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I was talking about 'fruity odor' and 'body chemistry' (not the other way round).
Life on earth is mostly governed by chemical reactions in which atoms and molecules mostly indulge in a commerce of their outer electrons. Cancer and Drugs included.
Outer electrons' binding energies are of the order of a few electron volts (eV).
For instance it is enough to knock out the electron from the hydrogen atom by applying just 13.6 volts. That is all.
And that's why, for folks like me with low body resistance, even 100 Volts can be fatal (particularly in wet shocks in bathrooms).
Poor chemists!
We physicists, on the other hand, deal with kilo, mega, giga, tera, peta, exa, zetta etc electron volts.
We accelerate charged particles in machines to nearly the speed of light and smash them against one another and examine the resulting debris for newer and newer particles and antiparticles; and exult...
The latest is the Large Hadron Collider ('collider' large).
And we discovered the God and Devil particles.
Can chemists even dream of doing it?
They would ask: "What is the use of all this to mankind? Total waste of money!"
And we turn around and reply:
"What is the use of mankind (man-woman antiparticles) to our Milky Way, Quasars, Pulsars, Black Holes, Giant Galaxies, Supernovas and the Universe at large in which we reside? Chee Chee!"
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And now to Salads.
First I heard this word was when someone cut pieces of bananas, oranges, and apples, and served the mixture on a plate with added custard.
And I was told it is: "Fruit Salad"
'Fruit Khichri' would be a better term.
Recently I learned that the actual 'salad' is a veg thing.
And it is not easy to make...there is art and science to it.
Listen to Uncle Galahad speaking about his elder brother Clarence (Lord Emsworth):
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'Did I ever tell you about Clarence and the salad?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t seem to have told you any of my best stories. It was in the days when he was younger and used to let me take him about London a bit. Well, of course, even then it wasn’t easy to get him absolutely shining and glittering in lively society and being the belle of the ball, but he did have one unique gift. He could mix a superb salad. As his public relations man, I played this up on all occasions.
When men came to me and said “Tell me, Gally, am I correct in supposing that this brother of yours you’re lugging around town is about as outstanding a dumb brick and fathead as ever broke biscuit?” I would reply “To a certain extent, my dear Smith or Jones, or whatever the name might be, the facts are as you state. Clarence has his limitations as a social ball of fire – except when it comes to mixing salads. You just get him to mix you a salad one of these days.”
So his fame grew. People would point him out in the streets and say “That’s Emsworth, the chap who mixes salads.” And came a day when I took him to the Pelican Club, feeling like the impresario of a performing flea on an opening night, and they handed him the lettuce and the tomatoes and the oil and the vinegar and the chives and all the rest of it, and he started in.’
‘And made a mess of it?’
‘Not at all. He was a sensational success. He had cut his finger that morning and was wearing a finger-stall, and I feared that this might cramp his style, but no, it didn’t seem to hamper him a bit. He chopped and mixed and mixed and chopped, with here a drop of oil and there a drop of vinegar, and in due season the salad was prepared in a lordly bowl and those present flung themselves on it like starving wolves.’
'And they liked it?’
‘They loved it. They devoured it to the last morsel. There wasn’t so much as a shred of lettuce or a solitary chive left in the bowl. And then, when everyone was fawning on Clarence and slapping his back, it was noticed that he was looking disturbed and unhappy. “What’s the matter, old man?” I asked. “Is something wrong?” “Oh, no,” he said. “Everything is capital, capital ... only I seem to have lost my finger-stall.”
That’s Clarence. A sterling fellow whom I love as if he were my own brother, which he is, of course, but a little on the dreamy side.
....PG Wodehouse in "Pigs Have Wings"
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