isoglossia

It’s been nearly two years since the first I wake up screaming post appeared on this site. More recently, Jane’s urging me to form a Flickr group centered around the motif has yielded a lot of fun. It’s fascinating to watch others send their own contributions from their personal catalogues of horrors. Though the group is still in its infancy, the range of entries is already impressive, and there’s a lot to love in the group pool. However, in a very limited number of cases, there is also a certain genetic drift in the direction of the merely annoying or puzzling. Rather than going in with the heavy hand of a group administrator, I prefer just to post this little how-to for those unsure about how to approach the daunting task of photographing a worthwhile IWUS candidate:

Step 1:

See how easy that was?

Notes:

• The above tableau is in the foyer of a popular local restaurant
• My first apartment in Nova Gorica also featured entryway taxidermy: a snarling ferret immediately inside the door
• Squirrels are noted climbers and have never been known, in the wild, to rely on ropes or fixed anchors
• Likewise, their use of rucksacks for nut transportation is undocumented
• Taxidermy mounts are vulnerable to the same moths that eat sweaters, apparently
• ‘Can you mount this owl I found on the side of the road?’

[NOTE: This DIY was written in the early days of the MacBook Pro product line, before case-makers had caught up with Apple’s new form factors. In the two years since I wrote this, many excellent designs have become available, and I myself have upgraded to a Booq Vyper, which I can recommend despite the repellent name. This how-to remains useful, though, for the true and dedicated tightwad, the avid recycler, and anyone addicted to the heady polymer aroma of duct tape.]

I’ve never bought a carrying case for any of my laptops, but the new MacBook Pro is so sleek and lovely that I decided I would spring for a genu-wine store-bought case this time. A little research has deterred me, however. Word on the street is that the case-making sector hasn’t really caught up with the new Mac laptops’ dimensions yet and various vendors are claiming that old stock designed for iBooks and PowerBooks will accommodate the MacBook and MB Pro, with mixed reviews from users. If I’m going to shell out $30 or £20 for my new ‘Book’s case, I want it to fit like a tiny wetsuit, not blown-out rhino hide.

So, pending the bringing to market of dedicated cases for the MBP, it’s back to my old cheap-ass DIY ways.

Each of my previous laptops has undergone a non-invasive procedure that results in a carrying case meant to go inside a soft briefcase or backpack. The case you get this way has the following virtues:

• Tailor-made for your machine, with a fit as snug or loose as you design
• Provides excellent shock protection and is largely liquid-proof [*]
• Made from materials that are practically free
• Looks only slightly hobo-esque, and is meant to be tucked inside other bag anyway
• Gives you the profound satisfaction of making something with your own two hands

[*] I use this term not as a watch-marketer but as a beer-spiller. This case is NOT rated to any number of atmospheres.

This takes around an hour to do, including beer-opening etc, and doesn’t require any tools you probably don’t have lying around the place already. Materials required are:

• Large piece of closed-cell foam (i.e., a backpacking sleeping pad[**]). It comes in various thicknesses; I recommend 3/8″ or 1 cm
• Duct tape
• Self-adhesive Velcro® (optional)

[**] Try to find a used piece of this stuff at a garage sale or similar. Everyone seems to be using higher-tech sleeping pads now, so there’s no shortage of orphaned EVA pads out there. If you must buy new for this project, expect to spend around $10.

This how-to should be pretty much self-explanatory from the step-by-step photos shown below, but I’ll include notes as I go along.

Step One

1. First assemble your materials. In addition to the materials for the case, you’ll want to have handy (nautiluswise from top) the machine you’re encasing, X-Acto® knife, long straight-edge, scissors, square with measuring units, felt-tip pen, and beer (not pictured — the morning-sickness thing renders beer odor intolerable to Magda. So. No beer. You do what you want, but if your pregnant wife asks you to cut back on the beer, I advise compliance. She can’t stand the smell of olives these days, either, but that’s neither here nor there). In the extreme upper left is a piece of cardboard for protecting the kitchen table when cutting. The piece of foam here is actual Ensolite®, thin but very shock-absorbing and pliable stuff. In my opinion, worth seeking out for this project. This piece happened to be salvaged from the Dumpster®, adding to the satisfaction factor and lowering project costs asymptotically while increasing hobo-ness somewhat. Color is a bit unfortunate, but makes it easier to illustrate.
Step Two


2. Open the beer (not shown!) and measure your computer. As you can see above, I’ve marked out five ‘columns’, using the machine itself as a measuring tool (not otherwise generally recommended). From left to right, the ‘columns’ marked will eventually form flap, top, back, bottom, and front of the case. No side panels have been marked yet. As you measure/mark, it’s better to be liberal and allow a little extra room. You can regulate the snugness of the case later when you bind it with duct tape. Try not to spill beer on materials or computer (generally recommended).
Step Three


3. I traced around the roll of duct tape to round the corners of the flap. An optional step, and one which complicates the edge-binding later, but it’s more aerodynamic this way. Your call. At upper and lower center you can see that the edge panels have now been measured and marked.
Step Four


4. Here you see the case form marked out and almost ready to cut. An error I made here was failing to allow for the thickness of the foam where the side and front panels will meet, but this is easy to rectify before you do any cutting. Picture how the various flaps will fold around the machine and make sure that it makes sense before you pick up those scissors.
Step Five


5. This picture shows the computer lying atop the cut-out foam. Note the hashlined areas where I added material to the pattern to allow for overlap of the foam thickness.
Step Six


6. Using the X-Acto® knife and straight-edge, carefully score the foam along the soon-to-be corners — anywhere the foam will round a corner. This scoring allows the foam to fold at something close to right-angles rather than bending. Use care to cut no more than halfway through the foam, and just in case place heavy cardboard underneath where you’re cutting. Rule: X-Acto® knives are almost always sharper than you think. Cut along the lines you drew with the straight-edge — the cuts will end up on the outside of the case.
Step Seven


7. Next you’re going to ‘sew’ the case’s various panels together with little tabs of duct tape. Cut out a lot of them (you’ll end up using a few dozen in all) but here’s another rule: if you try to get 35 of the things ready all at once, you’ll end up with half of them stuck to your pants. (Note: you should be wearing pants). The computer is now wearing the condom it shipped in. Be safe!
Step Eight


8. This side is all ‘sewn’ up with little strips of duct tape. Rule: never skimp on duct tape. And don’t worry about how it looks; all seams will be covered later.
Step Nine


9. Here’s the case with all the seams stitched together, and the MacBook inside. It’s beginning to look slightly case-like.
Step Ten


10. This is where we cover all seams with smooth swathes of duct tape. Oooh, duct tape… This serves both structural and aesthetic concerns. Go slow, get in the duct tape zone.
Step Eleven
11. If you have some self-stick Velcro® around from previous projects, why not use some to make a nice tearing-sound closure? Here you can also see what I mean by not skimping on duct tape. As you bind the case with long strips, adjust the amount of pressure you apply to the tape to regulate how snugly the case will fit around your computer.
There is no Step Twelve


12. Finished! Here’s the MBP reposing snugly in its glove-like case. I can slide it into my soft briefcase, or carry it around just like this, all hipster-hobo. Beer? Thanks, but, umm, better not…

Yes, it’s that time of year when the produce is bursting with ripeness and flavor, and yes, the days are growing long and hot and cooking is not appealing. And it’s true that Adam is transfixed by the sound of the food mill blitzing away, and will even interrupt his evening howling to listen. Still, it seemed a bit abrupt when out of nowhere Magda got this bee in her bonnet about making gazpacho. Something wasn’t quite right about it all, but it wasn’t until I strapped Adam on my back and headed out to our local greengrocer, Sadje-Zelenjava, and took a close look at the shopping list that I realized it was all a clever ruse to bring more shiny things into the house (I especially like how she tries to match her handwriting to mine). But before I saw through her little scheme, her soup subterfuge, we had to nail down a recipe. As has been reported once or twice before, out came the always excellent and intriguing Larousse Gastronomique.

GAZPACHO A Spanish soup, originally a laborers’ dish, made with bread and vegetables, including cucumber, tomato, onion, and red (bell) pepper. Seasoned with olive oil and garlic and sharpened with vinegar, the soup is served ice cold…Its name, of Arabic origin, means ‘soaked bread’… gazpacho originally came from Seville but there are numerous variants. In Jerez it is garnished with raw onion rings; in Malaga it is made with veal bouillon and sometimes garnished with grapes and almonds; in Cadiz it is served hot in winter; in Cordoba it is thickened with cream and maize flour (cornmeal); in Segovia it is flavoured with cumin and basil and prepared with a mayonnaise base.

What Magda threw together is based very closely on Larousse’s recipe for Seville gazpacho:

Four large, very ripe tomatoes
One and a half large cucumbers
One red bell pepper
Four cloves of garlic
Small bunch of flat-leaf parsley
Two red onions
Four tablespoons olive oil
A good glug of balsamic vinegar
Teaspoon or two sea salt
Teaspoon cayenne pepper
Bread crumbs and water

The basic technique here was to throw things into the food processor and whirrr away until a good balance between chunky and pureed was achieved. Certain steps prescribed by Larousse were followed (e.g. tomatoes peeled…) and others discarded (…but not seeded). Some were openly scorned; for example, where Larousse says the onion must be “cut into slices as thin as tissue paper”, Magda says, “fuck you!”

Notes:

• The bread crumbs and water are added gradually at the end to get the desired consistency
• This is more or less a doubling of the Larousse quantities, but Magda kept the garlic load-plan the same, and even though we are huge fans of the stinky bulb, it did seem a bit sharp to us. Adjust quantity to your tolerances or plan social activities accordingly
• Since you can really taste the ingredients in this dish, use the best you can find, particularly in the tomato and olive oil departments
• The soup needs to chill for a few hours before serving, which is nice because it means you can, too.
• Crusty bread is a great accompaniment; Magda toasted some heavy slices with olive oil and parmesan; Larousse notes that traditional garnishes include bowls of “chopped black olives, red pepper, hard-boiled (hard-cooked) egg and croutons rubbed with garlic”. Avocado wouldn’t be bad, either.

This was quick and easy to make and kicked ass. Highly recommended while the weather’s hot and vegetables are beckoning, because unlike a diamond, gazpacho is not forever.

Previous recipes:

• Pasta with three cheeses
• Pulled pork
• Haggis
• Happy fish
• Melitzanosalata

Today is the anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, Scotland’s great poet of the people. At Burns Suppers all over the world, Scots and wanna-be Scots will be sitting down to a meal whose formula never varies: haggis, tatties and neeps, and wee drappies of whisky.

If you Google haggis (two words which together sound like a cat vomiting, oddly), you are likely to call up an advertisement inoccuously promising a

Traditional blend of lamb, pork,
oats and onions. Shop online today!

Yeah, I’m going to buy a HAGGIS on-line.

I’d prefer to make my own, if I were going to eat one. I’m sure that most of Isoglossia’s readership feels the same way, so as a public service I’m posting the recipe I got from an ancient cookbook I bought in a second-hand shop while visiting the auld sod:

Haggis

1 sheep’s bag and pluck.
2-4 medium parboiled potatoes.
½ lb. oatmeal (pinhead).
¼ lb. minced beef suet.
1 teasp. salt.
½ teasp. pepper.
Cayenne.
1 pt. liquor from pluck.

Wash, scrape, and cleanse the bag and soak overnight in cold water with salt added. Wash, squeeze, and cleanse the pluck; put into boiling water with the windpipe hanging over the side into small pan with water. Boil for two hours. When cold grate and use half the liver. Mince the heart, lungs, onions, and suet, and add the oatmeal (which should be toasted to a golden brown colour), salt, pepper, and cayenne. Stir in one pint of liquor from the pluck. Prepare and sew the bag. Fill about half full, sew up and prick well. Plunge into boiling water, and cook for three hours, pricking occasionally during the cooking.

Enjoy!

What to say to a Haggis
Another great Scottish holiday
Recipes without the word ‘windpipe‘ in them
Slovenia’s version of Burns
A lesser-known but funnier Scottish poet

In Adam’s birthday post I mentioned the topic of baby-proofing. Mostly in the context of how we had not actually done much of it, other than moving our Ming vase collection to the top of the wardrobe. I also price-checked all the high-tech baby-defeating countermeasures we picked up at the Baby Center (really, that’s the name of the shop — which always makes us want to go in and buy another baby. Well, not always). Imagine my dismay, okay, my Malkoviching, when I went to install the cabinet locks and found that they were overdesigned for our cabinets. So damn fussy. So with the help of beer I devised some home-brewed baby-defeating countermeasures. The first image is a close-up of what we call the Cranium De-Bonker.

Yes, we had purchased ready-made, self-adhesive silicone corner protectors (actually baby-skull protectors, I guess), but the little Malkovich tore them off and ate them before you could say Malkovich Malkovich. Not that he doesn’t pull this artificial Italian cork off from time to time, but it seems that the high-tech store-boughts had greater allure. This area, in the corner by the desk, used to be a major Bonking Zone since there are so many fascinating drawers to pillage. Much safer now. Note: artificial corks are better suited to this use than the real, oak tree-originating sort. Got to love that thermoplastic elastomer. And a sharp X-Acto knife. Also: we used that crappy shiny tape, not the “invisible” stuff brought to you by Scotsmen. Better tensile strength.

Next up is what we call the Rubbish Bin-Ban. This came about because the cabinet locks we bought wouldn’t work in this particular space, so a little wire coat-hanger, a Leatherman® for the bendy, and another cork, and you’re home and dry. Prevents between-meal snacking. Also unauthorized disposal of passports, iPods, and the like. One thing about this hack that we are particularly proud of is the fact that we didn’t need to drill any holes in our (rented) fancy kitchen installation; the wire is attached to the cabinet door by means of the same screw that holds the handle on. Note the angle cut on the top of the cork. Shoot for 37.5°. I should point out that the plastic cork was Magda’s refinement to my original, pointy-wire and not so effective installation.

Another view of the Rubbish Bin-Ban. It takes a little fiddling to get the angles, amount of bend, etc. just right, but this now works as well as or better than a commercial cabinet lock. When we used our knees to keep the door shut it led to Great Howling, but with this thing in place he’s just come to accept that the smeti is now a no-go zone. And he’s lost weight!

Finally, remember those drawers so ripe for pillaging? Something really had to be done about that. I came to this decision when I caught Adam right on the verge of eating an irreplaceable photograph of my recently late father c. 1964. And my (less-recently late, but still) grandfather’s Minox B. His drive to empty the desk drawers and consume, or at least taste, the entire contents is nothing short of evangelical. The top drawer, shown here, holds various photographic crapola, batteries and chargers, cables, used syringes, ebola cultures, and more of Adam’s favorite snack foods. This set of drawers is a cheap chipboard Ikea product, so I could have drilled the holes for installing the cabinet locks, but with Adam insistent on helping me with this installation, I needed something simple and quick. And what is simpler and quicker than self-stick Velcro®? Thus, the Crap-De-Baby-er was born.

Here’s the Crap-De-Baby-er in its closed, baby-proof configuration. It’s the very model of simplicity: about 6 cm of ‘hook’ on the outside of the drawer, and 18 cm of ‘loop’. 2/3 of the loop bit is doubled back on itself, sticky-side to sticky-side, and the remaining stickiness is adhered to the inside of the carcase. (Yes, that’s really the word for that part of the piece of furniture). Of course, this is just the tip of the iceberg in terms of places we need to make off-limits to his snacking and destruction. For instance, do you think for a minute that that scanner is not overdue for some self-stick Velcro® of its own? Plus, he still loves to put his head in the pralni stroj.

My last anally-retentive low-tech project involved our now-obsolete CD collection.