He does look sort of like a Muppet

Conan O'Brien, famous wacky late night television host, got his comedic "start" (more or less) as the President of the Harvard Lampoon, an organization mostly known at this point for its spin-off, National Lampoon (which in turn is responsible for such gems as National Lampoon's Animal House, National Lampoon's Vacation, and, er, National Lampoon Presents Dorm Daze (by the mid-Eighties, the "National Lampoon" started being licenced out to whoever was willing to pony up for the one-time rights to the name, leading to rather a lot of awful dogs with that slapped on the title).


His predecessor in the role?  None other than Lisa Henson, daughter of Jim Henson and current CEO of Muppet Labs The Jim Henson Company.

Zeolite

It's been a while since I did something really sciency.  So, what is a zeolite, and why do they seem to appear in every other scientific article I've been reading lately?


Zeolites, according to a popular dictionary, are "any of various hydrous silicates that are analogous in composition to the feldspars, occur as secondary minerals in cavities of lavas, and can act as ion-exchangers; also : any of various natural or synthesized silicates of similar structure used especially in water softening and as adsorbents and catalysts."


That, as usual, is entirely accurate, but not necessarily very helpful unless you're already a geochemist.  Let's break it down.  


A hydrous silicate is a chemical compound, generally a mineral, that contains water (hydro-) and a silicate group, a combination of silicon and oxygen.  Note that "contains water" doesn't mean that it's wet-- the water in a hydrous compound is locked up chemically, and won't come out unless something unusual happens to the compound.  Feldspar is a classic example of such a mineral, being mostly aluminum silicate (with some traces of other stuff), and it's dirt common, so it's a good reference point as such things go.  A "cavity of lava" is fairly straightforward-- as lava rises to the surface of the earth and cools, it often leaves pockets or cavities behind that contain useful minerals.  And finally, an ion-exchanger is a material that swaps ions-- extra unbound electrons that allow one chemical to react with another.  This is a useful chemical process, which is why I'm seeing it in scientific articles, but it's also a useful industrial process-- for example, in the further mentioned softening of water, in which sodium ions from the softener are swapped out with calcium ions in the water, that would otherwise form scale on your pipes.  The calcium is instead bound into the zeolitic material, and the sodium just washes away.  Jumping ahead a bit, moving ions around can also cause certain chemical reactions to happen more readily, which is what a catalyst does, so that solves that bit.


Finally, adsorption is sort of like absorption, only instead of pulling something into the interior of a substance (as a sponge absorbs water), something becomes adhered to the outside-- an adsorbent will coat itself with a thin layer of something, holding on to it tightly.  This property means that many synthetic cat litters contain zeolite crystals--it's especially good at grabbing onto ammonia.

Some thoughts about quiche

Having just consumed the remnants of my first attempt at quiche-making (an modest chorizo and asparagus number), I have a few thoughts I'd like to share.

First, the crust.  The recipe says to pre-bake (or blind bake) the crust.  Believe it.  In fact, if the recipe says to bake the crust until it is lightly browned, go ahead and give it an extra 5 minutes, to medium brown.  The filling is very wet, and it will waterlog a crust that isn't thoroughly prepped.  It won't be bad, but you'll notice the difference.

Second, the custard filling.  I realized, part way into assembling the quiche, that we were short one egg.  If this happens to you, don't panic like I did-- a good basic ratio is 1/3 cup dairy per egg, so if you're an egg down, just reduce the dairy by a 1/3 of a cup.  Easy.  Your quiche may be a little shorter, but that's no big deal.  Check on it a little earlier in the oven, that's all.

Third, cheese.  I thought the quiche could use some, so I grated some cheddar into the filling mix.  There was nothing wrong with it, except that I couldn't really taste any cheese in the final product, and it was a medium strong cheddar.  My advice, especially if you're not following a strict recipe, is to go heavier than you might think with it.

Finally, the assembly.  The instructions I was using said to mix everything together, and then dump it into the crust.  This... kind of worked.  For some ingredients, it might be just fine.  But the chorizo, for example, all ended up washed to the edges of the pan, and so it wasn't well distributed at all.  Instead, I'd recommend putting all the bits into the pie crust first, and then slowly adding the custard until it's as high as it needs to be.  This will also prevent any overspill if your pie plate turns out to be a bit smaller than you thought.  Just for example.

Word for the day -- Cockshut

Today's word is, as the heading says, "cockshut."  This is a great word, because it sounds really filthy, but it's actually very straightforward-- cockshut is the time of day that poultry were traditionally shut away to rest, i.e. evening twilight.  But I can just imagine a bunch of businessmen (or steelworkers, if that image is better for you.  Whatever you like.) at the bar after work-- "Sorry, fellows, but I must be off.  I prefer to be home for supper by cockshut."  It's basically obscure British English dialect at this point, which is a shame.  I think it deserves a renaissance.

It should also not be confused with Cockshutt, a village/parish in Shropshire, or the Cockshutt Plow Company, founded in Ontario in 1877 by Ignatius Cockshutt.

Eyebrow threading

Here's one that I've been meaning to do for a while.

Every time we go to the mall, I pass this little store-front that offers "eyebrow threading," and I can never tell by looking at it just what that means.  Eyebrow extensions made of thread?  Some sort of braiding or weaving?  I always wonder.  So, as usual, to the Internet!

Eyebrow threading, according to http://www.eyebrowthreading.com/, is actually an ostensibly Eastern (Arab/Indian) method of hair removal.  It's sort of half-way between waxing and tweezing, in that instead of removing a single hair or a big patch, it removes one row of hair, by basically entangling it in a web of cotton thread and, um, pulling.  Like tying a loose tooth to a doorknob, only for hair.  It's supposedly gentler on the skin than waxing, and more precise for achieving specific shapes and lines.  On the downside, I guess, it's harder to do yourself at home.

"Chinese" sausage

Last Sunday, at the grocery store, my eye was caught in the meat section by a package of what purported to be fresh "Chinese sausages" (of the store brand).  The picture on the front featured an attractive stir fry, and I thought to myself, "Sure, why not."  So I did.  And they were mighty tasty, too.

But I was left wondering; besides the horrible red coloring, what about them was really "Chinese?"  The ingredients list was something unhelpful, something along the lines of "pork, pork products, red dye no. 45.3, flavorings, spices, sodium benzoate, irradiated haggis (as a preservative), salt."  To the Internet!

After some research, I have learned that (as one might suspect), there isn't really any single "Chinese sausage" any more than there's a single "Polish sausage" or "German sausage."  However, there is something called (depending on your transliteration) "lap cheung," which is a very common sausage type found all over Asia ("cheung" apparently means "sausage" in Cantonese.  Not sure what "lap" means.).  Lap cheung is usually a pork sausage, with a fair amount of fat, that has been sweetened (important part of the flavor profile) and flavored with rice wine and light soy sauce (possibly the source of the original reddish color?).  It's usually dried, but fresh versions do exist.

Monadnock (Doot Dooooo Doo Doo-doo)

Turns out that a local mountain (for suitably New England values of "mountain"), Mount Monadnock, is actually an archetype for an entire class of geological structures-- the "monadnocks," loosely defined as an isolated mound rising abruptly from a gradual slope.  Slightly more technically, they are created when a structure composed of a hard rock (granite, for instance) is left exposed by the erosion of a softer, surrounding rock (e.g. limestone).  This often produces a striking visual-- Devils Tower in Wyoming may be an extreme case of the process (some geologists are apparently arguing the matter).

Well, actually the U.S. can't claim complete inspiration-- internationally, this structure is known as an "inselburg" (German for "island mountain"), but that term sometimes gets used for other structures, and somewhere along the line, geologists in the U.S. apparently decided that Mount Monadnock (located in scenic southwest New Hampshire) was a sufficiently sterling example of the specific class that all other such mountains should bear its name.  Just goes to show the importance of keeping your definitions clear-- if you're not careful, some upstart American geologists might come along and kick your German jargon to the curb.  Or whatever they call curbs in German.

I'm pretty sure that means what you think it means

...at least statistically speaking, as the odds are clearly in your favor with these words.

Today at work, I learned that there are five entries in the Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition that have at least 100 binding substitutes each (roughly equivalent to senses), to wit:  the verbs go, make, turn, take, and run.  Set, often touted as one of the longest entries in the dictionary, comes in just behind (in this book at least) at 99.  Take is actually the leader, with 152, although that includes all of the defined phrases (like take a back seat) as well.

Perfect Musical Moment

I think it's official-- my favorite single measure of classical music is measure 158 of Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D.

For those of you who don't have your scores handy (shame on you), it's the bit in the first movement where the key suddenly swoops from minor to major.  Not the first time it happens, mind you-- the second.  The first time it happens is before the soloist comes in, and there's a lot of orchestral noodling, and your reaction tends to be, "oh, that's pretty," but that's about it.  The second time, you recognize it, but it's underscoring the soloist, and it gets you.  Right in the soul.  Whammo.  Every time I hear it.

Now, my favorite actual piece right now is probably Beethoven's 7th Symphony, specifically the third movement, which not coincidentally has a very reminiscent chord progression.  But for a single pure moment of music magic-- measure 158.

Whammo.

Word for the Day -- Nycthemeron

Today's word is nycthemeron. Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged defines it as ": a full period of a night and a day."  The OED concurs, entering it as "A period of twenty-four hours, consisting of a day and a night."  


I'm not sure why anyone needed a special word for this. Especially since the use of the simple "day" to mean a 24-hour cycle predates nycthemeron in English by at least four hundred years, more if you're willing to keep tracing it back through Old English. Wikipedia suggests that it was used specifically as a technical term to avoid ambiguity, which I suppose is plausible, but I don't find their backing terribly convincing, especially considering there isn't any.


All of this does, however, bring up an interesting point about language. Nycthemeron breaks down in Greek roots into nyct, meaning night, and hemera, meaning day. That's right, when the Greeks wanted to talk about a night-day cycle, they called it a "night-day." This reminded me of a recent XKCD comic, wherein Etymology Man notes that the similar-sounding word "entomology" comes from the Greek "entomon" (insect), from "entomos" (segmented). And I realized-- I'm so glad that I speak such a rich and nuanced language as English. In ancient Greek, they apparently saw little bugs crawling around, and decided to call them the equivalent of "crawlies." A lovely piece of art in two panels? A "two-fold"-- or diptych. Everything would be literal descriptions--not very creative. Frankly, it's hard to imagine how they managed to write anything at all poetic.

Old transmission, that old transmission...

Today I learned that in an old car (let's say, hypothetically, a 10-year-old Honda Civic with 180,000 miles on it), it's a bad idea to do a complete flush of the transmission fluid.  According to my regular mechanic*, there's enough pressure involved in forcing the fluids out of the transmission that it can potentially do some damage to worn parts that would otherwise be ok.  So, instead, he just drained it and refilled it, a lesser (and cheaper!) process.  Hypothetically.

*I'm still not sure when he became my regular mechanic.  But they started asking me when I call to make the appointment, and I said, "Um, I think his name was... Dave?"  And he called me by name which was honestly a little weird.  Although it's always possible he just looked at the records beforehand, and recognized the car from them.  Sneaky, if so.

Grunka Lunka Dunkity Dingredient

According to Julie Dawn Cole's memoir, the casting of the Oompa Loompas raised some difficulties.  In order to find actors who met the various, shall we say physical requirements, the producers ended up scouring circuses across Europe (filming was in Bavaria).  This led to a remarkable troop of actors who were consummate professionals, who lacked a single common language, and who apparently had a propensity for rather extravagant partying.  An odd combination, certainly, but one that definitely got results-- their performance was even more impressive with that in mind.

Their makeup also had its demands.  The Oompa Loompas were typically the first ones to arrive, and the last to leave.  On the one hand, a hell of a way to make a living.  But on the other, they're now cultural icons.  So perhaps it was worth it.

Chuck E Cheese

The founder of restaurant chain Chuck E. Cheese's (formerly Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre) is none other than Nolan Bushnell, founder of the computer game company Atari.  This explains rather a lot, actually, although not how both Atari and Chuck E. Cheese are still in business after the precipitous decline of the arcade in the wake of the console gaming boom.  Anyway, one version of the story is that at least in the beginning Warner Bros. was willing to sink all sorts of cash into Bushnell's side projects as long as Atari was going strong, which certainly would have helped get the chain off the ground.

"Chuck E. Cheese" was based on a "coyote costume" acquired at a trade show.  Bushnell then noticed that it had a tail, and realized it was actually a rat.  Oops.  Still, it worked, so who's complaining?  The marketing agency named it "Chuck E. Cheese" "...because it was a three-smile name, just saying it forces a person's mouth to smile."  In its early incarnation it was only one of the various animatronic characters (rather than the primary mascot).

And as long as I'm doing name research, the name Atari is from the Japanese word atari, used to indicate a threatening position in the game Go (a favorite of Bushnell's).  

Word for the Day

Today's word is coaxation: a croaking especially of frogs, from Latin coaxatus (past participle of coaxare to croak, probably from Greek koax noise made by a frog).

It has nothing to do with broadband or cable wiring.

The OED features (as it always does) the earliest written reference to this word, from 1642: "D. Featley Καταβαπτισται Καταπτυστοι 227 (T.), I hope we shall see no more of their frog-galliards, nor hear of their harsh croaking and coaxation either in the pulpit or the press."

Unexpected Cameo

I just saw actor Mike Farrell (most famously having portrayed one Cpt. B.J. Hunnicut)... on an episode of The Monkees.

That's right-- in 1966, nearly 10 years before his appearance on M*A*S*H, he was a strapping young agent for the Central Intelligence Service, tasked with helping the Monkees stop the dangerous Dragon Man's attempts to steal the Doomsday Bug.

Actually, now that I think of it, I'm not sure he had any lines.  But he was very tall and clean-cut, and I guess that's what mattered.

Fish Monday

Not a recipe today, but a valuable fish lesson learned nevertheless-- to wit:  no matter how reliable your fishmonger usually is, it's always a good idea to ask to see/smell the fish before you buy it.

When I took the fish I purchased at 3pm out of the fridge at 6, I noticed a definite fishy odor.  Not ammoniac-- it wasn't spoiled.  But it was unappetizing.  I thought to myself, well, I'll cook it thoroughly, and serve it in a fairly heavily flavored way.  One bite?  Still tasted it.  Into the trash it went, along with a goodly chunk of my mood.

On the plus side, the emergency back-up tacos I made were actually pretty good, although that might have just been because I was pretty hungry by that point.

Close Harmony

When I was in school, we'd sometimes use this phrase to make fun of the chorus.  "They're singing in close harmony," we'd say.  "Close, but not quite."  Then we'd snigger derisively.  Look, it was high school, and they weren't Glee.  Also, we were all jerks.  Anyway.

I knew roughly what the term meant, of course-- voices singing harmony that's, um, close.  You know.  Close together.  Or something.

As it happens, that's not a very good definition.  So here, for the record, is exactly what close harmony is.  According to the Oxford English Dictionary, close harmony is "harmony in which the parts composing each chord lie closely together, usu. within an octave or twelfth."  Which is actually a bit less precise than I'd expect from them (how often is usually? What's the outside range?), so let's turn to Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged, which defines it as "the arrangement or distribution of the notes or tones of a chord so that the three upper parts lie within an octave."  There, that's nicely precise.  So next time I hear an OED editor describing a vocal chord distributed within a twelfth as close harmony, I can justifiably respond, "close, but not quite."  And snigger derisively.

Word for the Day

The ornamental ponies that hypothetically adorn the sides of my socks would technically be referred to as “clocks,” as would be any other ornamental figures. These socks would therefore be (again, technically) referred to as "clock socks."


http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/clock?show=2&t=1328144183