Evil Sleeps

Evel Knievel 1938-2007




BEL

Christmas Time with the Mystics

It's a naturalist time of year in the city. Trees are popping up everywhere. Rockefeller Center. Everyone's living rooms. And the American Museum of Natural History. The AMNH puts up a themed tree annually in time for the holidays. This year's tree is decorated with origami 'creatures of fantasy' to compliment their Mythical Creatures exhibit.

The American Museum of Natural History
Central Park West and 79th Street
open daily, 10:00 a.m.—5:45 p.m.
212.769.5100

KJ

Secret Scientists Evolve

The Secret Science Club presents "Evolve!" on Wednesday, December 5


The brains behind last months taxidermy event are at it again. Brooklyn's Secret Science Club is hosting another event in Brooklyn with the usual list of gifted speakers. Secret Scientists will creep through the shadows late on December 5th and meet clandestinely at Union Hall to discuss evolution and man's impact on the environment over unusual cocktails and conversation. The Urban Naturalist will be there hours early to secure the most concealed seat and enjoy these underground happenings from the dark fringes.


The Secret Science Club meets December 5th at 8 p.m. in the basement @ Union Hall, 702 Union St. (at 5th Ave.) in Park Slope, Brooklyn, p: 718.638.4400 Subway: R to Union St.; F to 4th Ave.; Q, 2, 3, 4, 5 to Atlantic

No cover charge.
Doors open at 7:30. LIMITED SEATS AVAILABLE.

RJ

Sunday Afternoon Imbiber: Wild Turkey Ltd.

So your boyfriend or girlfriend really likes whiskey. Consider yourself lucky. No embarrassing orders of White Russians or Sex on the Beach are in your future. That being so, reward your significant other with Wild Turkey American Spirit. To celebrate their 150th Anniversary Wild Turkey has created a limited edition (24,000), 15 yr aged, bourbon whiskey. Each bottle comes wood corked and packaged in a commemorative wooden case. Bottled at 100 Proof, American Spirit is a homage to early devotees of real “Straight Whiskey” and to the adolesant country that provided them with the opportunity to hone their craft. So what does the The Sunday Afternoon Imbiber say of this special bourbon. It's subtle and deep and wonderfully tasty.

Available at LeNell's in Red Hook ($150)

nose: spice and citrus
mouth: butter, vanilla, maple syrup
Urban Naturalist rating: 9.8

Sandalwood: A Hunter's Favorite Lather

It's time for you to stop using just any soap found in your shower. Either too flowery (most soaps) or too pathetically manly (Axe), there must be a subtle, fresh alternative. It's time to look into nature's naturally masculine soap, sandalwood. Sandalwood trees are used for perfumes, incense, and woodworking. That's right. The Urban Naturalist took a bath in it, sprayed down our body in it, and then built some new kitchen cabinets with it. Made by combining glycerin, sandalwood oil, and sandalwood powder, Sandalwood soap smells like the woods and moose hunting. You can find sandalwood soap all over the city, but you will have to use trial-and-error to find the right brand. The Urban Naturalist started at Whole Foods and found a bar that has lasted three months for under seven dollars. But we're not completely satisfied. The bar must have the right balance of glycerin to fragrance to leave the body feeling clean and not too perfumed. Any brand suggestions would be appreciated.

Thanksgiving Cuisinier

"Ah! on Thanksday, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?"
John Greenleaf Whittier,"The Pumpkin" (1850)

Autumn Pumpkin Pie

1 1/4 cups pumpkin puree, fresh
3/4 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon all-purpose flour
2 eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup evaporated milk, undiluted
2 tablespoons water
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 unbaked pastry shell (9-inch)

PREPARATION:
Combine pumpkin, sugar, salt, spices, and flour in a medium mixing bowl. Add eggs; mix well. Add evaporated milk, water, and vanilla; mix well. Pour into pastry-lined pie pan. Bake at 400° for 15 minutes; reduce heat to 350° and bake about 35 minutes longer, or until center is set.

Suspension of Disbelief

"I stood in the halls. I was near London. And I looked at the walls. With a suspension of disbelief." Dan Rousseau

Photo from Ravishing Beasts.
(a great site.)

Sunday Afternoon Imbiber: Buffalo Trace

I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized it was Sunday. I could finally drink at breakfast without beginning looked at like a priest cursing in Sunday School. Today my afternoon drink of choice is Buffalo Trace straight Kentucky bourbon. Buffalo Trace begins with the finest Kentucky and Indiana corn, selected rye, and malted barley, creating a mash that is uniquely American in nature.

This bourbon dances on my tongue, this Sunday afternoon, before slowly warming my stomach and mind. It accompanies breakfast foods, grilled meats, and a day with the significant other very well. And it's affordable. Buffalo Trace sells at Union Square Wine and Spirits for under thirty dollars. Which means you'll pay that or less in many liquor stores throughout the city.


nose: cinnamon, vanilla,
mouth: honey, light heat, medium finish
Urban Naturalist rating: 9.0

DR

Wall Mapping

There is an empty space on your wall, and you've thrown away all of your old Jim Belushi, Pulp Fiction, etc., posters. It's time to bring a little class to your apartment without breaking the bank. Try out Pageant Print Shop in the East Village. The store is filled with old prints and maps ranging from historical NYC maps to naturalist classification prints. The Urban Naturalist found a few new celestial maps, bringing our quest to map the universe closer to fulfillment.

Pageant Print Shop
69 East 4th St. (btw. 1st and 2nd Ave.)
212.674.5296
info@pageantbooks.com

My Life in the Bush with Ghosts I've Met

"New York is hard," Sam Watts said to me. "You work and you work. You have to. I've been playing so many gigs. I think maybe I've been playing too much. It's like if I want to get a day's rest or two, New York comes up and punches me in the face." He chuckled and drank some more coffee.

Sam's band is Ghosts I've Met. The current songs on their myspace page are mournful and subdued with pedal steel guitar. Reno is especially beautiful: "I'll kiss you in Reno, and gamble my whole life." I ran into Sam at Cakeshop on the Lower East Side, just before he was set to move. He was going out to Portland for the winter to record the new album.

"I need to spend the winter in a temperate climate. New York is pretty goddamn cold, man. We have a tour coming up on the West coast. It'll be nice to be down in L.A. in December. Then it's back up to Portland. We got this house."

Sam told me he'd been at Cakeshop for most of the afternoon. "You can always tell you've had enough coffee when the hands start to shake," he said with a quick smile. He had to be moving on. Maybe I'd see him in the Spring? "Maybe," he said and we shook hands. His cowboy boots scraped out the front door.

The Urban Cuisinier

Around this time of year, the Urban Cuisinier is reminded of all of those classic fall ingredients. The streets finally start to cool and a season of indoor activities slowly takes over. Well, no food is more classically winter than the cranberry. It has the odd characteristic of being a fruit associated with winter, being that it is harvested in the fall. During those late year months they take on a deep crimson color. Cranberry product is also important to New Yorkers' sister state, New Jersey, where cranberry production thrives. Nothing warms the Urban Cuisinier's winter nights like a cranberry enhanced meal and some liquor. The recipe here offers both.


Cranberry and Grand Marnier Glazed Pork Tenderloin

Ingredients
For the Pork:
1 pork tenderloin butterflied
1/2 cup havarti cheese grated
1/2 cup dried cranberries
1/2 cup chopped fresh herbs - approximately 2 Tbsp each of chives, thyme, basil, marjoram and rosemary
2 small cloves of garlic chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
24 inches kitchen twine

For the Glaze:
reserved cooked tenderloin liquid from roasting pan
1 (16-ounce) can whole berry cranberry sauce
3-1/2 Tbsp Grand Marnier orange liqueur
2 Tbsp thawed orange juice concentrate
1 Tbsp fresh orange zest chopped
1 tsp red wine vinegar
1/2 tsp salt
2 Tbsp unsalted butter
1/2 cup dried cranberries

Instructions
For the Pork:
Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Salt and pepper both sides of the butterflied pork tenderloin. Mix together the remaining ingredients.

Fill tenderloin wrap. Secure with twine. Place in a roasting pan seam side down. Roast until the internal temperature reads 160 degrees F.

Remove from oven; place the tenderloin on a plate to cool. In the meantime make the glaze.

For the Glaze:
Pour all the juice out of the roasting pan and into a saucepan. Place on stovetop on medium high heat and bring to a boil. Cook for about 2 minutes or until slightly reduced and thickened.

Add all ingredients except the butter. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat, add the butter, stir until dissolved and sauce is glossy.

Remove the twine from the tenderloin. Place the tenderloin on a serving platter. Pour glaze over pork and serve.

Yield: 4 servings

Credits
Recipe from: Farmer John Meat

The Natural Wave

When I was in college, a guy who hung-out at my favorite bar had mastered the Hoop Shot game. Everyone I knew called this guy The Wave. Even outside of the bar, and nowhere near a Hoop Shot, people called him Wave. He was a local celebrity.

Well from Yanko Design comes The Natural Wave. It's a ceramic plate that neatly fits over those old radiators littering New Yorkers' apartments, hissing and popping their way through the winter. Might as well keep that cup of Joe warm without using a microwave or oven. Considering how warm my radiator gets, the thing might be able to cook up an entire breakfast.

Designer: Byung-seok You

Pop Rock Cake Shop

The Urban Naturalist used to like going to shows. I'm not talking about Bowie, The Stones, or Radiohead. I'm talking about those young, on the road all year, grateful you're there artists. Those shows where you have no idea what the bands will look or sound like before you're there. Then in the middle of the set, between songs, you turn to a companion and say, "wow, they're great," or "boy, this is a little rough." Whichever one is appropriate. But following either comment, you don't have to fight your way to the bar for the next beer, whiskey, house red, or what have you.

The Cake Shop offers just this opportunity. Located on the LES on Ludlow St, The Cake Shop is a hybrid of a few wonderful things. The upstairs is a cafe/record store/bakery (yes, cake is very available here). The downstairs is a small, dark, dank, and sublime venue. The stage is at the end of the room, with the bar to the left. When The Urban Naturalist visited on Sunday, I payed six dollars to get in for a three act show, sat at the bar, drank four dollar Buds, and enjoyed some sloppy, loud pop music. Shows and events take place all week long so check their calender for events. Looking for a recommendation?

Wednesday, Nov. 14th
Great Lakes
Blank Tapes
Toby Goodshank
doors @ 8pm (21+)
$6

Sunday Afternoon Imbiber: Rebel Yell

The mimosa and bloody mary have occupied the palates of Sunday afternooners for much too long. Especially during the winter months, The Urban Naturalist prefers a warm, big bodied bourbon whiskey. Whiskey compliments brunch, football, winter park exploration, or any other Sunday afternoon activity.

Rebel Yell was "founded in 1849 by W.L. Weller, who pioneered using wheat, rather than rye, in his mash." Because of this, Rebel Yell is a little smother and sweeter than a rye heavy bourbon. It makes it a preferable Sunday whiskey. Leave the ryes for workdays and early morning benders, Rebel Yell, smooth and warm, coats the mouth and stomach, and unwinds the brain. Even better, The Urban Naturalist has found Rebel Yell in NYC priced between fifteen and twenty dollars a bottle.

nose: honey, butter, raisins
mouth: big, round body, honey, dark fruit, hot spiciness
Urban Naturalist rating: 8.0

DR

Quiet Brooklyn (The American Night Series)

I was at the Lutheran Church of The Messiah in Greenpoint, in Brooklyn, Thursday night. My short, fat, gay, Indian companion and I were there, downstairs in the multi-purpose room to see a show. His name is either Phil or Mount Eerie or both, I could never be sure. He sat by himself on the stage, off to one side, looking at the projection behind him of what at first seemed to be a still photo of a dock on a lake with the moon at the top of the frame. It was a movie, you could see the water lapping the shore. "Is this the new place?" he asked someone in the corner. "Is this the new place where they have shows?"

We'd come early before the doors were even open. The fluorescent lights were still on and there were four or five happy-looking youngsters milling around. I cursed my companion for bringing me to a Youth Group. "Listen," he said, "don't you ever feel like there's something missing in your life? Well I've got a friend I'd like you to meet. His name is Jesus." We laughed and laughed and went down the road to Enid's to get started on some beer: it was already eight o'clock and this show wasn't even off the ground. They were playing all of Mr. Dynamite at Enid's, a collection of James Brown's old recordings. Impossible to tear ourselves away.

We came back the the Lutheran Church of The Messiah a few hours later. The multi-purpose room had been transformed. It was disappointing to be in the basement, but our promoters had done what they could. The fluorescent lights were off, and green and red light bulbs had been screwed into the sconces. There was a stage with other colored lights splashed across and a quiet Belgian woman performing on her guitar. The room was packed with acolytes and the curious, sitting quietly cross-legged on the floor, like kindergarten.

"It's like kiddie gardners," said my companion. "I have to piss," I said. I tip-toed through the crowd and sidestepped beer bottles toward the bathroom. As I neared, the Belgian woman's set ended and I found myself at the end of a line to piss. All was not well. "Dude, I'm having a shitty day," a man in front of me said to a friend. "I lost my job today. Job of five years. I guess someone in Ireland can do it better." Bitter young man. "Fucking Euro's so strong right now." "Ja," someone said in front of him, "I know vhat you mean. I'm from Sveden." "Hell yeah, you know what I mean!" "Ja, like this yacket cost me only like tventy Euro." "Yacket?" the bitter young man said, "it's called a jacket! You're stealing our jobs!" The Swede left without using the bathroom. He couldn't have been more than fifteen.


It was now time for Mount Eerie. The moon in the first shot on his projector by the end of the song had risen out of frame and then it faded into a shot of mist creeping through trees that lasted about as long as his second song. He seemed a little shy at first, not talking much between songs, but looking back at whatever shot was appearing on the screen behind him. A contemplative set, just him and a classical acoustic guitar. He loosened up as the set went on and told little stories that were met with applause and laughter. Everyone loved him. This is what they'd been waiting for.

For his last song he informed the audience that they had to sing along. But he wouldn't tell them the lyrics and he'd never performed it. But they could read his mind: it was completely open. "Just read it. It's like you go to your airport dropdown menu and scroll through to find me. It's called MountEerieConcert555. Okay? Is everyone there? Okay, here we go." He sang very slowly, stretching out every word long enough so people could telegraph what it was. The effect was that of chanting, or prayer (a little Catholic, maybe, for a Lutheran church, but there it was). The verses were funny: "Where is the Mount Eerie concert? I got a flier today on the street." Then he would break out into a quicker response that wasn't sung along: "There is no concert. Mount Eerie's turned to dust." It ended with the following. Sung along: "I've RSVP'd. I'm here in the basement of the church. Where should I set my stuff?" Then the quicker response: "That stuff isn't yours. You'll be taken tonight, in dark arms."

Obscura

The Urban Naturalist explored the East Village the other day, and stumbled upon a 'Ripley's Believe It or Not!' emporium of taxidermy, photography, and habiliments. Obscura is a cramped, pack-rat shop well worth a visit. A rotating collection of oddities are sold by a set of eccentric owners who consciously value the bizarre and unusual over the commercially practical. All the better for the curious Urban Naturalist. Prices vary, as many of these oddities are one of a kind. On our last visit, the Urban Naturalist found a twelve-year-olds butterfly collection, neatly pinned and labeled.

Obscura Antiques and Oddities
280 East 10th Street
(Between 1st Avenue & Avenue A)
Open 7 days 2-8:30 pm
open earlier on weekends.
212.505.9251
info@obscuraantiques.com

Stuffed Animals, part 2

We'd blown it. It was that simple. There would be no show for us tonight. The Cougars
had distracted me. I'd been concentrating on the vodka they'd been ordering. "Vodka cran. Just a little cran. And some soda. Grey Goose if you have it, or Belvedere." They were on the prowl.

"Those Cougars sure are on the prowl tonight," said my short, fat, gay, Indian companion after I'd come back from the line up the stairway. "Forget them, kid." I said. "What they're on the prowl for has almost nothing to do with you, or what you're prowling for." We discussed bocce ball. There are two such courts inside Union Hall. The line, though, was insanely long, and unless we instigated some sort of Hall-wide brawl, there was no way we'd get in there. And I no longer had the heart for instigation.

Back in our niche by the fire underneath the books I almost paid for the whiskey. But I decided that I was by God going to see some dead, stuffed animals that very night. And instead of paying, I ordered more. And our minds turned, as they will, to music. We were starting a band named Angel Glands. Esoteric music using esoteric instruments. Eso-Core. Polyphonic rhythms on such diverse tools as: a theremin, a washboard, a Jew's Harp, found percussives, a comb with wax paper wrapped around it. Every song title would be about Leonard Cohen. "Leonard Cohen Bites My Rhymes." "Leonard Cohen Made Out With My Girlfriend (and Gave Her Herpes)." "Leonard Cohen is a Buster." Every title taking Cohen down a peg, because, really, he's had it coming. For a long time. There would be one song, though, just called Angel Glands. It would be on our album, Angel Glands, by us, Angel Glands. We'd eschew Eso-Core for one song and be a traditional three-piece with and infectiously poppy song that would put us on the map. This would also complete the triangle, the first two sides of which were built by Bad Company and Big Country*. We were destined for greatness.

The talk of Leonard Cohen, naturally, led to Nazis. I pulled a book at random out of the nearest shelf and opened it. It was the beginning of a chapter and its first line was "I lost my virginity to a Nazi." A very useful line, we agreed. In any sort of situation. "Would you like cream or sugar in your coffee?" my companion asked. "I lost my virginity to a Nazi," I said. "Does it look like I want cream or sugar?" And more in this vein.

I blinked my eyes and suddenly the Hall was filled with Scientists. Unmistakable corduroy and facial hair. I knew the show had let out.

My companion and I beat a path to the stairway. He hesitated at the top. "I don't know if I want to go down there. I can't really deal with death." I reminded him of the Great Spirit and counseled him washteh. He finally agreed and we descended into the dark, humid, cramped cellar.


It was still packed with people, Scientists and lay people alike. I had to shoulder my way to the exhibits. I heard talk of a two-headed ostrich. I didn't see it. "I still don't get it," my companion said. "Is it just funny? These are a bunch of dead things." He was peering at some of the taxidermy boxes. "No," I said. "They're reminders of things that once were living. Taxidermy doesn't glorify death. The reason this trend is sweeping the city is just this reminder. Nature. Natural habitats. These kids long for something: the famous pioneering spirit, the myth of the Old West. They don't have the balls to actually move to the country or lead a for-real hard scrabble life, but they connect with the idea. Or maybe they do have the balls and have only recently come to this city. Taxidermy in a tiny apartment represents this Urban Naturalism. It's not ironic. It's serious and fun and not somber. It's a philosophy. Look at all the people here. They love this. So do I." All of this uncharacteristic tangent was lost on my companion who was staring at a standing badger dressed like the Pope.

(*Editor's Note: Big Country never released a Trifecta. The band had a single called "In a Big Country," but the album was named The Crossing.)

Stuffed Animals, part 1

"Watch out! Guy's got a dead animal." Someone yelled at me outside Union Hall, in Park Slope, in Brooklyn, Friday night. I explained to the gentleman that my short, fat, gay, Indian friend, (and not Indian like that, you son of a bitch, he's from New Mexico and building an adobe house with his husband), was not any sort of dead animal. The gentleman replied by pointing at a man pushing a large wooden box on a furniture dolly into the bar. Taxidermy box. I knew this had to be the place.


I was there for an event given by The Secret Science Club called Carnivorous Nights. Darren Lunde of the Museum of Natural History would be speaking and then judging, along with a distinguished panel, contestants's taxidermy. We were early and I found two armchairs next to a fireplace on the main floor and sent my short, fat, gay, Indian companion to the bar to get us started on some whiskey. Directly after he left, a waitress asked if I wanted anything. Whiskey, I said, and maybe some food.

A little later, with now four generous pours of Elijah Craig in deep glasses, my companion and I watched an older gentleman and a younger woman sit across from us at the fireplace on a red couch. A coffee table seperated us in this bookshelved niche. They ordered beer and sliders from the waitress and talked quitely. Halfway through their meal the young woman got up. She never came back. I blinked my eyes and the man was gone as well. One slider left half-eaten. Beer almost full. A group of Cougars on the prowl asked if they could sit down. My companion began to reply that it looked as though the couple was coming back. "Nix," I said, "have a seat. They're gone." And the Brooklyn Instigation Society was born. We would spend the rest of the night trying to start trouble wherever we could. I wanted that old man to come back and have some altercation with these Cougars about his stolen seat. "What if they had a knife fight, " my companion asked. "That would be awesome," I said. The old man and his young lady never reappeared.

A steady stream of bowties and courduroy jackets with leather elbow patches had long been passing. They all wore sneakers with their get-ups, as they all were Secret Scientists. I knew it was almost showtime and I sent my companion downstairs to find us some seats. When he came back to tell me the room was full to capacity I knew I had to find out what the hell was going on myself.

The room was indeed full to capacity and there was a line up the stairs of people waiting vainly to get in. We were too late.

(Will our heroes ever get to see some taxidermy? Will the Cougars pounce? Will there be any knife fights? Tune in to read the exciting conclusion of Carnivorous Nights!)

Victor Talking Machine Company

Victor Talking Machine Company: Grizzly Bear

The Urban Naturalist has been subtly jamming to Brooklyn band Grizzly Bear since their second record psychedelically smiled at us, last year. We thought it fit in nicely with the Brian Wilson created genre "psyche-delicate." They've followed it up with a new EP, "Friend" out this week, that jams a little less subtly. In fact, a few parts kind of rock out. Something is to be said for a band that progressively gets harder instead of slowly mellowing out.

Grizzly Bear stop by Virgin Records in Union Square for a performance and signing on Wednesday November 7th at 6:30 pm. I'm sure you will have to buy the CD at Virgin to catch the performance, but it should be worthwhile considering the intimacy of there space.

Grizzly Bear: "Alligator" MP3 (from Friend)

Just as a side note, there sure are a lot of great bands coming from the NYC area these days. The Victor Talking Machine is getting full.

BEL

Flannel: Practical, Fashionable

The Sartorialist has noticed that, "it seems (the fashionable) are wearing a lot of plaid flannel shirts right now." And let it be know that The Urban Naturalist called that about a year ago. So get ready. Here come urban naturalist store fronts, urban naturalist spring lines, urban naturalist glamour magazines. The full blown naturalism trend packaged, glossed, and homogenized. First the fashionistas, then the world.

E Pluribus Unum

The Urban Naturalist is looking for cool new winter digs and recently discovered naturalist tinged In God We Trust. The stores have men's and womenswear that focus on keeping a homespun aesthetic. In God We Trust features Ritten House, Shennan, Kristen Coates, Beards and Bangs, Harvey Hats, M. Carter, and Shara Porter. The stores themselves are a cabinet of curiosities and display many items in cases more familiar to natural history museums than designer's stores. Just the clothing shop an urban naturalist should frequent.


Manhattan:
265 Lafayette St.
New York, NY 10012
212.966.9010

Williamsburg:
135 Wythe Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.388.2012

Thomas Jerry: Blue Blazer

"Like Davy Crockett, Daniel Boone and Buffalo Bill Cody, (Thomas Jerry) was the sort of self-invented, semimythic figure that America seemed to spawn in great numbers during its rude adolescence." The New York Times

In the 1860s, Thomas Jerry invented the cocktail. It's that easy. And today he's enjoying a bit of a renaissance. Say what you will about the obnoxiousness of making and drinking cocktails, but when done well, and without pretension, it is an incredibly inventive and enjoyable way to drink. Jerry created all of the standards still mixed today, including the whiskey smash, brandy crusta, and his most popular and involved drink the Blue Blazer, a scotch cocktail that requires throwing fire from hand to hand.

“Imbibe!” (Perigee Books, $23.95), a biography and annotated recipe book by David Wondrich, comes out next week. Pick it up, invent, drink.



Blue Blazer

Adapted from David Wondrich (published in the New York Times)
Time: 10 minutes Jerry Thomas’s signature drink is essentially a hot toddy for pyromaniacs.

2 pieces lemon peel, pith removed
2 teaspoons Demerara or raw sugar
4 ounces cask-strength Scotch.

1. Place a piece of lemon peel in each of two teacups or small, heavy glasses.

2. To prevent house fires, pour some water into a baking sheet over which you will make blue blazers.

3. Dim lights. Have ready two one-pint mugs, ideally metal with a flared lip. Pour sugar and 3 ounces of boiling water into one mug and then add Scotch. Ignite alcohol with a long match and pour about half the liquid into empty mug, then pour that back into the first mug. Repeat four or five times. Proceed quickly but with great caution.

4. Pour flaming drink into teacups or glasses and cover with mug to extinguish flames.

Yield: Two drinks and, with luck, generous applause.
Note: It is imperative to practice this drink with water, and no fire, before attempting the combustible version.

BEL

Richard Barnes: Animal Logic

Richard Barnes has an engaging photography project called Animal Logic available online. A lot of the photographs show natural history dioramas during construction.

DR