Swedish engineering is still subject to the limitations of aging rubber and fiber

We have a Swedish washing machine in our house - a front-loading, water-conserving machine by a company I've never heard of (Asko). The other day it stopped working, leaving a load of laundry soggy but unwashed. I initially blamed the power outage we'd experienced over the weekend, but putting it through another wash cycle only made the clothes a bit soggier. A bit smellier, too, since the load had now been sitting for a couple of days. And we're talking workout clothes and underwear here, so I imagine 300 bacterial Spartans had now become 300 billion, preparing not only to defend their territory but establish a vast empire.

Ordinary people might call the landlord or a repair shop at this point, but not I. No, I inherited my dad's DIY mentality, which generally means If I can't do it myself, I'll at least get to the point where I'm sure I can't.

Being an avid diagnostician - and feeling a special bond with this machine born in the land of my ancestors - I was pretty sure that there was a problem with the drive belt. Sure enough, it had snapped and lay coiled neatly below the drive motor. Our neighborhood hardware shop somehow always has what I need (Car battery terminal? Yup! Programmable thermostat? Sure! Hollow-point torx wrench? YOUHAVEGOTTOBEKIDDINGME!) to look for a replacement, but my luck was sure to run out sooner or later. I can't find a local supplier for this brand to save my life, so I went online to find somewhere to order a replacement. As luck would have it I found a place, and they'll even do same-day shipping. Even better, you can order online and pick up in their store!

But they only have one retail store for local pickup. And where is it? Canton, Michigan. Five minutes from where we used to live. Figures.

Separation anxiety

This morning we stopped by the local elementary school to register Ben for kindergarten. I know - it seems like just yesterday he was running around the yard fighting with Ian over toys, making us cut the crust off his sandwich, and getting frustrated putting his sandals on. Oh wait - that was yesterday.

Anyway, Sarah ran in with a bunch of paperwork while I waited in the car with the boys. Ian wanted to go inside, but I explained that we weren't going to kindergarten quite yet; Ben would be going there at the end of the summer. Ben broke the news to Ian gently:

"I'm sorry, Ian. I'm going to kindergarten, but you're staying at my old school. I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, Ben."

I'm not sure Ian fully understands that his big brother won't be nearby anymore. All I know is that it will be a sad day when reality sinks in.

Ikea's tap runs dry

Being of Scandinavian descent, I appreciate Ikea's approach to selling furniture. Every aspect of furnishing a home - from manufacturing to shipping to the retail stores themselves - has been thoroughly examined in the effort to bring good design to the masses at low cost. Sure, I've been let down a few times by quality issues, like the folding chair that wouldn't unfold, but for the price I paid I could hardly complain. It's like getting Wal-Mart's Every Day Low Prices without the Every Day Low Standards.

And those meatballs! With the gravy and lingonberry sludge, I just can't help myself.

The Woodbridge, Virginia Ikea has become a recreational destination for us. It's only a short drive from home, and the boys actually nag us to go. Without family nearby, Småland (their supervised children's play area) offers our only respite from parenthood that doesn't cost $10-12 an hour. There was that one day we both called in sick after we dropped the kids off at preschool, but we really were sick, so that hardly counts. We don't have any room left in the house for even the smallest disposable housewares, but sometimes we'll just browse the labyrinthine floors and dream about being able to afford something that doesn't come packed into a flat box.

But this past weekend Ikea disappointed me. We went to the Ikea Cafe for a bite to eat before setting the boys free in Småland, and as I had done on prior visits, I grabbed a glass for some icewater. When I told the cashier that it wasn't for a soft drink, however, she informed me that my only options were soft drinks or bottled water. So I could buy something that's bad for my health, or something that's bad for the environment. Chagrined, I decided to take one for Kermit and headed for the lingonberry juice. When in Rome, you know. Or Stockholm.

Right there next to the lingonberry juice fountain was the Dispenser Formerly Known as Water, now stripped of its label and actuating lever. They didn't replace the water with another drink - they just disabled the water dispenser.

I would hardly consider myself an enviro-nazi (I've only seen Al Gore's movie once, figuring he would argue that repeated viewing would just waste energy), but I can't help finding this offensive. I didn't really want lingonberry juice. But I really really didn't want to send yet another unnecessary plastic bottle into the ecosystem. Even if Ikea recycles, energy and materials are still invested in the process, and it's better not to consume them at all. Reduce comes before Re-use and Recycle, doesn't it?

I can only assume that Ikea is attempting to pad its bottom line by closing a gap in its Cafe revenue, requiring customers to pay for any and all beverages. But is this the right way to do it? According to the New York Times, even upscale restaurants are switching from bottled water to tap water for environmental reasons. Whatever benefit they reap is surely outweighed by the bad karma.

Is a simple glass of water really too much to ask for?

15 seconds of fame

So there's this ridiculous internet fad called lolcats, where photos of innocent cats are given absurd captions for comic effect. Most of them imply that cats have horrific spelling and grammar, which couldn't be further from the truth. I'm guessing a dog started this whole thing. I mean seriously, can you imagine a cat uttering such nonsensical gibberish?


Considering how difficult it is to add text to an image, someone was bound to create a website that would help people with the process. Sure enough, about a month ago someone did. All of a sudden, anyone and everyone could create lolcats, and the fad snowballed. Even I succumbed, digging through the photos of our cats for promising candidates and giving them appropriately butchered captions.

Lolcats have become so prevalent that today the Houston Chronicle even published a story about them. And what should I find among their cited examples? None other than my very own lolcat, featuring our very relaxed Beatrice:


You know, I had hoped to be cited in the newspapers someday, but this isn't exactly what I'd envisioned.

Part of the problem

The only downside of living in a city that is a popular tourist destination is having to compete with tourists. Once spring break arrives, whole herds of teenagers or senior citizens wearing matching T-shirts graze the food court at Union Station, where until now I've enjoyed a peaceful lunchtime most Fridays. I take some consolation in the fact that the stellar Indian food at Aditi is always overlooked in favor of pizza and chicken wings, so my wait in line isn't any longer than usual, but it's getting harder to find a seat. Last week I found a two-top next to three women at an adjacent table, and when I asked if anyone was sitting there, one responded "You are!" I didn't have to ask if they were from the Midwest. After a few minutes, though, others from their group started to gather, and before you know it I'm ceding the opposite side of my table, drafting food court treaty provisions in my head, hoping to finish my curry before everyone forgets I had a legitimate claim.

Being rather new to the area, there's still plenty we'd like to see ourselves, too. Fall and Winter were great times to catch up on a lot of stuff we hadn't seen in a while and explore the sights that were always too far down the priority list to cut the mustard when we were just visitors. Like the Theodore Roosevelt Island National Memorial. Didn't know there was a Theodore Roosevelt Memorial? Let alone an island? Yeah, neither did we. It holds up a commuter freeway, and since 9/11 airport traffic has passed directly overhead, so it's not exactly the remote wilderness Teddy may have wanted. If you like mosquitoes and goofy statues, though, do put it on your list.

For Mother's Day we had grand plans of visiting Great Falls Park, making an afternoon of nature's majesty just ten miles from home. So did everyone else, apparently, because a police car was blocking the entrance when we arrived, and most of the cars passing by could be seen turning around with disappointment on their faces. We were among them, but at least we could tell the kids we'd just come back another time - no big deal. So we resorted to Plan B:

Security weakness by design

I have a pretty simple email address (only seven letters, no numbers or symbols), so I've gotten used to receiving emails meant for other people. It's not spam - it was meant for an individual person, just not me. I usually reply with a "Sorry, wrong email address," and that's that. Most of the time, I get an apology or a "Thanks for letting me know." One real estate agent tried to sell me a house while he had my attention even though I wasn't the intended client, but that's rare.

The messages I've received by accident have ranged from the mundane (forwarded jokes, baby pictures, nice-meeting-you-at-the-convention) to the embarrassing (think Taxicab Confessions). The first email that made me really worry about security issues, though, was from a hospital. A patient had made a mistake writing out her email address, so I ended up with correspondence that included home address, social security number, you name it. I immediately contacted the hospital to alert them of the error, and felt relieved that the information hadn't ended up in the wrong hands. I'm not sure what you'd do with the identity of someone from back-country Arkansas, but I've never wanted a credit card at Wal-Mart, either.

A few days ago I received an email asking me to confirm my email with some website called Plaxo. I'd never heard of it, so I assumed someone mistyped their email address again and deleted the message. The next day I received another email from Plaxo, then a couple more within hours. Assuming the message would keep coming, I looked for something to click on that would DISconfirm my address, but this is all the email contained:


I figured my problem needed "additional help," so I sent an email to validation@plaxo.com as instructed. The next day I received this response:


I tried to use the E-mail Validation Troubleshooter, but following the link took me to a login screen. Since it wasn't my account, I couldn't know the password, so I emailed Plaxo again, recounting my experience and telling them that there had been a mistake. The response?


One of the three email addresses listed made it clear that their registered user's name was Kevin, but they went ahead and addressed their reply to Karl. Apparently, sending an email to validation@plaxo.com validated my email address, so now I'm anticipating a flood of emails meant to go to some guy whose typing skills leave something to be desired. I shot off yet another email to Plaxo, telling them that their confirmation process is a one-way street with no exit.

Then it hit me. If my email address had been confirmed, would I be able to claim that I had forgotten my password and get a new one sent to me? I returned to the Plaxo login screen, clicked on "Lost Password," entered my email address, and sent off the request. Within seconds, I received this:


Followed the link, entered a new password, and I was in. All I wanted to do was get my email off of the account, but I could have taken whatever information I could find in this stranger's account. Scary.

This is an example of poor design leading to weak security. By not providing a way to say no to an email confirmation, anyone who received it in error could gain access to the intended user's account. Plaxo appears to be just an internet address book, but if a similar weakness existed elsewhere, a serious breach of privacy could arise. This isn't just a bad way to run a company - it's bad news for the users. Simple mistakes shouldn't lead to security lapses. Here's hoping that Plaxo can provide a bad example that others will learn by.

Recent photos

This is what happens when in snows in April in DC:


Ben:


Ian:


A short-lived cherry blossom:


Self-portrait with kite:

Life before modesty

Nearly five years after becoming a parent, the extent to which all parents are teachers keeps becoming clearer day by day. Depending on the knowledge of the parents, some subjects are best left to formal education (Art if the parents are engineers, Math if the parents are artists, for example). Sometimes, though, it's hard to curb a child's curiosity, and you find yourself in a corner looking for a quick exit. Tonight, while reading a book based on American Indian legend, Ben asked why there weren't any people in the story, and in my attempt to explain evolution to a five-year-old I'm pretty sure I left him imagining monkeys swinging through the jungle with human babies clinging to their fur. Oh well, better that than the alternative.

Other lessons parents offer are purely practical, like the fact that fire is hot and you'll get hurt if you touch it. Yesterday I was discussing corporal punishment with a friend, and we shared the view that some lessons require it in order to drive the point home. What do you do when your child reaches out toward a burner on the stove? Scold him? Let him burn himself? The former is woefully inadequate, and the latter is excessive (not to mention likely to earn you a file down at the child welfare agency).

The way I see it, some situations call for artful emotional scarring - something that will put The Fear in them such that further instruction is unnecessary. It's for their own good, of course. When discipline is generally administered through scolding and time-outs, a spanking might be the best way to send a message with the desired force; a little physical harm is intended to prevent a lot of physical harm. Sometimes a serious discussion might suffice if the danger is not imminent. This morning another friend of mine told me about a coworker who wanted to make sure her son never left her side while out in public, so she told him the story of Adam Walsh, the boy who was kidnapped and found murdered, and whose father went on to host American's Most Wanted. Now I'm not exactly sure how old her son was at the time, but that might be a bit too much emotional scarring for a kid to handle. Especially when you leave in details like decapitation. It apparently worked, but I can't help but wonder how the kid sleeps at night.

Sometimes the hardest lessons are the most subtle. Living in Washington, DC, Ben and Ian have probably seen more demonstrators than I did in my entire life before college. How do you explain war to a child? Whenever I try something like that, I feel like Mister Rogers on Xanax, attempting to explain suffering in happy terms. When Ben overheard me telling Sarah about today's murderous rampage at Virginia Tech, describing the killer as "not a nice person" who "hurt some people" seemed like the grossest understatement I'd ever made. There are some things you just don't want to know, kid.

Of course, not all the difficult lessons are depressing. Many are difficult because they're best taught by example. Not wanting to give my boys the impression that aggressive behavior and name-calling are appropriate, I've had to dial down the road rage during the daily commute and keep certain sentiments to myself. Which is hard in a city where the level of asshatted driving goes up to 11.

Last week we started reading Charlotte's Web before bedtime. Death is one of those difficult subjects, and I'm hoping the story will help Ben conceptualize certain facts of life. It might just turn him into a vegetarian, though. And here I was hoping that he'd at least be in high school before he started to guilt-trip me for my personal vices. Anyway, sometimes the challenging subjects have to do with the type of person I strive to be, and strive to raise my children to become. Tonight I finished a couple of short chapters, and told him that tomorrow we'd read Chapter Nine, "Wilbur's Boast."

"What's a boast?" Ben asked.

"Ummmm... a boast is when you talk too much about how good you are at something."

"..."

"Say you're really good at drawing (which you are). It's okay to tell people that you really enjoy drawing, but it's not really polite to always tell everyone that you're a really good drawer."

"Why is it not polite?"

"Well, if you tell someone you're really good at something, it might make them feel bad if they can't do it as well. What if someone told you they were a really good painter, and you weren't as good at painting? Would that make you feel bad?"

Ben shook his head and said, "It would make me want to be a better painter."

Here I am trying to teach modesty, and Ben comes back with soundbites from a motivational seminar. I don't know whether to feel proud of his self-assuredness and eagerness to learn, or afraid of his budding megalomania. I went with pride, telling him that was a good way to think about it, and he should always want to keep learning and practicing in order to succeed.

I can always tell when Ben is turning things over in his mind, because he gets quiet and still, and he's content to have me leave his bedroom without objection. Tonight was one of those nights. I don't know what he'll make of my efforts to teach him certain things, and who knows what the future holds, but these are the occasions when the responsibility of parenting really bears down on me. My only hope is that I get it right more often than I screw it up. And that my kids don't turn out Republican.

Peanuts

I was never much into Peanuts, but when this strip was published, I immediately cut it out of the Sunday comics and laminated it. Something about it struck me, and it's my favorite single comic strip to this day. I would probably call Calvin & Hobbes my favorite comic overall, but I can't say there was one in particular that I felt summed things up for me personally as succinctly as this single day's Peanuts.

Whether or not Charles Schulz had anything particular in mind when he wrote this, he had the good sense to leave it up in the air so nearly anyone can identify. There are any number of reasons to believe that the world has gone mad. It would be easy to make a statement regarding apathy, but Schulz went beyond that. By having Charlie and Sally reassure Snoopy when he barks at their window, I think Schulz is offering a more complicated commentary on complacency. Your watchdog might be looking out for you, but sometimes it's the intangible that is the greatest menace.

Metro Ride

Heading home Saturday on the Washington Metro after the 41st Annual Smithsonian Kite Festival:

If I had a little money...

During my commute home this evening, I stopped at the intersection of Constitution and 23rd beside an impeccable 80s-vintage Rolls Royce. I checked out who was behind the wheel - because that's what people behind the wheel of Rolls Royces want - and saw a white-haired baby boomer who looked like he bought the car new with gold bars from the family vault. His windows were rolled down, and I could hear the music he was playing:

Abba.

"Money Money Money."

It's a rich man's world, indeed.

School dress codes

There's an article in today's San Francisco Chronicle with the headline: "Fighting for the right to wear Tigger." In a nutshell, a 7th-grader landed in detention because her socks did not conform to the school's dress code. On Monday, the American Civil Liberties Union filed suit against the school district on behalf of six students and their parents, claiming that school policy violates their constitutional rights. According to the article:

The school's "unconstitutionally vague, overbroad and restrictive uniform dress code policy'' flouts state law, violates freedom of expression, and wastes teachers' and students' time and attention that would be better spent on education.

Or litigation, apparently.

The Napa Valley Unified School District's dress code permits solid colors only, with pictures and logos strictly forbidden. So, naturally, one student considers it perfectly reasonable to wear argyle socks with Tigger on them. That or she doesn't care one wit about the oppressive dress code. I'm betting on the latter.

Toni Kay, now an eighth-grade honors student, said Tuesday that she's been cited more than a dozen times in the last 1 1/2 years, and sent home from school twice

Someone's obviously itching for a fight, and the parents obviously have little regard for the dress code as well. Why shouldn't my baby be allowed to wear Tigger socks?

Well, there are several reasons. District Superintendent John Glaser has said that the dress code is intended "to ensure the safety and protect the instructional time of all students." The principal of the school in question, Michael Pearson, says "We do not have to deal with issues of kids who are dressing a certain way because their parents are able to shop at the fashionable stores. You cannot tell on my campus the kids that come from a low-income family." They're not alone; the U.S. Department of Education has also supported these views.

I'm with the schools.

People who sue the school district because their child was sent home for violating the dress code infuriate me. These same people probably complain every time their property taxes go up, too, all the while pursuing costly litigation against the school district. Brilliant.

There are better ways to show your disdain for school policies. You want to show The Man you think the rules are ridiculous? The most effective way is to operate within the rules while exploiting their weaknesses.

Personal anecdote time:

I went to a Catholic junior high and high school. Until the 1970s, it was a coat-and-tie establishment. By the time I got there, the dress code had grown lax, requiring little more than casual dress pants and a button-down shirt. In my sophomore year, they outlawed flannel shirts; you can imagine the ire that arose as a result in 1991-92. The next year they tightened the reigns a bit further, but I don't remember how. For my senior year, they reinstituted the requirement to wear a tie.

HOWEVER: They didn't specify much regarding the tie you had to wear. This was probably in deference to Mr. Hall, one of the English teachers, who never wore the same tie twice in a given year. He had a closet in his classroom full of them, including a gag tie that reached all the way to the floor. Not even the administration was going to crack down on this old fossil.

So I made it my mission to wear the most outrageous, hideous ties I could find. Some I found in my dad's closet, and some I bought at the thrift store. For a couple of months straight I wore the same tie, but I modified it every day with various colored markers. One day I burned a hole in it at lunch. My coup de grâce, however, was the day I slipped it over a straightened wire coathanger before putting it on. Throughout the day I could bend it into different shapes. When I walked by the assistant principal with my tie jutting straight out from my chest, I was finally forced to take it off and put on a normal tie. Everyone in the principal's office was laughing, though - even the staff.

Why must righteous indignation always lead to legal action? If students want to fight school policy, then they should do so while demonstrating their ability to function within the system. If parents want to fight school policy, then they should run for the school board or support candidates who share their ideals. Random carelessness is no way to achieve your goal.

Maybe the problem starts at home, not in the schools. In order for my kids to appreciate the flexibility of school policy, I'll just have to make the dress code at home even stricter. Solid colors? Plural? Forget that noise. From this day forward, unless they're heading to or returning from school, all clothing must be black. Head to toe.

They'll look just like Sarah did in high school.

Free Music Meets Free Market

The other day there was a story posted to Digg about Barenaked Ladies. No, not barenaked ladies - Barenaked Ladies. They're a rock band. If you haven't heard of them, I'm sorry that you've been missing out for nigh on fifteen years. Hard to believe I picked up their first CD half a lifetime ago, but it's true.

But this isn't about Barenaked Ladies. It's about Amie Street, an online music store that just started offering their new album. Like the much better known iTunes Store run by Apple, Amie Street sells music over the web. Amie Street is very much unlike the iTunes Store, however, in two key regards. First, the music is DRM-free, which may or may not be important to you. If you know what DRM stands for, it probably is.

Even more interesting, however, is Amie Street's pricing structure. While 99 cents per song is pretty much the industry standard, all music on Amie Street starts out entirely free. That's right, free. But only to the first customers through the door. As more customers show up to buy a particular song, the price increases gradually, maxing out at 98 cents.

Sound like a revolutionary business plan? It is, and here's why. I've seen a variety of selling strategies before: artists giving away music for free, letting buyers name the price, etc. But Amie Street is unique in the way its pricing structure has the potential to benefit both listeners and artists.

It's all about surplus. Surplus, in economics, is essentially a measure of how well someone made out at the negotiation table. In the world of buyers and sellers, there are always buyers who feel they got a great deal, and sellers pleased with the amount they squeezed out of the buyers. Say the negotiated price for a record is $10. If the buyer went to the table willing to pay $13, then his surplus is $3 - the amount he was willing to shell out but didn't have to. If the seller, on the other hand, would have gone as low as $7 before walking away, then her surplus is also $3 - the amount she got paid above what she was willing to accept. Equilibrium, in the classic sense, is the point at which both sides feel they got a fair deal, but nothing to brag about.

What's revolutionary about Amie Street is the way its model hands all the surplus over to the buyers. Here's a graph of the classic version of supply and demand, with shaded areas showing the surplus:


Amie Street's model is different. While I don't know exactly how many songs they will sell at a given price, I imagine their supply curve looks something like this:


Even at a price of $0, Amie Street will sell some number of songs. As the quantity sold rises, though, so does the price. Once the price hits 98 cents, the supply curve plateaus. Why? Because at that price, Amie Street will sell to however many buyers come along. The final sales figure is entirely dependent on demand. The profit is the same for each additional song sold at full price, and Amie Street shares the bulk of the wealth with the artist (70% according to the website).

The interesting stuff happens among the buyers. Barenaked Ladies are a popular group; overall demand is pretty high. Within hours of their new songs appearing on Amie Street, the price had climbed to the full 98 cents on all but a few, and all were selling for the maximum price after only a day. The lucky few who bought early made out like bandits: some paid nothing, while many others surely paid far less than they would have otherwise. All that surplus ended up in the buyers' pockets. Amie Street sold each song for exactly what it was willing to accept; there was no surplus whatsoever on the supply side. The graph now looks like this:


All that blue makes for happy buyers.

So that's an illustration of how Amie Street's business model benefits consumers. But why would any rational seller give away all that surplus? Wouldn't Amie Street and the artists who sell on the site make more money if they just started the price at 98 cents? Heck, why not charge twice as much when songs first come out to take advantage of the ardent fans who want the new material as soon as possible no matter what the cost? Turn all that blue to red, and capture the surplus for the seller.

That might work for some artists, especially the most popular ones with the largest fan base. But for others - particularly relative unknowns - Amie Street's model has the potential to grow their market and reap greater rewards in the long run.

See, Amie Street's pricing structure encourages early adoption. That is, by dangling the carrot of free downloads, they encourage buyers to seek out and discover new music. Not everything is guaranteed to be good, but diamonds in the rough certainly stand a better chance of being found. Like a song but don't love it? You might not be willing to shell out 98 cents, but a dime? Sure! It might even grow on you over time, so you recommend it to a friend, who might also like it enough to buy it at a lower price. If the product is good enough, this process repeats, and the fan base grows.

Lots of artists rely on word of mouth to expand their audience, but Amie Street gives them the potential to accelerate the process. It's hard to imagine the obstacles between buyer and seller being lowered much further than offering free downloads over the web; all it takes is a little initiative to bridge the gap. Amie Street's supply curve is always the same, but as the audience grows, demand grows, and the demand curve shifts.


The greater the demand, the higher the sales. Higher sales means more money for both Amie Street and the artist. With enough success, the surplus given away by the seller may be entirely recouped.

If the product is good enough, an artist might ultimately find its songs selling for full price, without any of the marketing and production costs typically spent by major labels. The costs of distribution through Amie Street are almost entirely marginal (per unit rather than a large fixed sum), so it is easier for artists to get their music into the market. Even for Amie Street much of the cost of operation is marginal; bandwidth in particular is a perfect example of a marginal cost.

My gut reaction when I first read about Amie Street was that it was another marketing gimmick. But the more I think about it, the more I think they're re-writing the rules of the music industry. For years there have been questions about the long-term viability of making music, and there have been plenty of losses along the way. Amie Street might have on its hands a practical solution that pleases both buyers and sellers simultaneously. If it catches on, it might be leading a revolution.

Finger lickin' good

Tonight for dinner we stopped by the grocery store and picked up a rotisserie chicken. From the moment Ian heard what was on the menu, he whined "I don't want chicken!" We told him he was perfectly free to eat only broccoli and beets for dinner, but he thought he could get what he wanted - pasta, apparently - if he complained enough. So naive.

Ian kept up this refrain all the way until his plate was being set in front of him, despite our assurances that he'd had it many times before and scarfed it down. When he touched it, he found a new objection.

"It's wet!"

I think he meant that it was simply moist, as chicken should be. As opposed to the chicken I grew up with, which was cooked so thoroughly Julia Child suddenly needed a drink of water even from afar.

Ian finally relented and tried a single thin strand of meat.

"Mmmmmmm! You didn't tell me this was the good chicken!"

A steady diet of fauna

I'm in a listy kind of mood this week. Today I present:

Animals I ate yesterday

1) Cow

2) Chicken

3) Pig

4) Tuna

5) Salmon

6) Lamb

7) Squid

8) Shrimp

Also waffles.

Items I swept from under the couch last night

> Dust and cat fur, naturally

> Two socks

> Two slippers

> One pencil

> One Duplo-size Lego

> One seed pod that looks like this

> One toy car from McDonald's

> Two Thomas & Friends steam engines (Percy and Duck)

> Two Thomas & Friends cars (magnetic flatbed and circus cage)

> One stegosaurus from Dinosaur Checkers game

> Cardboard tube from roll of paper towels

> Four valentines

> One relatively fresh, medium-size yellow onion

I swear I just swept there a month ago.

What the devil?

A couple of months ago I was browsing BoingBoing and stumbled across the Egg Cuber, a device that can only be described as entirely pointless but immediately infatuating. With this amazing tool, a perfectly normal hardboiled egg can be turned into the most freakish of foodstuffs - something that once upon a time might have gotten you tossed into a pond in Salem.



Now cubic eggs are cool and all, but what good are they if you're not showing them off? And there's only one way eggs ever dress to impress: devilled eggs. When the thought of square devilled eggs occurred to me, I realized it addressed a couple of my (admittedly lesser) frustrations. On a normal dish, devilled eggs slide around and are hard to manage. You can get a special dish for devilled eggs, but that requires extra cupboard space, and I tend to dislike single-function dishes. Because really, what else can you do with a devilled egg plate, except maybe serve up some tasty Rocky Mountain oysters? A flat-bottomed devilled egg would stay in place while packing closer together on a standard dish - it's the best of both worlds. I'm ignoring, of course, the fact that the egg cuber still takes up cupboard space.

Especially if you buy three.


Why, you ask? Well, the egg needs to be put into the cuber while it's still warm, and it retains its shape best if it's chilled in the refrigerator. Making even a dozen devilled eggs would take all day with only one cuber, but three at a time is doable. Three can chill while three more cook, and they'll all be ready to switch around the same time. I found mine at thegadgetsource.com, but they can apparently be found in Asian markets for even cheaper.

For best results, place next to quality beer (or just enjoy one between batches):


Extracting the cubed eggs looks like so:




Try to gauge where the yolk has ended up, and cut in half accordingly. Odd shapes can always be masked with the filling, though, so no biggie.


The yolks in a cubed egg need a bit more coaxing than usual to extract, so I found that a fork was helpful.


For the filling, anything goes. I'm a minimalist when it comes to devilled eggs, so I just blend the yolks with mayonnaise, kosher salt, freshly ground black pepper, and cayenne. I might throw in a dash of horseradish for kicks. Pickle relish? Not a fan.

If you want to turn the geek level up to eleven, as I do, make a nifty little stencil for the paprika with two L-shaped pieces of paper taped together. When going with the square theme, it's best to overdo it a bit.



The resulting appetizer is a surefire conversation starter. The conversation might start with "What the hell?" But for me, that's par for the course.


There are a few more photos in this Flickr set.

Must be going around

I knew it was a bad sign that Ben only wanted one slice of pizza.

He ate a banana after that, so he wasn't full, but he declined to finish even what he had. Now Ben refusing pizza is like Paris Hilton turning away from the camera, so you can imagine my concern. Ian got sick at school last Friday, so I feared the worst. Sure enough, a couple of hours after he went to bed, Ben could be heard making sounds you don't make willingly, and we found him wallowing in the remains of his dinner. And Ian's, and mine, and Sarah's from the looks of it. Barf was everywhere: on his pajamas, his pillow, his sheets, his blanket, the floor, the walls, the cats, the toys downstairs, you name it. It's a testament to how far I've come with respect to disgusting parent duty that I didn't add to the carnage myself.

We replaced the sheets, changed him into fresh pajamas, and tucked him back in. Not an hour later he was awake again suffering round two. Fortunately we had yet another spare set of sheets and pajamas (a miracle in our house), so we got him clean and comfortable a second time. Poor Ben was exhausted by that point, and he kept lamenting that he didn't like throwing up. I hear ya, buddy. I'll take any sort of gastroinstestinal distress over vomiting; so long as the digestive process doesn't go into reverse, I can live with it.

The saddest part was when he became concerned that he wouldn't get better by Saturday morning.

"But I won't be able to eat waffles!" he sobbed.

He likes our Saturday-morning waffles. More than pizza, apparently.

So far I've managed to avoid the stomach bug this season, but last week I came down with something even more fun. It all started last week when what appeared to be a zit appeared between the knuckles of my right pinkie finger. Strange location for a zit - usually they pop up on the tip of my nose like an evil junior high flashback - but whatever. Within a day, though, it had decided to wage war, first incapacitating the entire finger, then most of my right hand. When I began to feel searing, burning pain all the way up to my elbow, I caved and went to urgent care. They were concerned enough to put me on IV antibiotics, so I felt validated in bucking my habit of avoiding doctors at all cost.

For reference, you can see a picture of my finger here. It was initially diagnosed as cellulitis, but a culture revealed it to be an antibiotic-resistant strain of Staphylococcus. Which explained why the entry-level antibiotics I had been taking were having little effect. They upgraded me to Cipro, the antibiotic that became a household name during the anthrax scare a few years ago. So if you're planning to launch another anthrax attack on DC, please do it this week - it'll save me a lot of hassle.

I'm apparently one of the lucky few among the general population falling victim to the latest evolution of infectious bacteria. They're not just for hospitals anymore, nosirreebob! Ever the trendsetter, I am. By the time everyone else catches up, I'll be all like staph infections were so much cooler back when it was just me.

Sound it out

Ben walks into the bedroom while I'm getting dressed, toting a book.

"Daddy, does this say 'president?'"

I look at the book, Duck for President.

"Wow! Yes, it does!"

"I sounded it out all by myself."

"That's fantastic, Ben. Great job!"

"Duck for President... What's a president?"

Must... bite... tongue...

"Well Ben, ask me again in a couple of years, and maybe I'll have a respectable answer to that."

A selection of Ben's latest drawings

Ben's drawings keep getting more elaborate. There is usually a narrative behind them, too, beyond what's easy to decipher. The concentric circles next to the stop sign? Those are fireworks. I'm not really sure why they're there, but I'm sure kids would be more enthusiastic about going to school if there were fireworks at the bus stop every morning.


He calls this one "How to Get Dressed":


More to come as I scan and upload.