Maria Sibylla Merian & Daughters

I suppose if I had been schooled in a more recent decade, I might have known of this lady and her lucky daughters. Sequestered somewhere in those abhorrent Women’s Studies programs that serve, like similar “special” studies, only to marginalize and caricature.

But, since I adore old school illustrations of flora and fauna almost as much as I do eccentric, transgressive and brilliant ladies, I might have forgiven the arbiters of PC for an earlier introduction.

Born in Germany, 1647, married at 18, two daughters. Left her husband and was divorced by him.

But acute observation is a necessary part of the process in concocting these perfect illustrations. And so she observed. She observed, for example, that unlike common scientific wisdom of her day, butterflies were not, in truth, being spontaneously generated from warm mud.

For real.

And so she observed, depicted and published the glorious life cycles of sundry caterpillars, their predictable and ever glorious metamorphoses. Proving and herself illustrating that beauty and uncommon wisdom are so very often born of happy, careful eye and steady hand.

Point, Not Counterpoint

I have no idea what this might mean, nor do I think I should even be thinking about what it might mean, but it started with Hopping John.

Out of the blue, persistent images of one of my most favorite, but, given current conditions, almost forgotten, dishes. And not the knee-jerk New Years’ Day offering, rather the everyday side, heaped up in the middle of plate, garnished with minimal protein.

And from there the daydreaming went to simple rice and beans of various variant. Mixed with a dollop of sofrito, perhaps, or with sautéed onions and chicken broth, the poor person’s risi e bisi.

But it ended up with asopao, the best comfort food on the face of the earth.

The blossoms are from the same island as the asopao, best enjoyed together, and more than enough to trump the rest of the world.

Summer Fun & the Joys of Explosives

So many reasons to celebrate.

Or at least to fry one’s skin, burgers and brain cells.

The Fourth, of course. Preferably celebrated in the middle of literal nowhere in Nova Scotia with highly illicit pyrotechnics and bootleg rum. Or, even better, Warsaw, where they have raised the fine art of “fireworks” to a level of cannon-firing explosives that would be the envy of many a small, under-funded military.

Sad to say, we missed Dominion Day on the first. Yes, totally old-school here. I mean “Canada Day,” in all its grey bureaucratic pallor, just reinforces so many, mostly justified, cultural stereotypes. And, speaking of ethnic stereotypes and the stupefyingly dull, here is someone’s idea of a list of the 10 “hottest” Canadian men and women. Most of them are, in fact, imports and/or exports, and I would love to hear from anyone who finds any among them even remotely fanciable.

And, for those who think brain cells are can only be fried by alcohol and pharma of whatever sort, you might try this. Despite all common and perceived wisdom, it is not a place I would normally choose to go. Seriously. Christy Brinkley, I hardly know who she is. But then one hears about $3000 a month for porn, a $700,000 payoff to a barely legal “mistress,” waterboarding Billy Joel’s daughter. The joys of that sort of excess, in whatever guise, seem rarely joyful but occasionally just tawdry enough to compel.

The serious, and most relevant, issue, however, is the New Relaxed Summer Dress Code. A directive [“memo”] has gone out to Obama staffers, carefully delineating the rules for proper attire during the long hot days of swelter in DC and Chicago. Reading it, I found myself magically transported back to some of my more merrily transgressive days in high school. Always reaching for that perfect slut yet serious incarnation.

Some things never change.