Retractable Cords Wood Frame Sports Cars Sushi
Retractile cords were invented for telephone handsets in the late 1930s, and ever since, these coiled cords have been making a lot of great connections, from medical equipment to construction tools to industrial machinery. They keep in a lot of things plugged in, in a very neat way. Retractile cords stretch when needed and spring back into a tight coil afterwards, and that means no tangled knots and wiring snarl-ups, which saves time that would otherwise be spent straightening things out. Production begins with thermoplastic coloring. The color selected indicates the electrical function of each wire in the cord. It takes just a small amount to tint a batch of white plastic pellets a vivid hue as they melt in an extruder. Tin-plated copper wire feeds into that extruder, and the colored molten plastic coats the wire to provide an insulating wrap. As it exits the extruder, the plastic casing is still warm and soft, but cool water solidifies it. A spool then takes up the insulated wiring. Next, several wires unwind simultaneously over guide rollers and into a spreader plate. The plate precisely aligns the wires as they feed into a die. This die draws them down to the correct diameter, while a mechanism further down the production line twists the wires into one cord. The cord continues to twist as rollers wrap polyester-backed foil around it. This foil is a shield to protect the wires from electrical interference and is an optional feature. The cord then passes through the twisting mechanism and onto a take-up reel. Next, standard unshielded cord travels through beads of electrodes as thousands of volts of electricity are applied to them. The energized electrodes detect any faults in the wires. If they find none, the cord moves forward. The next machine gives the cord a paper wrap. That's followed by the final layer, a thermoplastic jacket. It also takes a trip through a cooling station to solidify. An ink-jet printer applies technical and other information. The plastic casings of some cords have been treated with fire-retardant chemicals. Now they put that treatment to the test. The cord doesn't catch fire, confirming that it's flame-resistant. So it's now ready to be coiled. This worker gets the process started by manually winding it around a rod. Then he presses a button, and the automated winder does the rest. This establishes the spiraling profile of the retractile cord. But at this point, the coil won't hold. Simply pulling out the rod would cause it to unravel. The plastic sheathing around the wires has no memory, so it won't retain the shape. They wheel the cords, still on rods, into an industrial oven and bake them at 200 degrees fahrenheit. This gives the cord's plastic casing the necessary memory so that when the operator pulls out the rod, the coil is intact. But it still doesn't have the necessary snap. That is now achieved by reversing the direction of the coil. The equipment used for that is proprietary, so this worker demonstrates the basic concept with a drill. The drill turns the cord counterclockwise for an impressive rewind. The effect ripples all the way down to the end. Reversing the direction of the coil transforms it. The process tightens the spiral so that after the cord is stretched, it retracts to its original shape. The difference is very apparent. The top coil in this shot hasn't been reversed, while the bottom one has, and it's clearly much tighter. So these retractile cords are now ready to be stretched to the max and snap right back again. Being behind the wheel of a traditional-style british sports car will surely get you noticed. These vehicles combine modern performance with classic styling that dates back to the turn of the last century. Even the inner construction is traditional, with the car's body frame handcrafted out of wood. The first models, in the early 1900s, were three-wheelers with motorcycle engines. It wasn't until the mid-1930s that these hip sports cars acquired a fourth wheel and a four-cylinder automotive engine. But one thing hasn't changed in more than a century-- the wood-frame construction. In the factory's woodshop, workers glue together 2/10"-thick ash panels to produce a 3-ply lamination with which to make the frame's curved components. To make each wheel arch, they clamp a lamination into a rounded jig for a couple of hours. The glue dries, locking the curve in the wood. They make the frame's front section out of three solid pieces of ash. Triangular wood jigs align the frame, while workers screw in a solid ash rail on each side. These rails connect to back framing and form the bottom of the car's door openings. Two vertical rails form the side of the openings on which the door will hinge. Using a spoke shave, workers fine-tune each doorframe so that it fits perfectly into the openings they have just constructed. Then they mount the doorframe with strong steel hinges. They submerge the finished frame in wood preservative, giving the chemical plenty of time to thoroughly penetrate the pores of the wood. This will prevent the frame from rotting. In another part of the factory, workers assemble the engine, transmission, and drive shaft to the car's galvanized-steel chassis, then mount the front and rear axles and wheels. They'll switch the brass wheel nuts for fancy chrome ones later on. Back to the bodywork now. They cut an aluminum panel to the shape of the doorframe, only wider all around, clamp it on to the doorframe, hammer down this door skin, as it's called, over the frame edge all around. They remove the clamps, then peel off the panel's protective covering. After paneling the rest of the wood frame in aluminum, they re-install the door, gently tapping the hinge pin in place. Now they lower the paneled body onto the chassis. The only wooden parts not covered with metal are the rear wheel wells. Unlike the rest of the body frame, these are made of water-resistant plywood. Two bonnets form the car's hood. To make each one, a craftsman feeds aluminum through rollers to curve it. Then he massages it over an old log that this factory's been using for this purpose since the 1930s. They put each panel through a press that cuts louver holes. In the old days, the purpose of louvers was to ventilate the engine, but now they're mostly for style. The two finished bonnet panels go on either side of a central hinge, forming a car hood that opens like butterfly wings. The body gets a paint job. Then they trim the car's interior with genuine leather, cutting and stitching every piece by hand and affixing it to the wood frame. They make door seals by wrapping leather around rubber tubing. And finally they re-fit the wings, now painted, over the front and back wheels. The front wings have shells which house the car's headlights. Workers install the radiator at the front and top it with a cover called a cowl. Then the electronic-dashboard instruments, gearshift, windshield, mirrors, and, of course, the steering wheel. They also attach the hood-- handcrafted from either vinyl or mohair-- to a tubular frame. After installing the leather-trimmed seats, they take the vehicle out for a test drive, then, upon return, put it through a meticulous inspection, inside and out. After a wax polishing, this fancy fusion of technology and tradition finally gets the green light. Sushi is a meal that appeals to the discriminating palate. But it had very rudimentary beginnings. The first sushi was actually a form of food preservation. Salted fish was covered in cooked rice and left to ferment for months and even years. The rice was then thrown away and the fish consumed. A fresh approach came about a century ago, when the japanese began combining raw fish with pressed mounds of cooked rice. It was a mouth-watering combination and brought something entirely new to the table. Rice is now an essential part of sushi. Sushi chefs use short or medium grain because it sticks together better than longer grain. The rice undergoes a thorough washing. First the chef swishes it around in water to rinse off impurities. This also begins to remove the rice bran, which has an undesirable flavor and aroma. He drains the rice and adds clean water. Next, he scrubs it with his palm fairly vigorously to remove more of the rice bran. When the water becomes cloudy from the bran, he changes it again. By now, the water has softened the rice, which makes the grains prone to breakage. So he scrubs them more gently this time to keep the rice grains whole. Finally, he rinses the rice under a running faucet until the water drains clear. This rice is now thoroughly washed and ready to cook, so he adds an equal amount of water and a splash of sake and plugs in the rice cooker. The previous day, he seasoned rice vinegar with a strip of dried kombu seaweed and left it to soak up the flavors. The flavored vinegar is key to making good sushi rice. It's what makes the rice sticky. He pours the sushi vinegar into the cooked rice and evenly distributes it with a gentle folding motion to keep each grain intact. He fans the rice and grains dry, to a nice sheen. With the rice prepared, it's time for all the raw details. Each fish must be assessed for spoilage or damage. The chef lifts the gills to confirm that the flesh underneath is red and translucent--  essentially fresh-looking. He also examines the eyes of the fish. They should be bright and clear. He then prods the skin of this sea bream fish to establish it's firm. Once he's satisfied, he prepares the fish, first scraping away the unpalatable and messy scale with a rasp. Next, he uses the thin edge of a one-sided blade to fillet the fish. Razor-sharp, this knife cuts cleanly through the fragile flesh. He slices off and discards the head. He then carves the flesh from the backbone. Now, firmly grasping the tail of the fillet, he cuts the skin from the flesh, using a zigzag motion to pull it away. This technique leaves no flesh on the skin at all so that not a morsel goes to waste. Using fish-bone tweezers, he extracts all the little bones. He now slices the fish on an angle across the grain, using one long stroke that doesn't tear the fibers the way a sawing motion would. The result is a shiny, smooth piece of sea bream. Next he peels away the transparent outer skin of a marinated mackerel to expose the silvery subskin. The gorgeous subskin is a feature that adds presentation value to the sushi, and it's also tasty. Next, he carves tuna that's been frozen within hours of being caught. This locks in freshness so that, when thawed, it's suitable for sushi. And the freezing also kills any parasites in the fish. He chops spring onions into thin rings. They'll be used to offset the strong taste of mackerel sushi. He then mixes water and wasabi powder to create wasabi paste-- the pungent condiment that adds kick to sushi. And with all the ingredients prepared, it's time to start rolling, so stay tuned. Once a simple food sold by japanese street vendors, sushi has gone uptown. Today, skilled chefs produce bite-sized morsels with gastronomic artistry. A blend of color, texture, and taste, sushi appeals to the eye as well as the palate. The chef moistens his hands to keep the rice from adhering to them as he works. He dabs wasabi and places a ball of rice on one of the tuna slices. He pokes a hole in the center of the ball to introduce air. This keeps the rice from compacting as he shapes the fish around it to make a type of sushi called nigiri sushi. To form nigiri, the chef works swiftly to minimize the fish's exposure to his touch. Human body temperature is much higher than room temperature, and prolonged exposure to it would compromise the fresh taste of the sushi. A little pickled ginger to cleanse the palate, and this sushi is ready to serve. To make cucumber rolls--  or kappamaki-- he carves the outer part of the cucumber into a long, wide ribbon, stopping at the soft core. He slices the ribbon in two and layers the pieces. He then chops the cucumber into uniformly thin sticks. This exposes more of the vegetable's fiber, to maximize the taste. This is roasted seaweed, called nori. He places it, shiny side down, on a bamboo rolling mat. He lightly presses rice into a ball so the grains stick together as he transfers it to the nori. He spreads the rice evenly, leaving a margin of nori at the top. And now he's ready for those expertly sliced cucumber sticks. He groups several in the center of the bed of rice. Then, gripping the mat on one side, he folds the nori around the fillings. As he squeezes the pack, some rice spills into the margin of nori at the top. But there's still enough space to create an overlap and seal the ends of the nori around the fillings. Using a wet cloth, he tucks in the overflow at both ends. He slices the roll in half. He aligns the halves and slices three times to create six pieces, each piece approximately the same height, for an attractive lineup. Next, he makes uramaki, a kind of sushi with rice on the outside, which is why they're also called inside-out rolls. He spreads rice evenly over the nori and flips it around to the shiny side. He dips a finger in wasabi and spreads it on the nori at midpoint. He arranges tuna on the wasabi-coated section. The raw red fish is then paired with slices of avocado for a tantalizing contrast. He folds the rice-coated nori over the fillings and tucks it around them. He continues rolling until he reaches the edge. He garnishes the rice with toasted sesame seeds for visual interest and tasty crunch. He covers the roll with plastic to protect it from the grooves of the sushi mat as he shapes it into a tighter pack. He then removes the mat and carves the inside-out roll into bite-sized pieces. Inside-out sushi was invented in the 20th century to appeal to westerners who preferred not to see the nori. The final thing on the menu is the hand roll, also known as temaki sushi. He presses soft rice into the crispy nori and layers the next ingredients diagonally over the rice-- wasabi, a japanese herb called shiso, and two pieces of tuna. He folds the nori around the fillings to contain them in a seaweed cone. Now all that's left is the presentation, and when it comes to sushi, less is more. Overgarnishing can detract from the main event-- the fish. A simple, artful arrangement puts the focus on its raw appeal.