Dazed and confused? Not me. I’m just Lost in the Cheese Aisle.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Princeton Cocktail
The Princeton Cocktail: sophisticated, elegant, a bit arcane, and fully capable of Getting the Job Done.

I had never given much thought to the fact that there exist mixed drinks named after various educational institutions... but apparently, Ivy League cocktails have been around for quite some time, according to an article that had been graciously forwarded to me by Leslie, the Omnibus Driver.

Some of these cocktails sound like they’re worth a try, while others inspire a certain degree of fear and loathing... and that’s based solely on their ingredients, not on their names. Nevertheless, given my educational provenance (and given the contents of my little Lacquer Liquor Locker), I had to give the Princeton Cocktail a try. Here’s what to do:

2 ounces Old Tom gin (I used Hayman’s)
Couple dashes orange bitters (I used Fee Brothers)
¾ ounce ruby or tawny Port, preferably chilled (I used Warres Tawny)

Combine the gin and bitters with ice in a cocktail shaker. Stir well and strain into a cocktail glass. Carefully pour the Port into the glass along the side so that it forms a (mostly) separate layer at the bottom. Squeeze a bit of orange peel over the drink and discard (the peel, not the drink, Harvard Boy.)

If you don’t have Old Tom gin in your collection of spirits, you can concoct a rough approximation by using two ounces of Plymouth gin with a half-teaspoon of simple syrup.

Savor this cocktail slowly. Owing to the layer of Port at the bottom, its character changes with every sip. Have a few of ’em, and they’ll transport you to the verdant fields and Gothic spires of Old Nassau.

Blair Hall HDR

Sunday, July 20, 2014


Me and Tucci
Me and Stanley Tucci... separated at birth?

They say everyone has a doppelgänger, someone who bears an eerie resemblance to another individual. I’m not sure there is anyone who has the unfortunate lot in life to be my doppel, but at various times in my life, there have been a few that - some have said - at least looked vaguely like me.

In my high school days, it was Dustin Hoffman. After The Graduate came out, all too many people would greet me by saying, “Plastics,” a bizarre foreshadowing of my career with the Great Corporate Salt Mine. And later, during the long years when I sported a moustache, other comparisons were inevitable

Now that I’m a bit older and my hair has become, ahhh, significantly less in evidence, new comparisons have begun to pop up... like the one pictured above. Not quite a “Separated at Birth” moment - Mr. Tucci is eight years my junior - but still...

Saturday, July 19, 2014


The other day I went to see the doctor, and he removed a mole.

No, it’s not what you think. The doctor was not my dermatologist, and I did not go to his office to have something snipped off my skin. This was Dr. T., a personal friend, and he and I were taking an afternoon dip in his swimming pool. The good doctor removed said mole - the mammalian variety - from said pool, where it had drowned.

The mole is a creature of the earth: A swimming pool, being mostly filled with water, is not its natural habitat. The poor little feller was out of its element, and a mole in water will fare little better than a fish out of water.

[Those inclined to squeamishness should probably stay on this side of the jump.]

Thursday, July 17, 2014


Sunbeam Stella
Astride a sunbeam, Stella seems to cast her own light.

Stella, the fluffy kitty
Has a very tiny nose
From looking at this picture
You might even think she glows


Montreal Steak Salmon
Roasted salmon with Montreal Steak seasoning, lemon zest, and piment d’espelette. Yowza.

Sometimes, to paraphrase the Incredible String Band, a fish on a dish is just what I wish. And when the good folks at Costco are selling slabs of wild-caught sockeye for a very reasonable price, how can I resist? I ask you.

I love salmon filets prepared any manner of ways, and simple tends to be best. I like to grill ’em on a well-soaked cedar plank, which gives them a nice light smoky flavor. The Missus will wrap them in heavy-duty foil and park them on the grill, a method that allows the fish to baste in its own natural juices. Delicious. And if that’s too complicated, twenty minutes in the oven at 350°F gets the job done nicely.

When it comes to seasoning the fish, there are all sorts of choices. Williams-Sonoma, purveyor of (mostly) overpriced foods and gadgets, sells an excellent rub under the name “Potlatch Seasoning.” Plain old salt and pepper work well, too, and you can go the Asian route with any number of variations on the teriyaki or ginger-soy theme. Lately, though, I’ve been happy with Montreal steak seasoning, a McCormick standard that works even better added to hamburger meat or sprinkled on fish. According to Wikipedia,
“...the Montreal deli Schwartz’s is credited with the creation of Montreal steak seasoning. The story of its creation is that, during the 1940’s and 1950’s, a Schwartz’s broilerman by the name of Morris ‘The Shadow’ Sherman began adding the deli’s smoked meat pickling spices to his own rib and liver steaks. Soon the customers began asking for the same. Due to its popularity, it eventually became a norm in Montreal delis and steakhouses such as the nearby Moishes Steakhouse and the Main Deli Steak House to spice their steaks similarly.”
This time I added another twist by adding a liberal amount of lemon zest and piment d’espelette, the fiery Basque red pepper.  Just what the doctor wishes he had ordered.

Oh, that green stuff on the plate? Arugula dressed with lemon juice and gremolata-infused olive oil. Sounds too frou-frou for you? Tough titty.

Monday, July 14, 2014


Ron was sick to death of the shop.

He used to love the place, no question. It was only natural that he ended up there, helping brother George run things after Fred was killed in the War. But the stress of dealing with customers was nothing compared with the gut-grinding agita of working alongside George.

So he left, opening a golf shop that was equally popular with muggles and wizards... for Ron’s practice balls could work wonders, magically bouncing off water, avoiding sand, and veering away from trees.

People would queue up for blocks to buy buckets of Strange Balls.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014


... who doesn’t like a tasty fool for dessert.

Lemon-Blueberry Fool
Lemon-Blueberry Fool.

When most of us think “British desserts,” we think of heavy suet puddings with picturesque names like Spotted Dick, Drowned Baby, and Treacle Sponge. And of course there’s the ubiquitous flaming Christmas pudding. All fine and dandy, but not what one would call summery.

There is a completely different sort of British pudding, though (pudding, that is, in the British sense - a generic name for dessert). That would be your fool, in its simplest form a concoction of berries and whipped cream.

The Lemon-Blueberry Fool shown above is a little bit more complicated. It combines two flavors that go together beautifully - lemon and blueberry, a match made in Food Heaven. The assertive sharpness of the lemon is tamed by converting it into a tart, silky lemon curd, while the blueberries’ flavor is intensified by gently cooking them into a compote.

The basic recipe is here at seriouseats.com. I made a few minor tweaks, to wit: (1) When making the lemon curd, I add the butter (cut into small chunks) after the sugar-egg yolk-lemon juice mixture is fully cooked, and (2) I strain the hot lemon curd before chilling it.

This stuff is light, yet satisfying. (Well, not too light. Butter, egg yolks, whipped cream, sugar. Oof.) It’s a perfect dessert for a warm summer evening... and it tastes every bit as good as it looks.

Monday, July 7, 2014


Today, July 7, is an anniversary of sorts.

I started keeping an Online Journal ten years ago today, with a post that, not surprisingly to those who know me, made mention of certain unmentionable digestive issues. (Online Journal sounds so more professional and important than “blog,” that distasteful-sounding nonce word that comes from hacking off the first two letters of “weblog.”) That was at a site I chose to call “Blog d’Elisson” out of a combined failure of creativity and a desire to honor my father. I was, after all, Eli’s son, and so that became my nom d’électron.

What was the point of all this? You may well ask. I had already accumulated a small pile of miscellaneous scribblings, and I suppose I was curious as to whether anyone else would find them amusing and/or worthwhile. All it took was a precipitating event to get me started. And, as I discovered later, there was the element of catharsis, as well: It felt good to write about certain things... even if they were painful. Writing as anodyne.  

The catchphrase I used on that site was “Another Monumental Exercise in Self-Aggrandizement and Time-Wastage,” the first such exercise having been the static website I started sometime around the turn of the century. I hesitate to try to calculate how many hours I have pissed away writing at both Blog d’Elisson and here, but when you consider that there is a combined total of over 5,000 posts at the two sites, you can assume that, at least, the Time-Wastage part of my mission has been successful.

As far as Self-Aggrandizement is concerned, blogging is not necessarily the most efficient way of tooting one’s own horn. (If that were my main concern, I would have been better served by simply renting a billboard on Atlanta’s Downtown Connector and slapping my grinning face on it.) My use of that term, originally, had been facetious... and yet I cannot deny the modest ego boost I got back in the early days of my bloggitry when I would get a new blogroll link - hell, any link - or a comment. Those, along with my pageview stats, meant that somebody out there in the Internet-Ether had read something I had written, sometimes liking it enough to lob a comment back over the net or plug a link into his or her own site. That somebody was most likely a total stranger, and yet those invisible linky connections, over time, sometimes morphed into real-life friendships. One element that made those friendships remarkable was their sheer unlikeliness: These were people I would probably never have encountered in everyday life - yet we became bound together solely by the strength of our ideas and our ability to express them.

That, to me, was what made Old-School Blogging special. It built communities... without necessarily intending to. And it did not rely on a self-selected network of “ffriends” to keep it going.

Alas, Facebook (which I refer to as “Farcebook” in my blacker moods) has eaten the guts out of blogging. That is, any guts that remained after the commercial interests jumped in. Most of the people who used to write personal blogs have given up and migrated to Facebook, where their connectivity is measured in their number of ffriends, their likes, their status updates, their shares. Blogroll links and comments just aren’t sexy any more.

That’s too bad, because - to me, anyway - blogs were where I discovered people whose politics were different from mine... or the same. People who looked at the same things I did and came away with completely different takes. People whose senses of humor were all over the map. People who saw the beauty in the mundane. People who were just plain nuts... but entertainingly so. People who could write... and make me want to read more. And people who interacted with you, people with whom you could have a dialogue.

Rob Smith, who styled himself Acidman on his famous - some would say infamous - blog Gut Rumbles, used to call his blogging “a ceaseless quest for adoration from people who don’t know me.” Sounds an awful lot like Self-Aggrandizement, doesn’t it? And that is hardly a surprise, for it is normal for males to seek the Three A’s: admiration, appreciation, and acknowledgement. Adoration and aggrandizement might be a bit more extreme, but they certainly fall somewhere in the spectrum with those other A’s.

Since mid-2010, I’ve been writing here at Lost in the Cheese Aisle, where the elements of self-aggrandizement and time-wastage, while still present, are no longer worth memorializing in the form of a catchphrase. The title of the blog comes from one of the Missus’s more endearing characterizations of me: when I’m acting especially distracted or confused, she calls it “being lost in the cheese aisle.” (I am actually capable of getting lost in the cheese aisle. Oooh, cheese!) That ADHD-ish facet of my personality can be exasperating, but I like to believe that it adds to my charm... at least, such charm as I may possess.

And I suppose I will keep writing here, albeit with diminished frequency. I started all of this Online Journalism for my own amusement - despite any and all appearances to the contrary - and as long as it continues to amuse me, I’ll keep flogging the beast.

Sunday, July 6, 2014


That was my reaction to this video of fireworks in West Palm Beach, Florida... filmed from the midst of the explosions, using a GoPro Hero 3 silver camera attached to a DJI Phantom 2 drone.

Remarkably, the drone was not damaged despite its proximity to the bursting shells.

Now I wanna get me my own drone. At the very least, I can use it to terrify the local conspiracy theorists.

Friday, July 4, 2014


Patriotic Toes
Our friend Arlene sports a snazzy July 4 toenail job.

On Independence Day, anything goes -
So get yourself some Patriotic Toes.
When red, and white, and blue adorn thy Nails,
Your Love of Country cannot ever fail.
Not all the Bombast of a Fireworks Show
Can match the Colors painted on your Toe.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014


When I am in a nasty mood,
Not all the spangled pulchritude
Of Vegas beauty pageant winners -
No porterhouses (grilled) for dinner,
Accompanied by dry Martinis,
And caviar-bespeckled blinis -
No cakes from the Cacao-Bean
Can serve to ease my vile mien.

Monday, June 30, 2014


Colander Spoon Elisson

If there’s a colander, I’ll wear it.
(If I’m feeling generous, I’ll share it.)

On this final day of June,
Check out my snazzy Colander-Spoon!

[Strainer positioning assistance provided by Elder Daughter.]

Wednesday, June 25, 2014


Eli Wallach, R.I.P.
Eli Wallach (1915-2014) in his iconic role of Tuco in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Tuco has gone on to the Great Shoot-’Em-Up in the Sky: Eli Wallach, the actor who portrayed him in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, has died at the age of 98.

Wallach, strangely enough, was one of the first celebrities I actually saw in the flesh. And he had the distinction of sharing my own daddy’s first name, Eli. How could I not like the guy?

Requiescat in pace, Mr. Wallach. Regardless of what Tuco may have said, I hope you never feel the Devil bite your ass.

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Velociman for the image.]


My Waterpik gave up the ghost the other day, announcing its demise in a schpritz of high-pressure water all over my midriff as I was waterflossing my teeth.

This was different from the faux pas of pulling the jet tip out out of one’s mouth while the machine is still running... a good way to get squirted in unexpected places: the eye, the right nostril, the armpit. (Don’t ask me how I know this.) No, I had the jet tip firmly ensconced in my mouth, and yet I was getting an impromptu shower. Fuck! thought I.

Sure enough, a hairline crack had developed in the hose that leads from the pump unit to the handle. It was, typically enough, right below the handle. This wasn’t the first time one of our Waterpiks had cacked in exactly the same way, so it wasn’t so much a surprise as a disappointment.

There was a silver lining in this damp cloud, however. She Who Must Be Obeyed had just been to Costco, where she had spotted Waterpiks on sale. Even better, it was a package deal: a full-size Waterpik along with a companion travel-size version, complete with its own carrying case. Perfect for those out-of-town trips. I had heard about this with only a mild amount of interest, but now, with a dead Pik on our hands, the Costco option was looking mighty attractive.

You don’t own a Waterpik? You should. These handy oral irrigator devices have been around for about fifty years, but not everyone owns one. That’s too bad, because waterflossing is really good for the gums and, in my case, has made a huge difference in the amount of calculus buildup my oral hygienist has to scrape off of my teeth every six months. Alas, being mechanical, they do not last forever... but the occasional need to replace our Pik is, to me, a cost of doing business. Nevertheless, I’d love it if there were some way to replace a cracked hose without having to buy a whole new appliance.

Update: According to commenter Jackie, replacement hoses are available from both Amazon and from the Waterpik website. Sure enough, they are. I’ll keep that in mind next time we blow out a Waterpik hose. 

Sunday, June 22, 2014


...P.P.S. please if you get a chanse put some flowrs on Algernons grave in the bak yard...

- from Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes

Daniel Keyes, author of the tragically brilliant short story Flowers for Algernon, died last week at the age of eighty-six.

The story concerns Charly, an intellectually challenged man - in older, less politically correct days, he would have been called “retarded” - who is given an experimental treatment that raises his IQ to genius level. The story’s first tragedy is that his increased intelligence allows him to see that many of the people he regarded as his friends had, instead, been cruel and abusive. The second tragedy is far worse, however: The treatment is a failure because it is not permanent. With enhanced brainpower, Charly sees his future decline, his return to the world of slow-wittedness. It’s heartwrenching.

Keyes expanded his 1959 short story into a novel - not entirely successfully, in my opinion. But Flowers for Algernon has also seen several screen adaptations, notably the 1968 movie Charly, which featured Cliff Robertson in an Academy Award-winning role as the titular character. (I am a bit horrified that there has also been a musical based on the story as well.)

Who is Algernon? you may ask. He’s the mouse upon which the treatment is first tested, with positive results that are encouraging but ultimately all too fleeting: Algernon’s decline allows Charly to see what awaits him as well.

So now, if you get a chanse, please put some flowrs on Daniels grave. Ave atque vale, Mr. Keyes!


This evening the Sommelier Guild returns once again to the Chops Lobster Bar. It’s time for the annual banquet, typically a monument to wretched winey excess.

My attendance at the Guild’s banquets has been hit-or-miss, given that June is usually our Traveling Season. But we’re back from our big summer trip now, and I suppose one more tying-on of the Feed-Bag won’t make too much of a difference in the grand scheme of things.

There will be a host of excellent wines, along with a few of my favorite proteins to accompany them on their voyage down my gullet. Here for your delectation is the evening’s List of Provender:

NV Collon Champagne Brut**

First Flight
2012 Domaine des Valanges Mâcon-Prissé “Le Clos” - Mâcon, Burgundy, France**
2009 Pegasus Bay Chardonnay - Waipara Valley, Canterbury, New Zealand
Lump crab cakes, mustard butter sauce

Second Flight
2000 Beaucastel Châteauneuf-du-Pape - Vallée du Rhône, France*
2007 Xavier Vins Châteauneuf-du-Pape Cuvée Anonyme - Vallée du Rhône, France**
Lamb rib chop, Brussels sprout leaves and mushrooms

Third Flight
2009 Anderson’s Conn Valley Right Bank - Napa County, California***
2007 Chalk Hill Estate Red - Sonoma County, California**
2007 Joseph Phelps Insignia - Napa Valley, California**
Filet mignon with two sauces, creamed spinach, organic mushrooms
(First half of filet served with sauce Béarnaise)

Fourth Flight
1998 D’Arenberg Dead Arm Shiraz - McLaren Vale, Australia**
2005 Bernard Faurie Hermitage - Rhône, Hermitage, France***
(Second half of filet served with sauce au poivre)

2003 Bretz Bechtolsheimer Petersberg Eiswein - Bereich Nierstein, Rheinhessen, Germany**
2005 Heyden Oppenheimer Sackträger Beerenauslese - Bereich Nierstein, Rheinhessen, Germany*** (Half of the tables will receive the eiswein and the other half the beerenauslese)
Chef’s Surprise Dessert (Bread Pudding or Orange Crême Brulée)

1995 Turley Aida Vineyard Zinfandel*****
2004 Andrew Will Sheridan Vineyard Red Wine**
2011 Redoma Douro*
2011 Gevrey-Chambertin Vieilles Vignes - Morceaux***
2010 Rhys Anderson Valley Bearwallow Vineyard Pinot Noir****
2007 El Olivar Malbec Viu Manent Single Vineyard
1993 Langtry Meritage**
2007 Weingut Bründlmayer Grüner Veltliner Alte Reben**

So far I have never been disappointed with the food at Chops Lobster Bar, and this dinner was no exception. Only later did it strike me that the one thing missing from the menu was any form of starch... and that was fine with me. No drab, dreary potatoes or pasta to get in the way of the perfectly seared lamb chop, the à point beef filet. The sides, consisting of tiny Brussels sprouts and sautéed mushrooms, were just the right counterpoint to the rich proteins. And the wines? With one exception - the unfortunate 2009 Pegasus Bay Chardonnay, which had a strange, dense flavor - the wines were anywhere from good to excellent. And if twelve wines on the menu were not enough, there were plenty of other bottles being passed around.

Gotta try to make these banquets more often... this one rocked!

Sunday, June 15, 2014


[Originally published on Father’s Day, June 20, 2010.]


These are the hands that raised me. They are my father’s hands.

As a child, I would watch those fingers fly over the valves of his trumpet as his foot would tap out the metronomic beat. He would then sit down at the grand piano and those same fingers would coax beautiful music from hidden strings.

The hands are older now, spotted with age.  But they still make that same beautiful music, and it makes my heart sing with sweet memories.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Postscript: I wrote the above post on Father’s Day of 2010. It is especially noteworthy because it was the first - and only - time my (notoriously technology averse) father ever left a comment on one of my blog posts. Here’s it is:
Eli (hiz own self) said...
It is absolutely amazing but I recognized my own hands immediately! Thank you for the sweet thoughts. It’s good to be a Dad who is appreciated and loved. D.O.D.
For the curious, D.O.D. stands for Dear Old Dad, which is how Eli styled himself in the cards and letters he would send me. He’s gone now, but that beautiful music will always be in my memories.