~ Nightingale Songs ~ Maggi's Posting Perch

Welcome to Maggi Smith-Dalton's Nightingale Songs

WHERE I LIVED, AND WHAT I LIVED FOR

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars.~ H.D.Thoreau Walden

It seems to me with each passing birthday that this the truest description of how my life's continuing work has evolved, and the concepts here so eloquently expressed have been the true touchstones of my life. I am deeply immersed in thinking about and exploring what I call the "deep history" of humankind...

Thus these words, which I first read as a very young child, continue to resonate in every fiber of my being, as a passionate song I learned early and to which I endeavor to give fresh voicing as I journey onward every day...

I've been a professional singer since the age of 11, and a professional historian since early adulthood...and all these decades later, I am still as passionate and happy about my life's journey as I was when I began.

Through the power of song, I've seen smiles and tears in my audiences, and each smile and each tear is as dear to me as each individual gem would be in a long string of pearls.

Not a bad legacy to leave behind...

NightingaleSongs...

Jim and Maggi Dalton are honored to have been selected for the following artist/scholar rosters

New England States Touring (NEST) artists

Nonprofit Venues and Sponsors who hire us
in the New England States, exclusive of Massachusetts,
may apply for grants covering up to half our fee through this program.

Massachusetts Cultural Council Creative Teaching Partners artists

Inclusion on this roster assures schools applying for our services through the MCC's Creative Schools Program will automatically receive the maximum score for artist quality,

giving them "a competitive edge in this grant application process."

In addition, we may be asked to present

at MCC's conferences, workshops, and other events

LINKS TO SOME OF MAGGI'S ARTICLES

ARTICLES IN PDF FORM

IMPORTANT NOTICE!

Please note: if you are interested in versions of these papers complete with citations and reference lists or bibliographies,

Remember: you must request use, in writing, of any information you use from our site.

DO NOT USE ANY INFORMATION FROM OUR SITE WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION!

Also, remember, you must cite us as a source and give proper accreditation

for any article you request of us to use in your own research or for your other use.

"Market Lass" The Myriad Roles of Elizabeth Poe.pdf

The life and art of an incredible working woman of the early American stage...who played hundreds of roles,

married twice, sang, danced, and gave birth to three children...including Edgar.

We have a performance based on this research! contact us.

Market Lass, The Activist, and the Queen of the Banjo.pdf

"Three women musicians who are, simultaneously, "representative and unique" to their times.

Through the lens of the lives and works of these Americans, we hope to facilitate an understanding

of how music functioned historically, culturally, and artistically..."

Salem, Massachusetts History Articles

Most were originally published in Maggi's column "Naumkeag Notations" in the Salem Gazette

Patrick Gilmore/Peace Jubilee.pdf

'Incalculable advantages' Salem's public library - Salem, MA Salem Gazette.pdf"

Home is where the harvest is - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

Inside the friendship of Melville and Salem's own Hawthorne - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

New England's winds fill those sails_ Salem's Maritime Festival - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

TownOnline.com - Salem Gazette_ A long yellow brick road.pdf"

TownOnline.com - Salem Gazette_ Smith-Dalton_ Remembrance of things past ... and future copy.pdf"

Salem's Psychic Past Lives.pdf

Salem, Massachusetts Arts and Culture Articles

Most were originally published in Maggi's column "Naumkeag Notations" in the Salem Gazette or in North Shore Sunday.

Artist Joseph Cornell_ Observer and observed - Salem, MA Salem Gazette.pdf"

Students, museum team for film about the Point - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

UU World_ A Promise in That Song, by Maggi Smith-Dalton.pdf"

Welcome, wild boar - Peabody, MA - North Shore Sunday.pdf"

Salem authors pen 'Courting Equality' - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

Less is more with Salem-based Quick Fiction magazine - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

Salem councilor featured in "Fatal Forecast," a survival-at-sea thriller - Salem, MA - Salem Gazette.pdf"

RECOMMENDED BOOKS

Blacking, John. How Musical Is Man? (Jessie and John Danz Lectures). Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1995.
Gable, Eric, Richard Handler, and Richard Handler. The New History in an Old Museum: Creating the Past at Colonial Williamsburg. London: Duke University Press, 1997.
Novick, Peter. That Noble Dream: The 'Objectivity Question' and the American Historical Profession (Ideas in Context). New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988.
Pfitzer, Gregory M.. Popular History and the Literary Marketplace, 1840-1920 (Studies in Print Culture and the History of the Book). Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2008.
Wallace, Michael. Mickey Mouse History and Other Essays on American Memory. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996.

MOVIES to savor and study (an ongoing project)

Great Sites for Movie Lovers!

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

Classic Film Guide

Internet Movie Database

DVD Verdict

Movies for Hopeless Romantics, Like Me

Somewhere in Time (1980)
(full movie available online)

Waterloo Bridge (1940)

Love Actually (2003)

Film Noir, Film Noir, Film Noir!

The Big Sleep 1946
The Killers 1946
D.O.A. 1950
Out of the Past 1947
Laura 1944
Sunset Blvd. 1950
M 1931
Double Indemnity 1944
The Third Man 1949
The Maltese Falcon 1941
Body Heat (1981)

Femme Fatales Extraordinaire

--Ava Gardner, The Killers
--Bette Davis, The Letter (1940)
--Barbara Stanwyck, The Strange Love of Martha Ivers (1946)
(and of course in D.I.)

Classics I Never Tire of

Little Foxes, The (1941)
Bringing Up Baby 1938
His Girl Friday 1940
Casablanca (1942)

Movies to Study for Structure and Technique

Two by Harold Pinter:
The French Lieutenant's Woman (1981)
Betrayal (1983)

Documentaries

The Guns of August (1964)
Sicko 2007
The Civil War 1990
Anything on "The American Experience"

Oh, Heck, I Just Like 'Em!

Groundhog Day (1993)
All the Star Treks, movies and TV shows (original story/crew, not the offshoots)
Any and all Alfred Hitchcock, except "Frenzy" and I am never quite sure about "The Trouble With Harry"

The Nightingale

Hans Christian Andersen. (1805–1875) Tales.

The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. The Nightingale

IN China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but that's just why it's worth while to hear the story, before it is forgotten. The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world; it was made entirely of porcelain, very costly, but so delicate and brittle that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the costliest of them silver bells were tied, which sounded, so that nobody should pass by without noticing the flowers.

Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was admirably arranged. And it extended so far, that the gardener himself did not know where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood extended straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep; great ships could sail to and fro beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a nightingale, which sang so splendidly that even the poor Fisherman, who had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale.

"How beautiful that is!" he said; but he was obliged to attend to his property, and thus forgot the bird. But when in the next night the bird sang again, and the Fisherman heard it, he exclaimed again, "How beautiful that is!"

From all the countries of the world travellers came to the city of the Emperor and admired it, and the palace, and the garden, but when they heard the Nightingale, they said, "That is the best of all!"

And the travellers told of it when they came home; and the learned men wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they did not forget the Nightingale; that was placed highest of all; and those who were poets wrote most magnificent poems about the Nightingale in the wood by the deep lake.

The books went through all the world, and a few of them once came to the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read: every moment he nodded his head, for it pleased him to peruse the masterly descriptions of the city, the palace, and the garden. "But the Nightingale is the best of all!"—it stood written there.

"What's that?" exclaimed the Emperor. "I don't know the Nightingale at all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and even in my garden? I've never heard of that. To think that I should have to learn such a thing for the first time from books!"

And hereupon he called his Cavalier. This Cavalier was so grand that if any one lower in rank than himself dared to speak to him, or to ask him any question, he answered nothing but "P!"—and that meant nothing.

"There is said to be a wonderful bird here called a Nightingale!" said the Emperor. "They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why have I never heard anything about it?"

"I have never heard him named," replied the Cavalier. "He has never been introduced at court."

"I command that he shall appear this evening, and sing before me," said the Emperor. "All the world knows what I possess, and I do not know it myself!"

"I have never heard him mentioned," said the Cavalier, "I will seek for him. I will find him."

But where was he to be found? The Cavalier ran up and down all the staircases, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the Cavalier ran back to the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable invented by the writers of books.

"Your Imperial Majesty cannot believe how much is written that is fiction, besides something that they call the black art."

"But the book in which I read this," said the Emperor, "was sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan, and therefore it cannot be a falsehood. I will hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my imperial favor; and if it does not come, all the court shall be trampled upon after the court has supped!"

"Tsing-pe" said the Cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the staircases, and through all the halls and corridors; and half the court ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon.

Then there was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all the world knew excepting the people at court.

At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen, who said,—

"The Nightingale? I know it well; yes, it can sing gloriously. Every evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. She lives down by the strand, and when I get back and am tired, and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the water comes into my eyes, and it just as if my mother kissed me!"

"Little Kitchen Girl," said the Cavalier, "I will get you a place in the kitchen, with permission to see the Emperor dine, if you will lead us to the Nightingale, for it is announced for this evening."

So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was accustomed to sing; half the court went forth. When they were in the midst of their journey a cow began to low.

"O!" cried the court page, "now we have it! That shows a wonderful power in so small a creature! I have certainly heard it before."

"No, those are cows lowing!" said the little Kitchen Girl. "We are a long way from the place yet!"

Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh.

"Glorious!" said the Chinese Court Preacher. "Now I hear it—it sounds just like little church bells."

"No, those are frogs!" said the little Kitchen-maid. "But now I think we shall soon hear it."

And then the Nightingale began to sing.

"That is it!" exclaimed the little Girl. "Listen, listen! and yonder it sits."

And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs.

"Is it possible?" cried the Cavalier. "I should never have thought it looked like that! How simple it looks! It must certainly have lost its color at seeing such grand people around."

"Little Nightingale" called the Kitchen-maid, quite loudly "our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him."

"With the greatest pleasure!" replied the Nightingale, and began to sing most delightfully.

"It sounds just like glass bells!" said the Cavalier. "And look at its little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at court."

"Shall I sing once more before the Emperor?" asked the Nightingale, for it thought the Emperor was present.

"My excellent little Nightingale," said the Cavalier, "I have great pleasure in inviting you to a court festival this evening, when you shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing."

"My song sounds best in the greenwood!" replied the Nightingale; still it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished.

The palace was festively adorned. The walls and the flooring, which were of porcelain, gleamed in the rays of thousands of golden lamps. The most glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the passages. There was a running to and fro, and a thorough draught, and all the bells rang so loudly that one could not hear one's self speak.

In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole court was there, and the little Cook-maid had got leave to stand behind the door, as she had now received the title of a real court cook. All were in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the Emperor nodded.

And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang still more sweetly, that went straight to the heart. The Emperor was so much pleased that he said the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale declined this with thanks, saying it had already received a sufficient reward.

"I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes—that is the real treasure to me. An emperor's tears have a peculiar power. I am rewarded enough!" And then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice.

"That's the most amiable coquetry I ever saw!" said the ladies who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when any one spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And the lackeys and chambermaids reported that they were satisfied too; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the most difficult to please. In short, the Nightingale achieved a real success.

It was now to remain at court, to have its own cage, with liberty to go out twice every day and once at night. Twelve servants were appointed when the Nightingale went out, each of whom had a silken string fastened to the bird's leg, which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure in an excursion of that kind.

The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said nothing but "Nightin," and the other said "gale;" and then they sighed, and understood one another. Eleven peddler's children were named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note.

One day the Emperor received a large parcel, on which was written "The Nightingale."

"There we have a new book about this celebrated bird," said the Emperor.

But it was not a book, but a little work of art, contained in a box, an artificial nightingale, which was to sing like a natural one and was brilliantly ornamented with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. So soon as the artificial bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that he really sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, "The Emperor of China's Nightingale is poor compared to that of the Emperor of Japan."

"That is capital!" said they all, and he who had brought the artificial bird immediately received the title, Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer.

"Now they must sing together; what a duet that will be!"

And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the artificial bird sang waltzes.

"That's not his fault," said the Play-master; "he's quite perfect, and very much in my style."

Now the artificial bird was to sing alone. He had just as much success as the real one, and then it was much handsomer to look at—it shone like bracelets and breastpins.

Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to sing something now. But where was it? No one had noticed that it had flown away out of the open window, back to the greenwood.

"But what is become of that?" said the Emperor.

And all the courtiers abused the Nightingale, and declared that it was a very ungrateful creature.

"We have the best bird, after all," said they.

And so the artificial bird had to sing again, and that was the thirty-fourth time that they listened to the same piece. For all that they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And the Play-master praised the bird particularly; yes, he declared that it was better than a nightingale, not only with regard to its plumage and the many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well.

"For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Imperial Majesty, with a real nightingale one can never calculate what is coming, but in this artificial bird everything is settled. One can explain it; one can open it, and make people understand where the waltzes come from, how they go, and how one follows up another."

"Those are quite our own ideas," they all said.

And the speaker received permission to show the bird to the people on the next Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, the Emperor commanded; and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had all got tipsy upon tea, for that's quite the Chinese fashion; and they all said, "O!" and held up their forefingers and nodded. But the poor Fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said,—

"It sounds pretty enough, and the melodies resemble each other, but there's something wanting, though I know not what!"

The real Nightingale was banished from the country and empire. The artificial bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed; all the presents it had received, gold and precious stones, were ranged about it; in title it had advanced to be the High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank, to number one on the left hand; for the Emperor considered that side the most important in which the heart is placed, and even in an emperor the heart is on the left side; and the Play-master wrote a work of five-and-twenty volumes about the artificial bird; it was very learned and very long, full of most difficult Chinese words; but yet all the people declared that they had read it, and understood it, for fear of being considered stupid, and having their bodies trampled on.

So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese knew every little twitter in the artificial bird's song by heart. But just for that reason it pleased them best—they could sing with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang, "Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug!" and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that was certainly famous.

But one evening, when the artificial bird was singing its best, and the Emperor lay in bed listening to it, something inside the bird said, "Whizz!" Something cracked. "Whir-r-r!" All the wheels ran round, and then the music stopped.

The Emperor immediately sprang out of bed, and caused his body physician to be called; but what could he do? Then they sent for a watchmaker, and after a good deal of talking and investigation, the bird was put into something like order; but the Watchmaker said that the bird must be carefully treated, for the barrels were worn, and it would be impossible to put new ones in such a manner that the music would go. There was great lamentation; only once in a year was it permitted to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the Play-master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as before—and so of course it was as good as before.

Now five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation. The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was ill, and could not, it was said, live much longer. Already a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the Cavalier how their old Emperor did.

"P!" said he, and shook his head.

Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great gorgeous bed; the whole court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay homage to the new ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies'-maids had a great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid down so that no footstep could be heard, and therefore it was quiet there, quiet quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet: stiff and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the artificial bird.

The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay upon his chest: he opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death who sat upon his chest, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one hand the Emperor's sword and in the other his beautiful banner. And all around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quiet lovely and mild. These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood before him now that Death sat upon his heart.

"Do you remember this?" whispered one to the other. "Do you remember that?" and then they told him so much that the perspiration ran from his forehead.

"I did not know that!" said the Emperor. "Music! music! the great Chinese drum!" he cried, "so that I need not hear all they say!" And they continued speaking, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said.

"Music! music!" cried the Emperor. "You little precious golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly presents; I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck—sing now, sing!"

But the bird stood still; no one was there to wind him up, and he could not sing without that; but Death continued to stare at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet.

Then there sounded from the window, suddenly, the most lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It has heard of the Emperor's sad plight, and had come to sing to him of comfort and hope. And as it sang the spectres grew paler and paler; the blood ran quickly and more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs; and even Death listened, and said,—

"Go on, little Nightingale, go on!"

"But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you give me that rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's crown?"

And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the Nightingale sang on and on; and it sang of the quiet church-yard, where the white roses grow, where the elder-blossom smells sweet, and where the fresh grass is moistened by the tears of survivors. The Death felt a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold, white mist.

"Thanks! thanks!" said the Emperor. "You heavenly little bird! I know you well. I banished you from my country and empire, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my couch, and banished Death from my heart! How can I reward you?"

"You have rewarded me!" replied the Nightingale. "I have drawn tears from your eyes, when I sang the first time— I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels that rejoice a singer's heart. But now sleep and grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you something."

And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet slumber. Ah! how mild and refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows, when he awoke refreshed and restored; not one of his servants had yet returned, for they all thought he was dead; only the Nightingale still sat beside him and sang.

"You must always stay with me," said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you please; and I'll break the artificial bird into a thousand pieces."

"Not so," replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could; keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace to dwell in; but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in the evening on the spray yonder by the window, and sing you something, so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that remain hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to every one who dwells far away from you and from your court. I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I will come and sing to you—but one thing you must promise me."

"Everything!" said the Emperor; and he stood there in his imperial robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with gold to his heart.

"One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. Then it will go all the better."

And the Nightingale flew away.

The servants came in to look to their dead Emperor, and—yes, there he stood, and the Emperor said "Good morning!"

Text source: Bartleby.com http://www.bartleby.com/17/3/10.html

THE "GREAT" AMERICAN DYSPEPSIA CONTEST!

The "Great" American Dyspepsia Contest!

Wherein two contenders, with particularly warped views of culinary pleasures,
challenge each other to come up with
the most disgusting, terrifying, or simply mind-boggling published recipes they can find.

Guaranteed to put you off your feed!
Miraculous dieting strategy!

PUBLIC WARNING

These recipes are presented "as is" from the dusty shelves of a thousand unknown kitchens by unlicensed slightly nutty people (we have a recipe for that, too).

Please don't try these at home.

Content not suitable for children under 85 years of age, after which, if you've survived that long with your sense of taste intact and your stomach lining still in service --

hell, go for it, grandpa/ma.

INTRODUCING ... THE CONTENDERS!

CHRIS TOLER, "MY VIRTUAL ATTIC"

MAGGI SMITH-DALTON, "NIGHTINGALE SONGS"

********************************
First up, Mr. Toler!

There's Always Room For... WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?!

Ms. Smith-Dalton responds

First, catch a pig. 

ROAST PIG.

Strew fine salt over it an hour before it is put down. It should not
be cut entirely open; fill it up plump with thick slices of buttered
bread, salt, sweet-marjoram and sage.

Yeah, don't cut it entirely open.
You wanna get your hands really DEEP in that thing, don't you?

Spit it with the head next the point of the spit;
take off the joints of the leg, and boil them with the liver,
with a little whole pepper,
allspice, and salt, for gravy sauce.
The upper part of the legs must be braced down with skewers.
Shake on flour.

Yeah, the cook'll be shakin' too.

Put a little water in the dripping-pan, and stir it often.

Stir up a few stiff drinks, too, for the next part.

When the eyes drop out, the pig is half done. When it is nearly
done, baste it with butter. Cut off the head, split it open between
the eyes.

They don't tell you what to do
with those dropped-out eyes, though...

Take out the brains,

are you followin' this?

and chop them fine with the liver

now you know why
you want to get your hands really DEEP into that there pig,
don't you?


and some sweet-marjoram and sage; put this into melted butter, and when
it has boiled a few minutes, add it to the gravy in the dripping-pan.


When your pig is cut open, lay it with the back to the edge of the
dish; half a head to be placed at each end.

Make sure it's facing someone you don't particularly like, is my feeling.
Those empty eye sockets
oughta really spark the conversation!

A good sized pig needs to be roasted three hours.

The cook's recovery period...at least six hours. 

THE AMERICAN FRUGAL HOUSEWIFE.by MRS. CHILD,1832


THE RESPONSE from Mr. Toler, 1/21/09:

MR TOLER HAS A VERY STRONG ENTRY WITH "More
specifically, putrified shark meat. Hákarl is literally shark meat that
was buried  raw in the sand for about 6 months, (or until even seagulls
weren’t interested.)"



Ms. Smith-Dalton's turn, 1/23/09


SO, in the interests of keeping meat hanging around way past the time
any sane person would want to look at it...., here's one that caught my eye
awhile back.

I love cheese, but this would be the true test of loving cheese...

BEGIN QUOTED
" Homemade Animal Rennet. If you cared to, or had to, you could make
your own rennet, since it is the salt extract of a suckling calf
(that means one that has eaten no grass or solid food).



Yes, that's right, that cute little guy over there. He'll do nicely. 


You just take the biggest stomach of a suckling calf
(or pig or lamb) that has never eaten anything but mother's milk.

Just ignore the anguished bleating of mom and baby
as you yank the little sucker away from mama's milk bar, now.


The suckling calf has all 4 stomachs, but its rumen
is underdeveloped and that fourth stomach, is abomasum,
is relatively big; rennet comes from the abomasum.

Yeah, that's the TRUE stomach, by the way,
and this fella won't be needing THAT anymore, eh?
Yank that thing outta there, now...don't mind the blood spilling all
over the counter and steaming up the place as it floods out...

And, by the way, what do you do with the OTHER stomachs...
make them into handbags or something?


Add salt to it, cut it into strips, and dry it as if you were
making jerky.

You'll feel a bit jerky yourself at this point.

Go pour yourself some "caraway seed-derived Icelandic
Schnapps known as Brennavin, (AKA The Black Death!)"

Once you're heavily sedated, well now, you can salute
that slowly-drying calve's stomach which is now hanging,
twisting slowly in the wind, perhaps even providing a cozy home
to dozens of flies...

To make cheese with it, cut off a 1-inch square and add it to milk.
That would be the equivalent of 2 drops of liquid rennet."

Well some of the older, antique cookbooks where I first saw
this kind of thing basically said you keep this dried-baby-calf-thing
literally hanging around so you could cut strips off of it
ad infinitum.

One of them even said it came in handy
if your husband came home unexpectedly with guests! Yum.

Now, THAT's the way to a man's heart, if I ever saw one.
Come to think of it, there were recipes for using hearts too...hmm
Well if hubby doesn't appreciate all you do for him, just show him
one of those little household helpers...

-- rennet instructions quoted from
The Encyclopedia of Country Living: An Old Fashioned Recipe Book
 By Carla Emery Edition: 9 Published by Sasquatch Books, 2003

end quoted

Entry: April 2009



Note: this recipe is for chymchak han, or soft sausage.
There is also hot sausage, hard sausage and many other kinds
whose tastes vary according to which intestine is filled...the large intestine, 
the small intestine, or the cecum  
(the large bag with no outlet that Tuvans sometimes blow up
 to decorate their yurts.


1) Slaughter a sheep according to the laws of Genghis Khan:
Place sheep on its back,
straddling it to hold it down,
with a friend holding the sheep's mouth shut.

Say a prayer for its soul.
Make a short, longitudinal slit in the sheep's upper abdomen,
just large enough to reach in
and pinch off the vessel that returns blood to the heart.

It's all over in a minute.

MSD: Just look at the young boy's face as dad does the deed. Good times!


2) Clean it and pour the blood into an intestine.


MSD: Ah, intestines. What useful little culinary darlings they are...


3) Add chopped onions, garlic and/or dill.
Don't fill the intestine fully, as it may break during boiling.

Pierce the ends of the intestine with wooden skewers
to close them off, neatly wrapping pieces of fat and intestine
around the skewers.

MSD: Make sure it's NEATLY wrapped. Do it over again, if it's messy,
Genghis'll get-yah.


4) Boil the han along with the entrails in a big pot.



MSD: A real BIG pot. Big enough so
you don't have to stand too close to the innards themselves.

Or...is that...smoke some big pot so you can get through this? Hmmm....

Or, if you want your han to be ready sooner,
boil it alone in a small amount of water.
Do NOT add milk, as mixing red with white will take away your happiness!

MSD: Like I said, good times.

5) It is important to take your han from the fire at just the right moment.
Pierce the intestine with a wooden skewer or a sewing needle: if blood comes out,
your han is not ready--be patient!



MSD: If it bleeds, it leads. Be a follower, please. Pass the sewing needle over, willyah?


To Serve:

First, throw the lower tip of the han
into the fire as an offering; then give the upper tip
to the master or mistress of the yurt.

MSD: Is that a big intestine in your pocket, or....

After that, the master will divide the han
among the rest of the people in the yurt and will save enough
for all the neighbors in the area to have some.

MSD: We have neighbors we'd  just LOVE to give THIS to...
we'll save MOST --no, no, ALL of it for them~!

___________
Recipe From: Deep in the Heart of Tuva:
Cowboy Music from the Wild East
Various Artists - International - Far East - General
# Label: Ellipsis Arts
# ASIN: B0000059U3

Moon Phases

Friday, May 1, 2009

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