'Possum Saga

I've been neglecting the Cabinet in favor of the Farm lately, but thought that I'd get one last post in before I take a forced hiatus (see the Farm for that particular saga). The topic is actually related, tangentially, to my reasons for taking time off, but I digress.

Last week my dogs uncovered a nest of baby opossums in our woodpile. I always know there's something naughty afoot (and some't nasty in the woodpile) when Woody doesn't come running the minute I step out the back door. He was lounging out back in the Accidental Garden, intrigued by something, so I went back to investigate.

There he sat, pleased as punch, licking what turned out to be a joey, as they're called, according to my source on the 'possum kingdom (that's sort of a pun; there's a lake by that name south of here). I thought the poor little guy was dead, so confiscated him and got ready to bury him when I noticed that he was still moving. I took him into the house and cleaned him up, and he got a lot more active. Then I noticed that Woody was still back at the woodpile, so I looked again, and there was another one snuggled down into a nest, of sorts, so I replaced the cleaned-up baby back with his/her brother/sister and took the dogs in. Later, I went back and tried to dog-proof the nest enough to give mom a chance to come back and get her kids, and when I let the dogs out again, Woody found another one, making its way through the tall grass that's now filling the open space in that part of the yard.

I picked that one up and put him/her back in the nest, and kept the dogs in for the rest of the day. By bedtime, though, it was clear that the nest had been abandoned, so I went out to get the nestlings and keep them warm for the night. The day had been chilly, though, and one was now cold and stiff--not playing 'possum at all. So I buried him and put the other two in a basket of old tennis socks and put that in the bathtub to keep the house critters away. I gave them some fluids through an eyedropper, but didn't feed them anything, and everybody hit the sack.

The next morning I began to search for 'possum rehab folks on the internet and was directed to the Texas Parks and Wildlife department, where a nice man gave me the number of a woman here in town, but the number was out of service, so I called back--and bingo: The Living Materials Center run by Jim Dunlap for the Plano schools. Why didn't I think of that? Years ago, I lived practically across the street from the facility, and used to lead little kids through the Outdoor Learning Center portion of the property. They were happy to take them, so I made a detour on my way down to work and deposited the little critters and their tennis socks with people who will take care of them.

On the way back to the highway, however, I had a bit of an angina attack (related to the cardiac procedure I'm having done tomorrow) and briefly stopped paying attention to the speedometer. Of course, that one lapse had some consequences: my first ever, in forty years of driving, speeding ticket. The officer was apparently not at all impressed with my 'possum sob story, and because I'm undoubtedly going to be in the hospital when my court date arrives, I won't even be able to plead my case before a judge. So, little miss animal-rescue person who drives below the speed limit on highways and still does everything the nuns told her to do will now have a blot on her otherwise stainless record.

Still, little brother and sister opossum will have a better life, and I'll get over my self pity. They're really interesting animals, and one of the few marsupials native to this area--so they make a nice subject for a Cabinet entry. I founds some lovely photos through Wikimedia Commons, and have a shot of my little pair, so if you've ever wanted to know something about a creature most folks in this part of the world associate with stew, now you have it.

Here are some resources in case you run into a nest: The National Opossum Association (with their very helpful page on orphans), the NatureWorks page on Virginia Opossums (the brand we have around here), and the very complete page from Wikipedia.

Image credits: The post-opener is a lovely winter photo of a 'possum by Wikimedia user Cody.Pope. The closing image is a drawing of Virginia oposums, Didelphis virginiana, from the "small" edition (1927) of Brehms Tierleben (Life of Animals) by by Alfred Edmund Brehm. It was uploaded by a fan of the book, "Petwoe," to Wikimedia Commons. The other photo is mine of the babies in their little basket hotel.

Tipsy Braised Pork Loin

The ineffable Geoff Isaac on It Came From the Kitchen has been ranting about cilantro (and who can blame him?), but like me he does enjoy the lovely little seeds of the coriander plant.

I was first introduced to coriander as a spice (rather than an herb) when I was working at Penn and a graduate student from Nepal periodically brought me a gift of rice pudding, called Khir. It was rich and creamy and redolent of both cardamom and coriander. I thought I'd post a recipe here to help Geoff out, even though it's far too rich for the current condition of my own arteries. Alas, however, the closest recipe I could find online (from Zen in Practise; it originally came from Asiarecipe.com) doesn't mention coriander seeds, but I suppose one could add them. My hunt also located a luscious variation that does include coriander, Chilled Vanilla Rice Pudding with Figs--even better because there's a red wine sauce to go with it and it'll give me something to do with my figs when they come in. The recipe comes from Big Oven, from whence I've derived several inspirational meals.

None of this has anything at all to do with the topic of the post. But I thought Geoff would be interested in tonight's main course, and so might other folk, because it requires beer. I've made it before, but not recently, and as I was searching for Himalayan rice pudding recipes I remembered that I had a pork roast in need of attending, and it was coming up on 3 pm, thanks to the arrival of Central Daylight Time on Sunday. So first I typed "pork loin roast" into Google, but didn't really want to deal with the oven. I was on my way to the cookbook shelves to leaf through my slow cooking bibles when it hit me: Tipsy Braised Pork Loin, as I used to call it when I made it for friends during my halcyon days in Philadelphia, before I got religion.

It just so happens that I have on hand some pink lady apples, onions, and plenty of garlic. There's always beer, so any time I want to souse a chunk of meat I'm well prepared. I'm less eager to give up a bottle of wine, but Beloved Spouse will forgive my pinching a bottle of his Sam Adams for a good cause. And I no longer have religion, so that's not a problem, either.

So here goes:

1 two-pound loin of some poor dead pig (preferably one that lived well before it became dead)
An onion, sliced
An apple, also sliced (not peeled; don't ever peel anything unless you have to)
A bottle of beer (real beer, like Sam Adams Boston Lager or, even better, Guinness Stout or Samuel Smith's Oatmeal stout; use 12 oz. of that one and drink the rest)
about 4 cloves of garlic, chopped
freshly ground peppercorns
freshly ground sea salt
two sprigs of rosemary, from the kitchen garden
a bit of good Greek or other tasty olive oil

Pour the olive oil (probably about two tablespoons) into a heavy Dutch oven big enough to fit the roast and heat; place the pork roast in the hot oil, turning it periodically to brown it. Then remove it to a plate, while you saute the onion and apple briefly in the oil. Add the garlic and stir it up, being careful not to burn the garlic.

Add the roast back in, and pour the bottle of beer over meat and veg. Do this slowly so as not to foam the beer over the top of the pot. Bring to a boil, add the rosemary sprigs, grind pepper and salt on top, cover, and lower the heat. Let it cook on low, peeking about every twenty minutes or so and giving it a stir, for about two and a half hours. When done, it should practically fall off the fork you test it with.

Serve it with basmati or some other aromatic rice, either steamed or cooked as a pilaf (with some pignolis and raisins if you like). I'm going to add a fig and onion chutney I made a while back, and maybe some naan.

And, of course, don't forget your favorite tipple.

PS: The image at top is what it looks like when it gets going. Here's a shot of what it looks like plated up for eating. I did serve it with brown basmati rice pilaf, but since I didn't have any raisins, I used dried cherries, and they were terrific. Good thing, however, that I'm a better cook than a food stylist. It needs some green, so I'm thinking of picking up some slender French green beans for the second round. The whole things goes well with a good stout beer or a glass of something dry and rich with berry flavors, like Bogle's "Phantom."

A Celebration of Darwiniana

Charles Darwin was a kind of human glacier, moving slowly through human scientific life, raising lateral moraines alongside the flow, scooping up ideas along the way and pushing them ahead, leaving the occasional drumlin. I could go on with this silly metaphor (if you don't know what I'm talking about, see this page on glacial terminology), but I'm a fan of Pleistocene geology and once had to memorize all this stuff. It is kind of apt, though, even though it's not biological.

In the accumulation zone, the cirque, lies Darwin's birth in Shropshire, England, on 12 February 1809. It includes the Beagle and Edinburgh University and Cambridge and Down House, where Darwin did most of his work. The glacier itself, flowing forth over the intellectual landscape, incorporating some ideas, grinding others down, consists of everything that's happened since. It includes all the controversies, the affirmations, and the ancillary work by more-or-less contemporaries like Gregor Mendel and Ernst Haeckel, and modern biologists like E. O. Wilson, Ernst Mayr, and Stephen Jay Gould. He influenced more theologically oriented thinkers like the philosopher Henri Bergson and priest-paleontologist Teilhard de Chardin, and has remained a controversial figure among other religious folks less capable of reconciling doctrine with scientific evidence.

What's really astonishing about Darwin is how well his original ideas hold up, despite the fact that there was, at the time, no inkling of biology to come: RNA, DNA, the double helix, gene transfer, punctuated equilibrium. Everything that gets done in modern biology starts in Darwin's cirque and flows outward. The beauty of science is that it changes, builds--evolves--and grows as people explore ideas. Theory is about good answers based on good evidence: the best picture we can draw from what we know at the moment. But the power of Darwin's model, even though challenged over and over again, has stood its ground and provided us with a basis on which to enlarge our picture of the world. Even recent news about the shape of Darwin's tree isn't a negation; it's an affirmation that the guy had it fundamentally right, two hundred years ago.

This post, to celebrate this momentous birthday, is a wunderkammer of cool stuff related to Darwin and available on the web. I only have a couple of hours to work on this today, so I can't pore through the vast amount of information that exists. But here are some good links to blogs and websites to begin your celebration, followed by my choices of favorite images of Darwiniana:

Scientific American's Darwin Day Special podcast

David Leff's all-encompassing Darwin information page

Larry Moran's blog, Sandwalk: Strolling with a Skeptical Biochemist. Moran is a Professor in the Department of Biochemistry at the University of Toronto.

The Biologista's tribute to Darwin

Pharyngula's Happy Darwin Day post. P.Z. Myers is a biologist and an Associate Professor at the University of Minnesota, Morris

Darwin's Canopy: Art Inspired by Evolution, from the New Scientist online. The site also has a feature on Darwin's impact: Darwin 200. The site's blog, Short Sharp Science, even includes a post by Australasian Editor, Rachel Nowak, called Eating my way through four billion years of evolution.

And now for some pictures:

Darwin's Thinking Path, also known as the Sand Walk--where he would walk and muse; would that we all had such a place to do our thinking.

Darwin's first "tree of life." It's a testament to scientific uncertainty (and its lack of belief in religious terms) that he writes "I think" at the top. That's just it: scientists think.

Ernst Haeckel's "Pedigree of Man" based on Darwin's description in The Origin of Species. The Opening pages of the 1859 first edition of Origin appear below (the link above is to the 6th edition, which corrects mistakes from earlier ones):


Darwin's finches, discovered on various of the Galapagos Islands, each with beaks and other anatomical features adapted to its peculiar circumstances, helped his ideas coalesce into coherent theory:

Here's a plan and cross-section of the ship, HMS Beagle, on which Darwin sailed into history:

There are more pictures where these came from, and myriad editions of the book. Read it if you haven't already; there's even an illustrated version with nice pictures--and the readability of the text still amazes me. The good thing about not having a huge pre-existing vocabulary from which to draw is that Darwin had to write in language everyone could understand. We no longer commonly have as many words in our everyday vocabulary--but at least you won't need a scientific dictionary.

Happy birthday, Mr. Darwin. And thanks for all the fish.

Image credits: all images on the page are from the Wikipedia article on Darwin, the Beagle, on Darwin's Tree of Life, or from Wikimedia Commons.

Celebratin' Rabbie Burns

Everyone with a wee dram of Scots blood in 'em should be throwing a party today--a Burns Supper--to celebrate the 250th anniversary of the most celebrated figure in Scottish history. I mean celebrated in the more literal sense--rather than simply in the "celebrity" sense. Probably Mary, Queen of Scots, or even Gordon Brown (or for that matter Sean Connery) are more written about and discussed these days. But every year, all over the world, proud fans of the poet celebrate his birth with single malt and toddy and haggis* and a great deal of pompous recitation of his works, ending with a rousing chorus of Auld Lang Syne.

Well, mostly. I, for one, leave out the haggis*--although I have been known to make oatmeal (thanks to the Slow Cook blog for the article) for breakfast to mark the day. And to be honest, I've only actually ever attended a few Burns Suppers in my life (primarily in my years at Penn, where such traditions were held dear amongst my friends). But this year's special, so I thought I'd mark it, in honor of the attachment of one man to one place, and the enjoyment anyone with a connection to that place feels on such an occasion.

Although many folk of Scottish descent claim relation to Burns, probably the only way I could would be if he'd had children with his great love, Highland Mary (Campbell), since I've got both Campbell and MacDonald blood flowin' in my very veins. I have mentioned, have I not, that my great grandfather's name was Angus Campbell McDonald? But, alas, there was apparently no issue from this union--however consecrated, or not, it might have been. And my relation to Burns is thus merely that of a devotee.

One of the best sources of cool stuff related to Burns (or Burruns, as my Glaswegian friend Victor pronounces it) is the online Future Museum that provides access to collections from south-west Scotland museums. Their Burns artifacts are all absolutely fascinating, from the ordinary to the sublime. I urge a visit to peruse everything from pipes to manuscripts to whiskey bottles, like the one at left, which was produced in 1896 to commemorate the centenary of Burns's death.

Seldom have I had as much fun noodling around a virtual space. Thanks to the staff for providing such a valuable and entertaining resource.

And so, in parting, a bit of my favorite poem of all, untranslated and with its wit intact, "To A Mouse" (the link is to a study guide):

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I think of this poem every time a member of my menagerie goes after a cotton rat.

Should one feel the need for further celebration, here are some Burnsian links:

The Robert Burns World Federation

Scottish Gemini's Worldwide Toast To Robert Burns site, where you can donate a pound to help preserve the Burns birthplace in Alloway. The page has a history of Burns Night, complete with a picture (which is as close as I want to get) of a haggis.*

The self-proclaimed official Robert Burns website, Burns Country, with a page of instructions on how to throw your own Burns Supper (there's still time!). I'd do one my own self sometime, if I could just get past the haggis.*

*Haggis: Traditional Scottish dish consisting of a sheep's stomach stuffed with oatmeal and all manner of other ingredients. It's actually admirable in that it represents the consummate example of not wasting anything, and may account for the reputation of Scots as "thrifty."

Google video results for "haggis" (some videos not for the squeamish) including one of a recitation of Burns's poem, "To A Haggis."

Haggis Recipes from (of all places) the Gumbo Pages (stands to reason, though; Gumbo's an example of food frugality as well--and Lord knows New Orlean's has been through some tough times of late).

Here's hoping that folk will still be raising glasses and eating haggis in Burns's honor 250 years from now.

Image source: the portrait (by whom they don't say) is from the Wikipedia article on Burns.

A Brief History of the Heart: In Pictures

As I mentioned over on the Farm, I've been looking up images of the heart in conjunction with my current preoccupation with impending surgery (not until March, I hope). For someone interested in the visual arts in general, and design in particular, the history of ways in which human beings have imagined the heart visually offers a fascinating journey into imagination and understanding.

Metaphor-makers that we are, human beings have to understand new concepts in terms of what they already know. I remember a history of science professor once telling us that the real breakthrough in modern understanding of heart function didn't occur until the hydraulic pump was invented, because until then we had no way to envision what was going on. I'm not entirely convinced that this is the case, since William Harvey's understanding of the pumping action of the heart was in place by the early seventeenth century, and the hydraulic ram is an eighteenth-century invention; ideas about pumping in general had also been around since the Middle Ages. But the popular understanding of the relationship between the heart and the pulse must certainly been made clearer to the general public after sophisticated pumping devices became more commonplace.

There are several terrific websites available on the heart and the history of what we know about it (one of the best is the PBS program, The Mysterious Human Heart; see also the Franklin Institute's online exhibit, The Human Heart). But most histories start with Harvey, and the more intriguing ideas are those that preceded our modern notions.

Take, for example, this illuminated drawing of the circulatory system from a thirteenth-century medical miscellany (Oxford). I show this to my art and design history students as an example of Medieval secular manuscripts, and they hoot over the goofiness of it. But if that little circle in the middle of the chest is supposed to be the heart, it's clear that the illustrator had some notion of the relationship between heart and veins. If it simply acknowledges the connections between vessels and the heart, without really understanding how it all worked, it's still interesting that folks were poking around in bodies trying to figure out what exactly was going on.

Or consider this Persian image, from The Medicine of Akbar (via the National Library of Medicine's Historical Anatomies site), which suggests a similar view of the heart and the veins.
The "anatomical squat" as I like to call it is a common pose in early medical documents. Sometimes annotations and rubrications can be entertaining, because they describe (in languages I don't read) what's going on in the drawings, at both ends of the digestive system, and are frequently placed in amusing contexts. What's clear, though, is that the image of the heart with which we're familiar today isn't intuitively obvious.

As printing and graphic arts burgeoned beginning in the sixteenth century, lovely illustrations appeared in anatomical treatises, such as this woodcut from Anatomiae, by Johann Drylander, published in 1537 (from the University of Toronto's Anatomia, an exhibit of prints from the Thomas Fisher Library). The catalogue description indicates that even if functions weren't completely fathomable, the artist could still depict what he saw.
Anatomy of the heart, pericardium reflected and heart ventricles incised. Aorta, superior vena cava, pulmonary vessels and diaphragm shown. Structures shown in isolation. Anterior view.

As much as I admire what earlier illustrators accomplished, I can't help but think that living in this particular technological moment has its rewards. For one, digital imaging machines and programs of all varieties are making it possible not only to explore the physiology of the heart in ways that the early theorists couldn't imagine, but to use these technologies to fix what ails us. Some of what's produced is quite beautiful:

This particular image (as well as the one used to open this post), by medical illustrator Patrick Lynch (available from Wikimedia Commons; his medical illustration portfolio is on his website) shows just how lovely instructional media can be thanks to the new technological tools available to talented artists. And as much as I appreciate the efforts of the early physicians, I'm thankful to live in a time when the visual arts, married to advances in medicine, can provide us with the technology and expertise to repair hearts that don't work.

Orientalist Switchplates

Once in a great while I wax creative with stuff I've collected over the years: odd images, bits of paper, stamps, and other ephemera. As an unabashed fan of the pioneers of collage and papier collé (Picasso and Braque) as well as of their heirs (Joseph Cornell, Nick Bantock, and others), I occasionally dabble in the practice of sticking things onto other things.

Some of the best imaginable "canvases" for such an endeavor are the cheesy blank plastic plates generally used to surround light switches and power outlets in our homes. Since I can't really throw anything away without a damned good reason, and am appalled by the prices some sources ask for more artful examples, I took it upon myself a couple of years ago to decorate my own. The first couple were usable, but not exactly awe-inspiring. I finally perfected the technique to my own satisfaction, however: first paint the plate with flat acrylic, and when it's dry begin to apply the desired bits with decoupage gel and a paintbrush. After that's dry, add metallic paint or leaf, or a stamped image or two, and then coat with another layer of gel. They turn out nicely and are pretty indestructible once coated.

All of mine so far are created from origami papers, kimono wrapping paper, washi, postage stamps from Asia, newspaper, fabric, photos, images from Dover design books and other bits of Japonisme or Chinoiserie I've come across over the years--even my mother's signature "chop." I grew up in Japan and Taiwan, and (because I hoard material evidence of my past experiences--it's a genetic defect and probably also has something to do with my archaeological training) have collected myriad boxes of things that can be used for collages on small surfaces.

I once made a couple of Impressionist examples for a mother-in-law as a Christmas gift by simply applying note cards cut out to fit blank wooden plates, and used gold paint on the edges. They looked like a million bucks--but also like something you'd buy in a hobby store. The collage versions are much more personal, and offer me a connection with my past every time I turn on a light or plug in the toaster.

As we've been working on the house and making rooms more habitable, I've been adding the plates as a finishing touch. It's just plain fun to do, and a nice way to work of tensions that can't be eased by gardening this time of year. The materials are ready-to-hand, cheap to acquire, and simple to use, providing the perfect sort of art therapy one might need around the holidays. They make nice gifts, too, especially if you spring for the wooden versions. Nick Bantock I ain't, but I have nice switchplates nonetheless. The iPhone images don't exactly do them justice--but provide a general idea of the results.

Channelling Frank Gehry

A couple of weeks ago I showed a film on Frank Gehry in my Art & Design Since 1945 class, and then gave them this assignment:

Using Gehry's process, design and build a model of a building for a specific use. The model must be completed by the end of the class (3 hours from when the film ended), and must fit the footprint of a letter-sized manila folder. Include the names of the team members and design sketches in the folder.

They picked buildings out of a hat (more or less), and these are some of the results (I apologize for the meager information provided by the photos--I took them with my iPhone):

A performance space with indoor and outdoor venues.


A brewery, with a tasting room and a bistro.


A high-school science lab.


The science lab was the clear winner, but I really appreciated the ingenuity and spirit all of these guys put into the project. I'd mention their names, but I can't find the list. I'll edit this post to add them when I locate it.

The class is now busily working on group seminar projects like "The Artist's Book in the Twenty-first Century" and "Public Art and Architecture in the DFW Area." The results are almost always interesting, and this particular class shows more promise than usual. Can't wait to see what happens.