While I was in Memphis this week, a few friends and I had a slumber party to relive our junior high/high school days. As per our old traditions, we made a batch of Ro-tel. I reported this to Jason, who had no idea what Ro*tel was, and informed me it must be a Southern thing. I figured he was just a Philistine, and that Ro*tel must be popular outside the South, since it’s so tasty and unhealthy. But lo and behold, Wikipedia claims it’s a South-Central US sports game dish. How can anyone not enjoy spicy fake cheese?

On a semi-related note, why the hell don’t non-Southerners eat mayonnaise on their burgers? My friend Ashley, who’s now an architect in NYC, has retained enough of her Southern upbringing to know that burgers should be served with mayo. Hence when we went to Memphis’s famous burger joint Huey’s, Ash made sure to specify that she wanted her burger with mayo, whereupon the waiter looked at her like she was crazy and and said, “Oh, it comes on it already, m’am.” As Ash described it, he acted like she’d “just ordered a burger with beef on it,” since in the South mayo is a given on a burger. But elsewhere, you have to fight for your mayo: I understood exactly where she was coming from, having once requested mayo at an In n’ Out Burger only to be told they don’t have any mayonnaise. Seriously, none at all. Not even in little packets. I don’t care how good their beef is, if it’s not dressed in a layer of pure fat, I’m not interested.

I love champagne. I appreciate a pricey bottle, of course… but under $50, my favorite is Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label. Sadly, as a graduate student, I’m often obligated to explore the under-$10 sparklers. In that price range, Cavas (Spanish sparkling wines) are usually the way to go. Aria is my pick for a nice dry base for a Kir, but tonight I discovered a new pick for an easy-to-drink, $10 champagne stand-in. Ordinarily I’d avoid a bottle that looks like this, because I’d wager the money had been put into the label rather than the bubbly:

But in the case of Paul Cheneau Brut, the contents live up to its colorful packaging. It’s certainly not complex and creamy like Veuve, but it sure doesn’t taste like $10 either. My one gripe is that the bubbles are so small and fragile as to be imperceptible. Sparkling wine or champagne bubbles should be soft and should burst delicately on the tongue, but you ought to know they’re there.

Oddly enough, the postal service delivered a package to us today. Turned out to be a Christmas present from Jason’s brother Travis and his girlfriend Seisei. I’m just going to go ahead and assume Seisei, who has fabulous taste, picked this out, and give her full credit for giving us this splendid Hot Chocolate Pot.

The pot goes into the microwave to heat your milk, after which you insert an electric whisk into the neck of the pot. The whisk makes sure your hot chocolate powder is fully integrated into the milk, preventing it from just floating lumpily around your mug. Brilliant!

I recommend celebrating the birth of Gillen instead. Happy birthday, Chris!

An excerpt from the Irish Times, courtesy of Mal’s blog:

From the letters:

Madam, - This week’s Health Supplement publishes an employment advertisement from Trinity College for a “Lecturer in Conscious Sedation”. It is not clear whether this job description refers to the preferred state of mind of the academics who are sought, or to the effect applicants are intended to have on their students.

In either case, no doubt there will be a wide range of qualified candidates from within the third level system. - Yours, etc,

DAVID LOWE, Abingdon Park, Shankill, Dublin 18.

I’m back from my week in Germany, which means I might answer my emails, unpack my suitcase, shelve the umpteen books littering my floor, soothe freshmen distressed by their grades, write some papers….

Or I might just sit on the couch eating weirdly flavored Austrian chocolates, guzzling Prosecco and watching Airplane! in German. Yeah, that sounds more like my speed this week.

In slaughterhouses, cows are driven down long circuitous corridors on their way to slaughter. They mosey along for a good while this way, each cow privy only to the rear of the cow directly in front of it. All this winding and circling in single-file supposedly keeps them nice and calm as they plod along to the killing floor. It occured to me this weekend that Heathrow’s security lines/terminal change system are uncannily similar to slaughterhouse chutes. All you can see is the person ahead of you, and you’re turned around and around and around until you have no idea where you came from or why you’re in a damn queue.

An elderly American man had a heart attack and died on a British Airways transatlantic flight a few days ago. Since business class (where he was seated) was full, they put him in first class for the duration of the trip. People do occasionally die on planes– so that bit isn’t too odd– but check out the awesomely British interview with one of the First Class passengers (pasted below; full article here).

Rather bad news, indeed. I like how the passenger notes that the deceased was “dressed casually.” I mean, shit, if you’re going to die in Business and need to be moved to First, wear a suit for chrissakes.

As a side note, there were times in Mission Impossible: III when I needed to be resuscitated, too.

“Stewardesses were running up and down the aisle. There was no panic but there was a sense of urgency. The staff were very professional.

‘There was a call over the loudspeakers for a medical doctor. From where I was sitting towards the back of First Class I was aware of them performing resuscitation techniques behind the curtains as I tried to watch the in-flight movie - Mission Impossible III.’

‘I felt quite uneasy. But some passengers were being very British about it and simply not acknowledging there was anything wrong.

‘One of the stewardesses then came to me and said there was some rather bad news. There had been a death on board.

‘She asked would I mind awfully moving to the other side of the cabin because they needed to bring the body in. The first class section was about 80 per cent full.

‘Four male stewards came I carrying the poor chap who was in his 60s or 70s and casually dressed. But he was a bit too big for them. Another passenger lent a hand as they propped him up

‘They wrapped him in a blanket and strapped him in and semi-reclined the seat. But his head was exposed and leaning to one said, as if he were asleep. I could see the top of his head throughout the flight.’

She added:’The chap’s wife came in an sat with him on the little buddy stool at the bottom of the bay in front of the seat. She was very distressed. We could hear her sobbing.

‘It’s not very enjoyable when this happens. But the staff were very good.’