Instant Noodle Review: Mama brand; shrimp flavored. From Thailand

So I bought a dozen different kinds of ramen-type noodles at the Asian Market here in Provo yesterday. Being a bachelor, I eat a lot of instant noodles -- so I wanted to compare them, see which, if any, are superior, and which, if any, are foul enough to avoid.

The package says to pour boiling water over the Mama noodles and let stand for three minutes. I'll add a raw egg to the dry noodles, along with some parsley and pickled carrots.

After it was done steeping, I put in a dash of lime juice and a squirt of fish sauce (which I put in just about everything except french toast.) I'm having a mug of chocolate soy milk with it.

The noodles kept their firmness, which made for a nice mouth feel. The broth was very good, but of course that may be because of the raw egg. The whole shebang only lacked for some scallions. This brand is extremely convenient, since I don't even have to dirty a pot to boil the noodles in -- just pour boiling water over 'em from my tea kettle. This is a brand I'll stock up on again. One package costs 49 cents.

John Kelly Puts His Foot in His Mouth Talking About the Civil War

If, by appearing on Laura Ingraham’s show on Monday night, John F. Kelly was trying to do damage control after the indictments of Trump associates earlier in the day, it did not work.

Instead, Mr. Kelly, the White House chief of staff, resurrected the debate over Confederate monuments — previously fueled by his boss, President Trump, over the summer — and the Confederacy itself. He called Robert E. Lee “an honorable man who gave up his country to fight for his state,” said that “men and women of good faith on both sides made their stand where their conscience had them make their stand,” and argued that “the lack of an ability to compromise led to the Civil War.”

The reaction was swift and unforgiving, with many commentators ridiculing Mr. Kelly for suggesting that slavery was an issue on which a compromise could or should have been reached.  from the NYTimes.

Don’t talk about the Civil War --

You’ll only make the pundits sore.

Although we won it fair and square,

It still is cause for tearing hair.

Consensus on its background lacks

The full support of pesky hacks.

Historians cannot agree

How to handle Robby Lee.

Was he villain, was he saint?

A unifier he sure ain’t.

IF I were the White House staff,

I’d stay as silent as giraffe . . .

Sundar Pichai and the Google Cheeseburger Emoji

From Time Magazine:  Google takes its emojis very seriously.

Responding to criticism about the placement of cheese on Google's version of the cheeseburger emoji, Google CEO Sundar Pichai said that he would take a look at the issue immediately.

"Will drop everything else we are doing and address on Monday :) if folks can agree on the correct way to do this!" Pichai tweeted.

The cheeseburger emoji that poor Google did create

Has caused a lot of heartburn and a bit of feral hate.

They put the cheese beneath the meat, which ev’rybody knows

Is not the way it’s done, except by Martians, geeks, and schmos.

Sundar Pichai, who is boss of Googleland, has vowed

This pasteurized protagonist will never be allowed

To sully screens or media where pictographs are used

Until a firm consensus on its whereabouts is fused.

The controversy rages -- should it go upon the lid,

Or should there be two patties with the cheese placed in the mid?

Oh Sundar, hurry up and think of something that won’t miss --

Before the world goes mad and ev’rybody uses this:    

The Noisy Ocean

Noise pollution has been a growing problem in the oceans and other large bodies of water for decades. Commercial shipping, oil exploration, recreation and even scientific research are all raising the decibel levels within marine habitats, adding to naturally occurring rackets like earthquakes, crashing waves and tidal changes. And because sound travels farther in water than air, each new source has an outsize effect.  From the NYTimes.

The ocean is a noisy place for oysters and seahorses;

The sardines never get to hear the coral’s fine discourses.

What with ships that churn the waves with deafening commotion,

The mermaids now need hearing aids deep down within the ocean.

The sharks and eels are so annoyed at such incessant drilling,

They plough the sandy bottoms with their heads -- like rototilling.

The song of whales is drowned by scuba divers’ bubbly chatter,

And scientific submarines cause jellyfish to shatter.

The starfish fall; the shrimp go limp; the blowfish is deflated --

Even bottom feeders are becoming nauseated.

To stop the din I recommend we fill the seven seas

With soundproofing material -- such as Velveeta cheese!

***********************************************************

Journalist's response:

Interesting story - and a great poem!

--

Saabira Chaudhuri

The Wall Street Journal

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London, SE1 9GF

Phone: +44(0)2078429252 Mobile: +44(0)7768464939

A Good Deed a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Scientific evidence supports the idea that acts of generosity can be beneficial when we volunteer and give back regularly — and not just after a natural disaster. Volunteering is linked to health benefits like lower blood pressure and decreased mortality rates.
from the NYTimes

If you start to feeling blue

Here is what you ought to do.

Help someone along the way

To improve your health today.

We are built to obsolesce

From too little or excess.

To disasters we are prone;

Mother Nature makes us groan.

Docs say that the Golden Rule

Makes our illnesses less cruel.

Volunteers are awful smart,

since their health is off the chart.

Photo Essay: A Sunday morning walk through my neighborhood

A Letter to my Daughter Daisy

Hello, my little kumquat!

I look forward to seeing you soon, before you go into the MTC here in Provo. How happy I am that you have soldiered on, despite setbacks and delays, in making yourself worthy and solvent enough to go on a mission for the Church! I am checking with my Bishop to find out how I can support you each month with that $25 we talked about before.

Now Daisy, I promised myself when you received your call to the Irvine California Mission that I would not burden you with tedious advice or tiresome maxims -- but I do have one story I would like to share with you concerning my initial conversion to the Church back in 1971.

As you may remember, it was my clown colleague Tim Holst who first got me interested in the LDS Church. Through his example and friendship I agreed to take the discussions from the missionaries when he asked me to.

I was initially skeptical about it, because I had been approached by other proselyting groups before -- wanting to sell me magazines and other claptrap. So I was on my guard with the two Elders who came over to Tim Holst’s roomette on the train several evenings each week while the circus was in rehearsals down in Venice, Florida. They weren’t going to pull the wool over MY eyes!

In fact, at one point in the discussion they asked me if I would like to have the Priesthood of God, and I cannily replied: “Maybe. How much does it cost?” They were quick to explain it didn’t work that way!

I eventually did feel the Holy Ghost testify to me that what they were telling me was true, but before I reached that point I was deeply impressed by something else. By their brotherly kindness to each other. This is what kept me asking them to come back, even though I refused their invitation to be baptized several times in the course of our discussions.

The senior companion was a big husky fellow, a former quarterback on the BYU Cougars team. He was tall and handsome; a very confident guy with a big winning smile. His handshake was as firm as the Rock of Gibraltar. His companion, in comparison, was a shrimp. He was straight off a dairy farm somewhere in Idaho. He parted his hair in the middle, was slightly cross-eyed, and stuttered a bit.

What I still remember to this day about them is that the senior companion treated his junior companion with such sincere love and affection that it caused me to choke up each time I saw them together. The senior companion let his junior handle almost all of each discussion. Back in those days the missionaries used a flip chart with pictures and questions on each page -- which they kept flipping as they discussed each aspect of the Gospel. That little junior companion would stutter out a phrase or two, and then sometimes drop the flip chart -- but his companion never criticised him or tried to take over. He would bend over and hand the flip chart back to him with a smile. And the junior companion would smile right back at him.

That feeling of harmony and brotherly kindness between the two of them made me want to experience the same kind of thing, and I began to hope I could find it in the LDS Church.

As you know, they finally succeeded in getting me to accept their invitation to be baptized, and Tim Holst baptized me on New Year’s Day at the Sarasota Chapel. That evening the train pulled out for Tampa, and I never saw those Elders again.

On my own mission in Thailand I always tried to emulate the brotherly kindness I had seen demonstrated -- with varying degrees of success. Most of my companions were good company -- often very well educated and poised. They were easy to respect and get along with. But some of my companions, to put it bluntly, were bumpkins and slackers. Sometimes I was able to love them anyways. But sometimes not.

If there was one thing I could change about my mission in Thailand, it would be to have made more of an effort to show kindness and to be encouraging to those companions who were the least lovable. As it was, I never regretted any kindness I ever did for any of my companions. I wish I had done more for them. They each did a lot for me, whether they realized it or not.

I hope, Daisy, you can take away something from this story to help you be a better missionary out there in the wilds of California.

Con gran afecto,  the dadster.

***********************************************************************************************

Daisy's response:

Dad, 

Thank you for that story! I have been reminded several times by friends and family that some of my companions will be hard to love, but not to worry because HeavenlyFather can give me the love I need to work with them. I will strive as hard as I can to love each of my companions as Jesus would. That is one thing I am nervous about, but mostly I’m just excited and ready to go! 

I am so ready to see all of you and spend time with you before I leave :) And you don’t have to worry about supporting me on my mission;  I have been able to raise all the needed funds  myself since the Packers never charged me rent. I do thank you for your willingness to contribute though. If you still would like to contribute, there is a place on the tithing slip for the general missionary fund to help other missionaries who may not have had all the funds to go. Or you can donate to the humanitarian aid.  Either of those are wonderful ways to contribute:) 

Thank you for your stories/lessons. I appreciate your knowledge and talents. Love you Dad.

Most Sincerely, 

Daisy Torkildson 

The Clowns That Dwelt in Marble Halls

The years have fleered away my big dreams and plans, so that today I am content to live in a modest apartment, on a modest pension, with nothing but modest expectations until “The Fellow in the Bright Nightgown,” as W.C. Fields called him, beckons.

But once, long ago in the golden haze of youth, I dreamt that I would dwell in marble halls -- that renown and fortune would favor me as a circus clown, and all the world would pay homage to my risible talents as they did with Chaplin and Jerry Lewis. Was it folly to yearn for that universal respect and affection that the truly great buffoons garner? No, I don’t think so. For I believe that every true clown, deep down inside, wants to consort not with tawdry things but with nobility and light. And that is why great clowns are so immensely, and tragically, funny. They yearn for beauty, yet leave nothing but confusion and destruction in their wake.

That is why there are so many circus posters and photographs of clown and showgirl -- of booby and the blessed. The contrast between grotesquerie and elegance is amusing, to the unthinking masses -- and heartbreaking to the few who care to look deeper into the matter.

There is a poignant moment in Laurel & Hardy’s movie The Bohemian Girl where Jacqueline Wells sings the wonderful opera tune “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls,” while Stan and Ollie look on -- Stan with his usual befuddlement, and Ollie with tears in his eyes; he, too, is dreaming of those unattainable marble halls that a lowly clown can never enter. It is a moment beyond comedy and past pathos. It is that uncomfortable juncture where we realize how alone the clown really is -- and by comparison, how alone we all are from time to time.

You can watch this touching interlude on YouTube, for free, at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26tIOTH2u4g

Just have a box of Kleenex close at hand.

Media Spawn

“I cannot believe the media produced such beautiful children,” President Trump marveled, surrounded in the Oval Office by the Halloween-costumed offspring of White House reporters. “How the media did this, I don’t know.”  from the NYTimes.

They may be cuter than a bug, but still their parents creep

Around the White House dissing Donald Trump and his nice Veep.

I wouldn’t put it past ‘em to send out their little tykes

To spy upon Republicans while riding their Schwinn bikes.

I bet they’re raised on porridge stirred with liberal agendas,

And told that walls are naughty and not fit for haciendas.

HOW can a reporter raise a kid to be impartial?

It’s in their blood to protest and to march with footfall martial!

Beware their pressing gaze this Halloween; they may be nosing

Around for closet bones that they can tell are decomposing.

Children should be seen, not heard -- especially when scribes

Are training them to grow up to invent new diatribes!

How Long is Facebook's Nose?

Whether something is removed from Facebook is often dictated by its terms of service, which define standards of behavior on the network. Those standards prohibit posting nudity and threats of violence. But misleading users — even outright lying — aren’t necessarily against the rules. And that’s hard to police.

From the NYTimes.

Telling lies on Facebook is easy as can be.

Social media is made for basic forgery.

If you believe that Facebook provides reality,

I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn you really ought to see.

As Winter Sets In, Small Shrews Shrink Their Skulls and Brains

“As cold weather approaches, tiny mole-like creatures known as red-toothed shrews will shrink their own heads, reducing their skull and brain mass by as much as 20 percent . . . “

From the NYTimes.

Consider the ochre-toothed shrew,

Who takes wintertime as a cue

To shrink its own pate,

Which some recreate

In Congress as tax schemes accrue.

*********************************************************

Feedback from the media:

From Josh Chin. Wall Street Journal:
"Fantastic work Tim. One of your best, even if was inspired by a rival paper."


From Patrick Coolican. Minneapolis Star Tribune:
"Well done." 

Restaurant Review: Ricas Pupusas, in Provo.

Ricas Pupusas is on Center Street in Provo, just next to the Fresh Market. They have a decent variety of pupusas, all costing $2.50 a piece. One thing I can't figure out about pupusas -- do you eat them on a plate with a fork and knife, like a pancake, or do you pick them up, folded in half, like a slice of New York Pizza? Since mine were served in a flimsy cross-hatched green plastic tub, on a piece of wax paper, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say they're meant to be a finger food. But I requested mine be put on a ceramic plate, anywho.

You get a squeeze bottle of salsa and a jar of shredded cabbage with your pupusa. The cabbage is obviously out of a bag from the supermarket, and the salsa is so inoffensive and bland that it's more of a moisturizer than a condiment. 

I had three different papusas:

Spinach and Cheese:  Pretty tasteless.

Pork:  Or rather, pork mush. Tasty, but the mouth feel is all wrong.

Chipilin:  I hit the jackpot on this one. Chipilin is a roadside weed that flourishes in Mexico and Central America; the leaves are used in salads and soups. This pupusa was savory and full-bodied. I could happily eat four or five of 'em at a go. Highly recommended.

I give this place three Burps. It's modest, knows it's modest, so the staff are friendly and quiet. Just the place for a casual snack, without the heavy high carb rice and beans most places tack on, and charge an arm and a leg for. 

la mort d'Otto Griebling était en partie ma propre mort

Les clowns ne sont pas censés mourir. Ils sont encerclés avec des maillets et gonflés avec de grands bâtons de dynamite rouges, mais ils sont supposés courir après le coup fatal et ensuite saluer joyeusement la foule.  Ce n'est pas juste quand un clown meurt. Ou quand l'amour meurt. Ou un enfant meurt.  Quand l'unité Ringling Blue joua Madison Square Garden au printemps 1972, Otto Griebling joua pinochle entre les spectacles avec Chico; il nous a fourni des ampoules pour nos chambrettes dans le train en les appropriant furtivement des coins obscurs du Jardin; il buvait une bière entre les spectacles chaque jour; il s'est endormi avec Lilac Vegetal pour que les gens sachent qu'il jouait un clochard, sans en être un.  Sa voix perdue au cancer de la gorge, il était le Shakespeare du mime; son visage dégingandé englobait le vaste profond et jouait à ces ligaments secrets qui dépassent le cœur dans le vide des attentes humaines. Alors que nous nous installions dans le jardin, que nous trouvions des bébés rats dans nos coffres de clown et que nous payions de l'argent pour protéger les Teamsters afin qu'ils ne disparaissent pas, les scénarios silencieux d'Otto devenaient plus drôles et poignants. Ses tentatives frêles pour équilibrer une plaque tournante sur un bâton ont grandi pour symboliser les efforts étourdis de l'humanité pour trouver la stabilité là où il n'y en avait pas. Dans le public, il a poli une balustrade jusqu'à ce qu'il se heurte à une jolie fille. Son béguin dramatique et instantané sur elle était ridiculement pathétique. Comme il se penchait pour un baiser, il représentait tous les novices amoureux du monde, et quand la fille se lançait inévitablement dans des éclats de rire hystériques à son approche, sa déception visible, et ensuite sa colère, étaient merveilleuses à voir. Se redressant tout en tirant les revers de son manteau déchiqueté, il frappa sommairement la jeune fille avec son chiffon et s'éloigna avec lassitude pour commencer à polir et à chercher de nouveau. Au fur et à mesure que les jours passaient au Jardin, Otto restait dans l'auditoire de plus en plus longtemps à jouer ces scènes séro-comiques.  Puis, un matin, il était parti. Sa malle était fermée et fermée à clé. Même l'échantillon de tapis shag qu'il gardait devant lui pour reposer ses pieds pressés entre les spectacles avait été rangé.

Senator Jeff Flake vs Goliath

His decision was political and pragmatic, he acknowledged: he faced a tough primary battle and trailed in the polls. But his revulsion at President Trump also appeared to reflect his Mormon faith. It is a faith that puts a premium on decorum and comity, one that was born in America but is increasingly international and multicultural, and one whose young people often wear rings engraved “CTR” as a reminder of the hymn, which begins, “Choose the right when a choice is placed before you.”   from the NYTimes. 

When pioneers to Utah came

They did not seek for wealth and fame.

They sought a refuge for the soul,

Where they could live both pure and whole.

But politics soon made a rift,

Which caused a few to sorely drift.

Midst the Mormon men and ladies

Crept a whiff of shady Hades.

Until today the LDS

All sorts of policies profess

When to the polls they godly go

To keep things honest here below.

But when a leader comes along

Who won’t see what is right or wrong,

The folks begin to coalesce

And hope the spirit will impress

Some Saint to rise up quick and smite

Great Washington’s own Moabite.

Jeff Flake may be that David meek

Whose pebble strikes Trump on the beak.

Or maybe like that Herod lout

He’ll start to rot from inside out.

However Trump will go away,

All creeds about it ought to pray

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

The author of the NYT article quoted at the top of this piece, Laurie Goodstein, replied to me about this poem in an email, thus:

Hi Tom,

That's one of your best, I think. They've opened comments on the story. You should post this, if you haven't already!

Your fan,

Laurie

Laurie Goodstein

National Religion Correspondent

The New York Times

620 Eighth Avenue

New York, NY 10018 

(She has called me 'Tom' for the past 2 years . . . )