The Elephant and Butter has become a bit like this guy, only without the tree. What I'd give for a tree like that right now! But really, it's just me and this guy -- Eadweard Muybridge. And lots of books. And books about books. And then books about those.

Speaking of, I was in a library the other day browsing through a cookbook on Africa (yeah, the whole continent), and I found a photograph of the exact saucepan I inherited from my grandmother when she died. Battered aluminum and all. I shouldn't even be using that metal, I know. But I do.

Someday I'll post some photos of a Yemeni-Israeli chef's mise en place.

Also, remember I broke my camera? Well, I bought a similar one online for the parts and somehow managed to replace the destroyed film speed and rewind knobs on the original camera without error. Buying a machine for its parts confirms, I suppose, that I am my father's son.

What is this, a diary?

Some particularly obstreperous radishes found their way into our fridge recently. I love those little red roundies, but sometimes they get out of hand and get too peppery for raw consumption. When that happens, you just have to turn on the oven and douse them in olive oil and herbs. Or Aleppo Pepper, like I just did. It may seem strange to counter over-peppery radishes with more pepper, but don't worry about it -- baking gets rid of the bad pepper and you add some good pepper. I guarantee the bad-for-good exchange will result in your benefit. Aleppo Pepper isn't easy to find unless you're near Syria, but I highly recommend it (order online here). Lezoule gave some to me during the holidays and I'm putting it on everything. Aleppo Pepper distinguishes itself from most other peppers by being sun dried, which results in a sweet, oily, and somewhat smoky character. Almost like Burt Reynolds.

The Elephant and Butter has been on the happy lam. I dressed up as a Connecticut Santa and created a riot in some nieces and nephews. I trod upon the hills of Jerusalem. I listened to flute versions of George Michael's "Careless Whisper" in a hotel lobby in Ramallah. I was absurdly, amply fed in Nablus. I got naked at night in a mystical cold spring (mikveh) next to a graveyard in Tsfat. I read under an olive tree. I bashed and broke my oldest camera. I ate the poet's latkes. I sat next to a young man who drank two full cans of Coke and numerous cups of water and tea on a 12-hour flight, but didn't go to the bathroom ONCE. I spun around some Kandinsky at the Guggenheim. I made yet another pilgrimage to Kitchen Arts and Letters. And now, felled by some sort of viral malaise, I pause and give you some Israeli graffiti:

Coffee House Coda: The two Brians met in 2 out of 5 possible coffee houses. One Brian had a coffee, americano, seltzer, camomile tea, and single espresso. The other stuck to various viscosities of hot chocolate, and if I recall correctly, tea. Seth served as a participant observer for the entirety, and Lesley spot-checked the developments. We proved conclusively that the experiment proves very little. Traveling from coffee house to coffee house is not unlike Molloy transferring pebbles from one pocket to the other and then back again. It was regimented, pointless, and somehow perfect.

The Elephant and Butter is running an experiment of uncertain aims and two Brians today. My name is Brian. My friend's name is also Brian. We live in the same town and spend many hours per week at local coffee houses writing, studying, and discerning the verities of the world. Sometimes, we see each other.

Today, though, will be different. Today we are going to see what happens when both Brians endeavor to spend time in each of FIVE noteworthy cafés in town. We will not coordinate our schedules at all. We will trek from site to site like great beverage nomads following hot liquid songlines. And we shall see if happenstance brings us together.

The suspense is killing you.

When my brother and I run out of things to talk about, we talk about a city: Oakland. I used to live there, he lives there now, and we both have an understanding of the world that is heavily spatial -- we can't resist good alleys and keep track of all buildings. The other night we spoke on the phone.

"Remember that 24-hour diner near the auto dealerships?" I asked. 

He didn't know what I was talking about.

"The one with pay phones in each booth?"

Nothing. His formative years were spent in the delta, not Oakland.

"I once hugged that building."

I was referring to J J 's, née Biff's. The building was circular and had a shingled roof that hid its true self. When first built, though, the diner looked like a particle accelerator. Pictures of it show a metallic disc-like roof almost levitating over the wrap-around glass windows. Googie architecture, as some call it. Populuxe. A bit hyperactive. It was the type of building that told you it had left everything behind -- all of mucky human history. French fries to the future!

For a while in our early 20s, some friends and I would go there at midnight for fries. The waiting area would be packed with couples just disgorged from the local night clubs: men in six-button purple suits and alligator print Stacey Adams wingtips, women in wrap-ruffle dresses and spiky church hats. It was awesome, and we rarely minded waiting over a half hour for one of the circular booths. Once seated, we'd order our coffee and fries, and talk for hours. Later I tried to save the life of this diner, but failed.

Chevron, it turned out, owned the land, and wanted to replace the aged restaurant with a combination gas station and McDonald's -- they called it a McChevron. Apparently they felt Oakland really needed this innovative combination of gasoline and fast food. Some local citizens preferred the Texas Toast on the J J's menu, and formed a restoration-minded group called Friends of J J's. Somehow I found myself on their mailing list, and when they announced a protest, I showed up ready for revolution. A number of other provocateurs showed up, too, many of them senior citizens from the neighborhood, and we made a powerful gesture of defiance: we hugged the building. That was the idea, at least. We were supposed to form a lasso around J J's holding each other's hands. I seem to recall not having enough people to reach all the way around. Our hug was a crescent that rotated lamely around the building -- the comb-over of hugs. I prefer my hugs to be all-encompassing, not half-hugs or Christian side hugs. When I embrace a building, I motherfuckin want to mean it.

The hug didn't work. The planning commission eventually gave Chevron enough trouble to prompt them to sell the property, but it took a few years to sort out the the issues of usage and ownership. In the meantime, J J's shut down. The city moved on. I have no idea where young people now go in the middle of the night for fries. 

[Note:Just found this summer entry in draft form. Rather than finish it, I'll post it as-is.]

In paella the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in paella. I will tell you about it because I am here and you are distant.

Who here among us does not admire a single-pot meal? Much can be said about recipes founded upon numerous, ornate preparations coordinated separately and then combined harmoniously at the ultimate moment. Intricate orchestration is, after all, one of humanity's most impressive capacities. But single-pot meals are great because they are acknowledgments that, let's face it, everything commingles. Plus, they are easy to...........................................................

{Paella made at Look Park on the banks of the Mill River, Florence, MA.}

Gentle reader, I might as well admit that I'm linking to this article only as a flimsy excuse to post the above photograph of a mummy getting a CT scan.

Meanwhile, over at oil changes, Jono Tosch is quickly becoming the Truffaut of food cinematography/editing. Vega and meatballs ought never to be separated again.

Some time before moving to Madison, my friend Lewis mentioned that he could eat an almost innumerable amount of potato chips. He also called my attention to a rather amazing Robert Creely poem. Putting two and two together, I put together this poem.