[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Something

  • From: Omar Kusturica <omarkusto@xxxxxxxxx>
  • To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
  • Date: Sun, 25 May 2014 22:33:29 +0200

There are several causes of hangover; one is dehydration, which will be
caused by any alcoholic drink if drunk in some quantity, but it can be
taken care of by drinking plenty of water the next day. Another is ethyl
alcohol, small quantities of which are found in wine and beer. Strong
spirits, if properly distilled, should not contain ethyl alcohol. However,
the emphasis is on properly.


On Sun, May 25, 2014 at 7:58 PM, David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>wrote:

> because our guest were chinese and german
> and because we knew little more than the fact they are both mathematicians
> we had to have a bit of a think
> before deciding the best thing to look for
> at the beaverton market might be
> yak
> for burgers
> to be cooked in the pink
> with chips
> I've been reading Jan-Erik Pettersson, "Stieg Larsson; The Real Story of
> the Man Who Played with Fire."  I'd call it an "excuse" for a book if that
> didn't sound so harsh.  What I mean is that Pettersson wanted to write a
> history of the European far right and found in Larsson a convenient peg on
> which to hang his thoughts.  Good move; I wouldn't normally have bought a
> history of thugs and nutters, but it's interesting.  I mentioned some of
> this to the chickens when they gathered around.  I was doing that, "let's
> have a beer and digest the day's information" thing, trying to take in the
> beauty of the light on the trees, when I felt a pecking at my ankles.
> "I'm reflecting," I said.
> "Popcorn?  Of the cheesy sort?"
> "Or chips?"
> "I'm enjoying the light on the trees."
> Cheddar, "His feet don't taste quite like they smell.  It's a funny thing,
> sometimes, with food."
> "Try his trousers."
> "Can't.  He keeps shoving me away with his foot.  Maybe he's not in a
> benevolent mood?"
> "Jump up on the table.  See if he's got popcorn hidden about his person."
> "Ladies," I said, "I'm not deaf.  It's just not 'l'heure du popcorn.'"
> They looked puzzled. moved their heads as if something wasn't quite coming
> into focus.  "Well what 'l'heure' is it?"
> "C'est l'heure du bugger off and leave me alone," I responded.
> "Oooooooh, get him!  Talking foreign."
> They walked away.
> Minutes later they were back.  "What 'l'heure' is it now?"
> "I'll get the popcorn."
> Appenzeller is still doing the try-to-hatch-infertile-eggs thing.  We lift
> her out daily and she goes running towards water and food, wanders around,
> and then instinct takes back over.  "I've a mind," she said on Monday, "to
> try the fast-unto-death thing."
> "Gandhi?" I said, with Gallic shrug, "what on earth would you be
> protesting?  Life of Riley."
> "I'm not protesting," she said, "I'm thinking of dictating a book on how
> to lose weight through suffering."
> "'Forty Shades at the back of the Shed'?"
> My father has developed a test for distilled alcohol. The theoretical
> basis is that volatile esters are responsible for hangover symptoms.  He
> doesn't drink in large quantity so I assume he's referring to something
> short of what the French call, "The head of wood." Anyway, the way to test
> for these esters, he says, is to heat the alcohol just a bit and then use
> your nose, which is far more sensitive than the tongue. Following thus far?
> It's a relatively simple test to perform: someone gives you hooch, you pour
> a drop in your one hand, close the other one over, rub, stick your nose in;
> if what you smell is smooth, then the alcohol is fine, if it seems like it
> may be removing the lining of your nasal passages this liquid might be
> something you'd want to avoid. I mention all this in preamble to a
> revelation and a confession. The revelation is that not long ago I bought
> hooch in Switzerland, trusting that the People of the Tell would not lead
> me into the path of misery.  Ha! The bottle I so carefully brought back, no
> one here will even pour on peaches. I thought about handing what's left to
> some homeless man, but who wants that  responsibility? We use the stuff to
> set Christmas puddings on fire.  Rest of the tale.  Yesterday morning I
> finally tasted--at the Beaverton Farmer's Market-- a gin made in Portland.
> I write "finally" because there is a stand in the airport, promoting said
> gin.  I shan't name the gin...for reasons which will become obvious.  So, I
> took a taste.  And then the Swiss lapse, bubbled to the surface of my
> consciousness.  "I ought to do the test." The demonstrator guy was
> distracted, so I did my hands thing, poke my nose forward and...make one of
> those noises cats manufacture immediately before a hairballectomy.  Holy
> horrors, Batman!  We hurried away, with J. describing in detail the
> demonstrator guy's face.
> David Ritchie,
> Portland, Oregon
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