazine from 1955.

I'm a sucker for old periodicals. I love the escapism--err--history and insight they provide. And as luck would have it, this issue's cover features Adam Rippon's dad as a kid, or something, and the promise of not just a few, but one hundred and ninety-two paths to watch your cares, and your cheese, melt away: Varyingly-edible mid-century sandwiches!

Fun Fact: Before 1989, Americans were only 60% water, but over 25% mayonnaise.

Interested? Of course you are! Just grab a big tub of Oleo from your bomb shelter, and a loaf of your whitest bread. Then head upstairs to gaze into your wood-paneled electric icebox .

Today it’s quite likely you’ll find containers of exotic ethnic condiments like salsa and hummus. Open the meat and cheese drawer, and you might see some turkey breast or an aberration like— Heaven forfend— a plant-based meat substitute (are we still at war or something?). But the kitchens of yesteryear were stocked with heartier fare, as is made apparent by at least two-thirds of the sandwich “recipes” in this marvelous magazine.

It’s the snack that tastes you back: Sliced beef tongue! Cover your eyes…

…but really, in a profusely McNuggetted world, isn’t this refreshing? NO? Gonna hurl? Hmmm….

Now you’ve obviously asked your butcher to carve this organ up nice and thin (please let it be thin?), but you’re still stuck with four pounds of cow’s tongue. What to do? Eat up, mate!

Here’s one helpful prep. Don’t have time for all that fresh tongue gathering? Use canned!

The first line says it all: Mix tongue, cheese and chutney.

No, YOU mix tongue, cheese and chutney!

And because it’s the 50s, you’ll need margarine and milk. You know, I have to say that the act of grilling might take the foulest edge off the combination, sort of like tanning can make a person look .8% less obese.

But still, it’s not for everyone. Thank goodness there’s a curry-banana palate cleanser listed on the same page. You’ll note that spicy yum yum is “sandwiched” between two “recipes” calling for the placement of either strawberries or pecans upon circular pieces of bread, but not before moistening with mayo (not throwing stones, here; I know they’ve got 188 left to list…)

Don’t skip past the ingredients list at the top right, either: horse-radish, apricots and cream cheese. But at least it wasn’t ripped from a cow’s maw before you ate it.

If you’ve not yet acquired this taste for taste organs, there’s a less lingual option. If flakes are good frosted, why not “salads?” This ain’t no Betty-Crocker-Rich-and-Creamy-meets-Caesar proposition, it’s a sensible approach involving canned ham, mayo and cream cheese frosting (thinned with milk, because what IS this, 1925?) The “recipe” continues into the next photo, but don’t miss the last half of the “stack-ups” instructions just below. (In case your curious, steps 1-5 involved consecutive layers of radish-cucumber mayo, ham and swiss coleslaw, salmon salad, crab meat salad, and peanut butter, chili sauce, and bacon. Sounds useful to Delta Pi for their hazing rituals, if nothing else.) See for yourselves!

Still hungry? Fry up a quick banana-and-cheese (above) for a bedtime snack. Not sleeping so well? Maybe it’s because you ate a banana-and-cheese sandwich as a bedtime snack.

Woman’s Day, which started as an in-store recipe mag at A&P, had almost 5,000,000 readers in 1955, when this issue came out. They were therefore able to afford to print color photos, whetting appetites with images such as:

…these! Notice how “gravy bread” lovers are urged to take note. For some reason I’m reminded of my mother’s comment: “It looks like someone already ate it.”

Remember “stack-ups” from before? And I see a grilled cheese sandwich but if they think they can trick me into eating my “process American cheese” without tongue and raisins, they can go scratch.

Chuckle as we might at these endless combinations of cheese, banana, tongue, raisins and ham salad, Women’s Day is a gift to the modern reader, not so much for its innovative lunch solutions, but for its irreplaceable look into post-war America and the culture of domesticity.

The mock liver-pate might be lacking, but the magazine is 160 large, well-written pages. There’s even a story on a young scientist with a promising future:

All I’m saying is in an era of “Six Weird Things Celebrity Pythons Can’t Go Without,” and “Quick Tips to Get Your Boss Into Bed,” it’s refreshing that a periodical would really see something through to the end. Maybe even past the end. It was a time of hope— the kind of hope that begets the courage to invent Wiffle balls and cure polio and combine tinned fish and tropical fruits.

So here’s to the sandwich—even to the ones we’d never dare put in our mouths—and to the mouths that fill our sandwich.

A wistful list-full

FOOD

FEUD

I know, I know; I can hear you clamoring: How dare you disappear for nigh on two plus years, and expect us just to fall back into place as if we’re not different people now with different needs?!?

Yes, and we’ll get to that, but first: A shopping list!

By now you all probably know that Zoog can be rather…oblique. What fun is it, he surely reasons, to say the same thing time after weary time? Why not express every need—no matter how basic— in riddles and rhymes? How marvelous to invert and amalgamate! Why not fold, spindle and mutilate the very rules and conventions that allow us to communicate at all? Sure, we may get hoist on a petard or two of our own making, but that’s what keeps things spicy, America!

Pass the salt? No way. But I will send a brackish morsel forthwith. Hold this for you while you use the bathroom? Not a chance, Doofus. But bestow the freight encumbering your evacuation strategy, and I’m your helpmeet.

The only trouble—aside from the time all the extra syllables take—is that Zoog also employs this method when it comes to written communication, adding two other confound-able elements: orthography and penmanship. While his handwriting would make a roomful of doctors scowl, Zoog is quite capable of spelling things “correctly” (he was seventh grade spelling bee champion of J.T.Moore Junior High, but got booted from regionals on account of L-I-B-E-L), he simply chooses NOT to.

*[Quick disruptive digression: I’ve become quite adept over the years at deciphering his hieroglyphs, but was rather..errr..titillated by an extra loop of ink caused by one of his leaky fountain pens, which made the cursive “k” in the sentence: “I should write to others whose booKs I’ve admired,” to look like a “b.”]

More fun for him to transcribe impediments, accents, spoonerisms and stutters into any simple missive, as if Elmer Fudd or the priest from Princess Bride were demanding he take dictation: “Fatht away to th’ gwocewee thtor and pwocuah thevwal atomth, thuch ath….”

You’ll forgive me, then, when he sent me to the supermarket last week and I returned with only a single onion and a wrinkled shopping list:

Once you say it out loud a few times and channel several distinctive speakers (mostly of the under-five crowd), the items may become clear— sort of like my dad’s favorite birthday card urging the celebrant to chant an ancient native birthday mantra: OHWAH TANOL DEF ART IYAM—but some codes just can’t be cracked.

And so we starve most of the time.

And that is how we’re sticking to our new year’s resolution to slim down.

Be sure to subscribe to get more health hacks delivered right to your inbox.

And HAPPY 2019!

Do Not Bite Gentle Into That Cider Doughnut

I got no kick against fall. It's the season of my birth; I like the pretty colors of the trees; you can pick apples and carve pumpkins; there's five or six Jewish holidays, and only one that forbids eating. Fall can be downright tolerable.  

So forgive me, on this cold wet day, if I don my rose-colored glasses and ogle some photos I took during summer, which I think of as fall's ditzy younger sister. More over, Moira, Tammy's in town. 

One of this summer's best events was a trip to Maine, where a large and excellent chunk of my family lives. We have a cottage that seems to be slowly sliding down the side of a hill, but if everybody sleeps on their right sides, we can delay its progression. 

Anyhoo, the deer flies also enjoy our cottage, and like to prey upon walkers in the crepuscule. But we showed them! 

At first glance this probably just looks like Anita's charming garden sun hat. But take a closer look. 

Gross, right? Normally I don't celebrate hunting and trapping of large game, but this is such a clever (elegant, almost?) way to take a fly-free walk that I just had to share it. Sticky fly strips sit on your hat, and when flies land, they don't take off again. Plus, the juxtaposition of the cheerful ribbon and the horror show of the glue tape speaks to the Deistic absurdities of natural rights and power. Or, maybe it's just gross. 

In case your eyeballs need a cleanser... walk with me, if you will, to the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens!

If you've never been, you must go. It's full of wonderful things that even people who think they don't like flowers (ahem, Dad...) can still enjoy. 

...like this little charmer...

Tired of horizontal surfaces? Try this hip vertical bed, which is part of the accessibility garden. 

This comely frog is also part of the accessibility garden. What a juicy specimen! 

Moving still coastward, the trip included some great oceanic visions. I'm not likely to bask in the sun on a sandy white beach like a starfish; fortunately, my crusty ancestors forsook warm waves for the freezing crags that reminded them of home. Starkly beautiful, you might call it. A decidedly mai tai-free zone.    

This is a view off the shoreline of Monhegan Island, a wonderful spot inhabited mostly by artists and something like 60 year-rounders. The way to get there from the main(e)land is by ferry-- a trip I hadn't made in almost 30 years--and I thought it would be fun for Zoog* and me to putt across Muscongus Bay and spend the day on the island. 

*(Zoog, noun; partner, bae, boo, main squeeze, etc... transliterated from the Hebrew)

It was a little choppy on the seas (3-to-5-foot swells, for those keeping score), and our captain informed us before we set sail that it was so rough anyone who wanted was free to get off the boat and receive a full refund. But we all stayed put, thinking that with enough ginger candy chews and blessings from our rugged ancestorys, breakfast would remain inside our bodies. And that was largely true. But not for the woman behind us. Good thing they'd handed out "discomfort bags" to all the passengers. Poor thing was sitting in the middle of three people, and yarked and yarked...audibly...heart-breakingly....horrifyingly...for 45 minutes, as those in front of her clung to the railings and talked with great focus about teapots and stamp collecting. But once we reached land and kissed the sweet ground we were ready for a little tromp. And tromp we did! 

It's possible to hike all the way around the island, but if you want to stop and stare at the water and eat leftover lasagna, you can only do about 3/4 of it. Which was more than ok with Zoog, since he could probably detect my plans for the next day, when we hauled up to a *fabulous* view at the top of Mount Megunticook, in Camden.  

Fun fact: You are not allowed to dock at this inlet unless your sweater is tied jauntily around your broad shoulders, and you can prove a proper "boat shoes" tan. 

This is probably a good reminder that the memories stored in one's brain are often better than the ones stored on one's camera. If color's gonna be washed out, let it be washed out with sunlight.

What are we looking at? Where's the map? I thought you had the map. No? Ok, well, we'll just have to sit here and eat our trail mix, then.  

And let me say only that the climb was tough even for longer limbs... 

Warm rock brings out the lizard in all of us... brown lightly on both sides and serve with lemon butter sauce. 

Not Pikes Peak, but she's a noble hill. 

And some of the shorter-limbed hikers hitched a ride the whole way. CRat (pictured above) stowed away in the pocket of my cargo shorts, only to emerge when I dropped an M&M onto my lap. 

CRat displays the fullest extent of his magnanimity. Then self-administers a cootie shot.

Even Pierre, who, it should be noted, has no limbs, somehow made it to the top. He posed for this sweet brotherly picture without losing his balance and plunging into the scrub pine. A successful trip, if ever there was! 

So now, as the days get shorter...and the temperature drops...and the lattes get all tarted up with ingredients meant to jolt us into caffeinated fits of consumerism (PUMPKIN spice? You wouldn't know a pumpkin if it grew up your pant leg! Humbug!), I have these sunny memories to keep me chipper. Though I'm reminded of that saying so oft cross-stitched onto the scented pillows in every roadside knicknack store. Oh, Summer: I pine for you, and also balsam. 

I guess I'd better start looking on the bright side. The extra hour of sleep will be nice (that one night). I might sweat less in the course of a day. Mashed potatoes are back in season. That's probably the right attitude. And heck, in another couple months, the days will start getting longer again. 

Until then: Hello, Darkness, my old...friend?

That bright orb is the moon. Kinda makes you wanna howl, no? 

Adore-a the Flora

Q: What on Earth?

a) LEED certified shower heads

b) Exhibit at a Dr. Seuss theme park

c) Delicious with baby corn and soy sauce

d) Why must you quiz us so?

A: c and/or d. 

The same remarkable organism sometimes looks like this:

...and sometimes looks like this:

These are the rhizomes. You commoners may think of them as roots. Thanks, HuffPo!

We speak, of course, of the mighty sacred lotus, Nelumbo nucifera, the bean of India. Often appearing in Hindu and Buddhist iconography, the lotus springs up from the mud and symbolizes the potential beauty of all life, making it a perfect contender for residence in the NPS's Kenilworth Aquatic Garden  , which sits in one of DC's poorest neighborhoods. The Aquatic Gardens, it seems to me, has the highest ratio of awesome-to-unknown of any national park in the district. 

Hie thee hence, gentle readers! 

I mean, how often do you see something like this west of Rangpur?

"Not often!" says this handsome dragonfly. 

Some folks call these little spheres "seeds," but some call them "nutlets," which is the best term since "niblets," which itself, was only second to "bumfuzzle." Anyhoo, sometimes the nutlets are ground up and made into the filling for Chinese mooncakes. So add that to your rainy day must-do list. 

But that's not all: Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens also has an assortment of water lilies that would make Claude Monet poke himself with a paintbrush.

Oil paints or finger paints? 

Though not teeming with locals, the Gardens were populated that day by a busload of Japanese tourists, most of them shaded from the hot sun by umbrellas, which came in handy when hot sun turned into hot rain and poured down upon us.

Some of us got a little droopy...

Like this fellow...

...this is him fifteen minutes later. 

But the noble bean of India didn't seem to mind.

In fact, their leaves make little pools for small birds and fairies to splash in... 

Kind of makes you want to ladle soup into these babies, eh?  

This extreme hydrophobia (stronger than Mr. Whiskers' aversion to the bath) apparently gave rise to the term "lotus effect," which means water beads up and makes the leaves self-cleaning. It seems that science has taken note of this fact, but I'm thinking of practical home decor applications like lotus leaf wallpaper (kitchen? dorm rooms? vomitorium?), or DYI rain hat.

Unlike the staffers and tourists in DC, who get stinky and funk-i-fied in mid- to late summer, the lotus blooms quite happily when the barometer rises. It can stand the heat; perhaps it belongs in the kitchen...? 

So next time you're twisted up in yoga class or cruising down the highway in a $70,000 sports car    remember the humble origins of Nelumbo nucifera, say a prayer of purity and divine wisdom, and fire up that wok. 

What's in a Name? Naked Mole Rat Edition

Working at the Zoo has made a few things clear: March hares are mad; Goliath bird-eating tarantulas would rather snack on toads than Tweety, and naked mole rats (Heterocephalus glaber) are neither entirely naked nor much mole nor really rat. But they are...FABULOUS! Just look at those teeth! Those little paws! That tiny wrinkly body made translucent by the absence of adipose fat! 

These little subterranean treasures (they live underground in tunnels with 300 other family members) have dug their way right out of the dirt and right into my heart (seriously, don't ever let one of these things dig into your heart). I know they don't conform to traditional standards of beauty; but maybe their charm lies in the way their teeth grow outside their lips so they don't get dirt in their mouths when they dig with their incisors (the bottom two, by the way, can move independently of each other, like chopsticks). Hey: ALL God's critters got a place in the choir!

Here, Philip practices the last few notes of Nessun Dorma.

Pinkies-up is the proper petting etiquette, or "petiquette."

Anyhoo, last month I was treated to an exclusive behind-the-scenes/beyond-the-tunnel tour of the Small Mammal House, and now, I, myself, am one very happy small mammal. Move over fawning fennec fox-- ta ta, tawdry tamandua-- step off, servile skunk-- anyone can love an animal with big eyes and a furry little head. Gimme a mostly-blind largely hairless tube of skin that will chew through the wires any day!  

For all you fact-o-philes, here are some good ones to pull out at the next cocktail party:

• Naked mole rats are the only cold-blooded mammals.
• NMRs and their relatives the Damaraland mole rat are the only eusocial mammals; that means they live in colonies and obey the whims of a queen who fights to assume dominance (dibs on the rights to Rodentia Theatre's next production of Cymbeline.) 
• They are the longest-lived rodents on earth. In the wild they can live to about 30. If only the New York subway system were infested with these charmers instead of the hulking churls its got now.
• They can run as fast backward as forward. But they are also happy to climb over each other, especially if one stops to nap in a tunnel. 
•  They seem to be immune to cancer. I mean, their teeth are still pretty great, and everything...

Left tube? Right tube? Straight-ahead tube??? Charles is overwhelmed with possibilities. 

So now if we could just do a little creative rebranding on that name... (maybe we could upgrade the poor Screaming Hairy Armadillo while we're at it?) The Internet has suggested "Saber-toothed sausage," which I think has an agreeable cadence, but lacks elegance. Maybe we can call them cheetahs. Wait-- that's taken.  Huh. What if, instead of improving "naked mole rat", we just call every other animal by a more realistic three-word descriptor?  Snakes could be Scaly Legless Abominations. Cats could be Fuzzy Spasmodic Yarn-tossers. Sloths could be Smiling Moldy Tree-dwellers.

Dr Chris G Faulkes holds a test subject/friend. Photo: Antonio Olmos

 And until such time as this noble creature has a noble name to match, consider me a member of the Screaming Hairy Hominids. 

All Hail the Blessed Day Star!

Sunday was pretty extraordinary. The sun didn't just come up. Sun came out. Way, way out. And it shined the light of hope and justice and righteousness and everyone was feeling quite jolly. And just when it seemed the day couldn't get any brighter, out came the cheese board. 

Hard, Soft, Moldy, Stinky and Doc. 

I guess only two families can really say this, but for the next little while,  I have the pleasure of living next door to Joan Nathan, famous food writer, cookbook author, historian, cook, woman about town, etc etc...  Each year Joan hosts a totally fabulous fundraising event called Sips and Suppers, where Big Fancy chefs come to DC to cook dinner at various private homes and the money goes to charity. 

But this year, there was a little snag. See below. 

Going somewhere, were you??

So the event itself was postponed, but a healthy handful of Big Fancy Food People staggered through the snow to Joan's house, and some of them were preparing a totally delicious brunch, to which we were invited, for the fee of helping out. Done! 

The menu included...

Tiny pickled beets!

Jamon Serrano... complete with its own jamon Serrano holder. 

Smoked oysters... ok, so a lot of this stuff isn't kosher. But it's beautiful!

Spicy delicious shakshuka with eggs. Try it now! 

...ten different kinds of bread and sweet cakes and babka and merguez sausage...and...

Heeeeeeere's Alice! (and the back of Joan) 

Alice Waters. Alice bleepin' Waters! Ms. Slow Food herself! She brought no fewer than three dozen brown eggs, a bowlful of whole truffles, and the most beautiful piece of beef you've ever seen. This brunch, my friends, was no joke. It wasn't stuffy, either. Just a lot of high quality folks, and high quality chow, and a chance to hobnob, schmooze and chitchat with a decidedly different set. Ahem. 

And what of the day star, you ask? After I jammed all the food I possibly could into my face, I felt compelled to waddle out into the light and bask like a lizard in its glory. 

And boy, am I glad I did. 

Make hay while it shines, DC!

This shot was taken while sitting down in the snow like I was sitting in a beanbag chair, and bashing in a head hole to look properly up at the sky. 

And now, having illuminated the snow, and made it glint and gleam like diamonds, having elevated 30" x 200 miles of lowly frozen water, it's time for our blessed day star to melt it all into oblivion.