What’s in a Name?

By Patrick F. Cannon

In my distinguished Army career, I had the pleasure of spending time at five U.S. Army forts. I’m ashamed to say that I was never much interested in who they were named after. When you’re drafted and thrust unwillingly into the clutches of lunatic officers and sergeants, who require you to march through muddy swamps and bogs, who they actually named these backwoods hell holes for is the last thing on your mind.

Recent events, however, have led me to inquire into this for the first time. On the day of my induction, early in 1961, we future soldiers gathered at the Chicago building set aside for that purpose. After a cursory physical exam to determine if we were still breathing, we boarded a bus for Central Station, the long gone Illinois Central terminal at 12^th and Michigan. We boarded an overnight train for St. Louis. It was the first and only time I traveled in a Pullman car with upper and lower berths. I snagged a lower berth, but didn’t get much sleep, due to the exuberance of my fellow soldiers (we had already been sworn in).

We went from the train to a bus, and onward to Fort Leonard Wood. As it happened, I later found out who Wood was. He appeared prominently in biographies I read of Teddy Roosevelt, John J. Pershing and Douglas MacArthur. A Harvard-trained physician, he was  the only doc to become chief of staff of the US Army. A recipient of the Medal of Honor, he was the actual commander of the famous Rough Riders, although Teddy Roosevelt hogged all the glory.

I was only to stay there for a couple of weeks. After being fitted for uniforms by the justly famous Army tailors, we mostly tried to avoid KP and other duties while waiting to be assigned to a basic training unit. As it turned out, this was to be at Fort Benning, Georgia, a long bus ride away. Then, as now, a major training center, it was named after Brigadier General Henry Benning, who earned his high rank serving in the army of  the Confederate States of America (CSA). To put it as gently as possible, he was a traitor. After the Civil War, he returned to Columbus, Georgia to practice law. As it happens, Columbus is the nearest town to Ft. Benning, which straddles the Georgia/Alabama border, and it’s easy to imagine the House Armed Services Committee, led by segregationist Southern Democrats for much of the 20^th Century, naming the fort after a local boy who shared their sympathies.

After basic training, I was sent to Signal School at Ft. Gordon, also in Georgia, but nearer the South Carolina border. The nearest city was Augusta, famous as home of the Augusta National Golf Club, site of the famous Masters golf tournament. The golf club has had many distinguished members, all white males until fairly recently, but I digress. The fort, still home to the Signal School, is named after Lt. General John Brown Gordon, another CSA stalwart and traitor. If anything, he was an even more rabid segregationist. In addition to having an army fort named after him, his grateful Georgians elected him to the US Senate in 1872. Oh, and he was apparently head of the Ku Klux Klan in the Peach State.

After leaving Fort Gordon, I was briefly at Fort Dix, New Jersey while awaiting a troop ship to take me to France. Major General John Adams Dix was from New York, and was a veteran of both the War of 1812 and the Civil War. He was later elected Governor of New York.

After my happy stay in France was over, I was sent to Fort Irwin, California, home of the army’s desert training center. It was in the middle of the Mojave Desert, 45 miles from the nearest town, which happened to be the unlovely Barstow. It was named in honor of Major General George Irwin, a division commander in World War I. George was the middle general in a family of soldiers. His father served the Union in the Civil War; and his son was a division and corps commander in World War II. He entered West Point from New York State; his father was born in Ireland, served as a medical officer, and was another recipient of the Medal of Honor.

My stay at Ft. Irwin – where our neighbors were scorpions, rattlesnakes, tarantulas and coyotes – was interrupted by my signal company’s assignment to support armored division maneuvers at Ft. Hood, Texas. All of our equipment – we were a combat support signal company – and ourselves were flown there on C-130 transports. It was October, 1962, so our stay in this jewel of the Texas hill country was ended by the Cuban Missile Crisis. Alas, we had to convoy back to California, which took three days.

The fort was named for a more famous Confederate general, John Bell Hood, the youngest man to be made a full general in the Confederate army. He had a sterling record until he faced William Tecumseh Sherman, who defeated him in a series of battles that culminated in the capture and burning of Atlanta. Although born in Kentucky, this graduate of West Point served in Texas as a young officer and adopted it as his home. When the Civil War started, he volunteered to be an officer in their militia. No doubt this noble gesture resulted in this major army fort being named in his honor.

Yet, he was another traitor, and along with Benning and Gordon, should have his name removed from the fort. Many in the current army agree with this, but our perverse and stupid  president disagrees, preferring to pander to his base. By the way, each of these men was an admitted and avowed racist, who went to their graves believing that African-Americans were inferior. If the Defense Department would like some suggested replacement names, I could start with Benjamin O. Davis, Sr, the first African-American to become a general in the service of his country.

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

I Don’t Want to Hear It!

By Patrick F. Cannon

For increasing numbers of our fellow citizens, “freedom of speech” is limited to what they have to say or are willing to hear. Not for them the famous quote attributed to Voltaire: “I disapprove of what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.” Nowadays, it’ more like: “I don’t agree with you, so shut up!”

While James Madison drafted the Bill of Rights, whose first Amendment admonishes Congress not to “abridge the freedom of speech or of the press,” he did it in consultation with Thomas Jefferson and others, who remembered only too well the power of the British state to put people in jail for speaking out. The other nine amendments are largely designed to keep the government off our backs in other ways.

The framers, much like politicians then and later, sometimes had reason to wish there was less freedom of speech, and especially of the press. As soon as 1798, Congress passed the Alien and Sedition Acts, which sought to limit both. Lincoln suspended Habeas Corpus during the Civil War, partially to punish dissenters. Woodrow Wilson jailed opponents of World War I, and radicals of various kinds during the “Red Scare” of the late teens and early 1920s. And Franklin Roosevelt interned American citizens of Japanese descent in 1942.

            In many cases, we have the press to thank for holding the government to account. It took guts, for example, for the New York Times to defy the government in publishing the Pentagon Papers in 1971. So, it seems ironic to me that the same newspaper has recently been involved in suppressing an opinion it disagrees with editorially.

The so-called Op-Ed sections of newspapers, where differing opinions on a variety of issues are published, are largely based on a section started by the Times itself. Yet, on June 7 they fired their Opinion editor, James Bennett, for publishing a piece by Senator Tom Cotton (R, AR) that advocated the use of Federal troops in quelling the recent rioting and looting (as distinct from the mostly peaceful protests). It would be difficult to find a politician I hold in lower regard (he’s and avid Trump supporter), but in fact his opinion was held by a significant number of Americans, and deserved some space in a newspaper with few conservative voices.

The Times publisher claimed Bennett was asked to resign because he published the piece without prior editing, as if you could ask someone to express their opinion, then take out the stuff you didn’t like!. He was actually fired because the news staff rebelled, claiming that his views threatened them with actual harm. The reality is they rose in righteous rebellion because his views were abhorrent to a news staff of largely liberal and progressive opinion. In another, less well known case, a reporter was forced to apologize for quoting a source accurately.

In an article he wrote for Intercept, a publication that appears in a variety of formats (on-line, podcasts, videos, etc.), reporter Lee Fang quoted an African-American resident of East Oakland, California, Maximum FR – who himself had lost two cousins to gun violence – to the effect that while the killing of African-Americans by police officers was front page news nationally, he rarely saw any mention of the killing of African-American young men by other African-American young men. For using a quote that was not only accurate, but demonstrably true, Mr. Fang was accused of being a racist by his fellow Intercept journalists. To keep his job, he was required to apologize.

Regardless of one’s political opinions, we are getting on dangerous ground when the news staff of a great newspaper is able to leap the wall between the news and editorial staffs and decide what is acceptable opinion. And just when did telling the truth become racist?

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

Of Course They Do

By Patrick F. C anon

In a famous exchange between those literary titans, F. Scott Fitzgerald – named after his distinguished ancestor, the wordsmith Francis Scott Keyes – and Ernest Hemingway – scion of the Oak Park, Illinois Hemingway’s – Scott confided to his friend that “the rich are different from you and me.” Ernest, middle-class to his core, responded “yes, they have more money.”

How true! How true! While we below must be satisfied with a cozy bungalow and a Toyota, the rich look down upon us from their lofty penthouses, or out at us from their gated estates. When they choose to venture forth, they either progress down the road of life in a Rolls or Bentley; or blur past us in a flame-red Ferrari. Their tans do not result from laboring in the garden, or baking on a public beach, but from sunning themselves on the deck of a yacht, moored just off a private beach at Cannes.

Nor do they trod as we do. Not for them the lowly $20 sneaker from Walmart; or even the serviceable $200 brogue from Macy’s. No, they might risk being denied entry into their private clubs, or their $500 a person prix fixe eateries. Even a wary doorman at their own building might hesitate to let them in, thinking perhaps that a wastrel identical twin had shown up to wheedle a loan.

I was musing on this when recently perusing the on-line catalog from Nordstrom’s. As it happens, I have made a few purchases from their Oak Brook, Illinois emporium, mostly shoes, shirts and ties. When you wander in with your white hair, khakis and faded polo shirt, they have you pegged as a moderate purchaser, and don’t bother to pull out the Gucci’s. Invariably nicely dressed and young, they are kindness itself; after all, the commission on a $200 pair of shoes might buy them a nice lunch.

Because I have shopped there, and even have one of their credit cards, I often receive e-mails announcing sales, or fresh stock for the new season. Just the other day, I went to their web site to see what sandals they might have. I inadvertently clicked the “From Highest to Lowest” prices button, and entered the realm of the rich.

I had always thought sandals were basically flat shoes with bits of leather strapping to keep your feet in place; the idea being to keep them cool on a steamy day. To my surprise, the first sandal to appear on my screen had towering spiked heels – Jimmy Choo’s Thyra Crystal Knot Sandal at $2,450.00 the pair. I would guess the materials involved could be had for $50 tops. I imagine the selling price had much to do with the magic of Mr. Choo’s name.

A more traditional flat-heeled sandal is offered by Valentino Garavani for a mere $1,275.00. Or if the lady is temporarily strapped for cash, Christian Louboutin can provide his Strass Side Sandal for only $745.00.

If the sandal-clad lady ventures forth on a coolish day, she might want to consider Brunello Cucinelli’s Red Leather Racer Jacket at $7,995.00.  Her swain, not wanting to overshadow her, might well be satisfied with Gucci’s Embroidered Velvet Jacket at a bargain $3,980.00.

Oh, I almost forgot the kiddies. In toddler’s sizes, Gucci offers a cute little sandal for $450.00; and Versace a First Line Chain Reaction sneaker for $675.99. As we all know only too well, it’s never too early to learn how to be rich.

(Author’s note: Honest, I didn’t make up any of those names.)

Copyright 2020,  Patrick F. Cannon

No Decency?

By Patrick F. Cannon

On June 9, during the famous Army-McCarthy hearings of 1954, Army counsel Joseph Welch responded to yet another baseless attack on a soldier by Senator Joseph McCarthy (R, Wisconsin) with these now famous words: “Until now, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness. You have done enough…Have you no sense of decency?”

The answer was: no he didn’t; any more than President Trump did in his appalling suggestion that former congressman Joe Scarborough may have murdered one of his staff members. Scarborough, who by the way served as a Republican, committed the sin of criticizing Trump on his MSNBC show, “Morning Joe.”  As we now know, our president cannot accept criticism. In response, he makes something up, yet another of the thousands of lies that he has peddled to his acolytes.

McCarthy was only a senator, but he managed to convince much of the country that there were Communists under every bed. He made things up too. One day, he would claim there were X number of Commies in the State Department, the next week it would be Y or Z.  Then the Army had been infiltrated by the Comintern, or was it the Navy? And, boy, did he have his acolytes!

A good many of them were clergy of the Roman Catholic Church. Of course, they had every reason to oppose Communism. Hundreds of millions of their members had found themselves behind the Iron Curtain, under regimes that saw religion as an opposing ideology. With the possible exception of Poland, they largely succeeded in weaning the young in particular from what they called “the opium of the people.” In their zeal, they saw McCarthy – who was, after all, an Irish-Catholic – as a Crusader fighting the Godless infidel.

Francis Cardinal Spellman of New York, who never shied from the limelight, was among his staunchest supporters. But so were the church’s foot soldiers. I had a 7th Grade nun at St. Peter’s grammar school in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, who actually had us saying prayers for Joe. I can’t remember her name – let’s say Sister Mary Credulous. Eventually, she became so emotional that she would break into tears. Before the year was out, she was sent away to the mother house, and was replaced by the first lay teacher I ever had, Miss Rizzo. I remember her name, because she was young and inclined to wear rather tight skirts.

Eventually, McCarthy was exposed for the liar and demagogue he was. He was censured by the Senate and faded into drunken obscurity. Trump? I see on the “Real Clear Politics” web site – which publishes a wide variety of opinion – that despite his despicable and irrational blatherings, his support among my fellow citizens holds steady at about 43 percent.

Fortunately (I hope), this level of support won’t get him re-elected in November. If it doesn’t, you can be certain he will call his loss into question, or even refuse to accept it. And with reason. He is afraid that the moment he leaves office, the lawsuits and indictments will begin to pile up. All the prayers of all the misguided religionists including CatholicVote.org., which recently sent me a plea to save the country, not from Godless Communism, but from the Godless Democrats, won’t save him. Knowing this, he will not hesitate to say or do anything he thinks will save him.

(That’s Joe in the photo, being egged on by his equally infamous counsel, Roy Cohn. By the way, Mr. Cohn later became a mentor to none other than Donald Trump. Imagine, just one degree of separation!)

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

Surely, You Jest?

By Patrick F. Cannon

A friend of mine, who decamped from Illinois some years ago for the less expensive charms of Indiana, sent me a link to an announcement by Governor Eric Holcomb of the Hoosier state that all state agencies would be required to cut their budgets by 15 percent, in anticipation of lower tax revenues. Only education would be excepted.

When asked several times about this possibility for Illinois, Governor Pritzker has always responded something like this (I paraphrase): “Would you want to cut the budgets of the Department of Public Health, the Department of Children and Family Services, the State Police? During a crisis like this, we need our state services more than ever!” I listen to his press conferences almost every day, and he has said something very like this several times. I can’t recall anyone following up by asking: “But are these the only  state agencies?”

I’m here to tell you that they are not. Indeed, I counted 93 distinct departments, agencies and boards. Here are a few, chosen at random:

Deaf and Hard of Hearing Commission; Property Tax Appeal Board; Illinois Power Agency; Illinois Commerce Commission; Illinois Gaming Board; Illinois Racing Board; Community and Residential Services Authority; Illinois Toll Road Authority; Illinois Department of Agriculture; State Fire Marshall; Department of Insurance; Illinois Arts Council: and more and more and more.

As you can see, all of these are directly related to battling the Coronavirus pandemic! While we can admire Governor Pritzker for his dedication to getting the state through this pandemic, we should not at the same time give him a pass for failing to do anything to solve the state’s severe financial problems – bad enough before the pandemic, horrific going forward.

People have told me that the governor is not beholden to the Democratic Party and their public employee union supporters because he financed his own campaign. Not true. He knows, and I’m sure has been told in both subtle and unsubtle ways, that he serves at the pleasure of Michael Madigan and his public union supporters. In case you didn’t notice, the legislature passed a $40 billion — seriously out of balance – budget that included no layoffs of state employees (oh, and they’ll be getting their scheduled raises). This, when unemployment in the unlucky private sector in Illinois exceeds 20 percent.

Something else you Illinois voters might want to consider. The Federal Census is rolling along in its every ten-years cycle. Governor Pritzker has said many times that he supports a fair maps amendment, which would take the drawing of electoral districts out of the hands of the party that controls the legislature. Alas, the pandemic has forced him to put this on the back burner. Maybe next year, when it will be too late to affect elections for the next ten years. Do you doubt that the next map will be just as goofy as the current one – you know, the one that’s designed to cement the Democratic Party’s control of the state?  (If the Republicans were in power, they would do precisely the same thing.)

You may recall that a couple of years ago, a group supporting fair maps garnered over 600,000 signatures (including mine) to get the question placed on the ballot. This was their second attempt, the first having been struck down by the courts as being unconstitutional. The second effort took the court’s opinion into consideration, but the Illinois Supreme Court still managed to say no dice.

Need I remind you Illinois voters that there is a Democratic majority on the court, and that the justices are chosen by the state Democratic Party, whose leader happens to be Michael Madigan?  And that until recently, slating of judges had been in the hands of  Chicago alderman Edward Burke, under indictment by the Feds, who also happens to be the husband of the current chief justice, Ann M. Burke?

So, who are you voting for this year?  Aside from Joe Biden, I hope?

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

They is Me!

By Patrick F. Cannon

To the continuing consternation of the French, English long ago overtook it as the most internationally spoken language. Among many reasons for this, it seems to me, is its flexibility. Unlike French, whose dictionary is controlled by the Académie Francaise, there is no official body to pass judgement on proposed new words. The Oxford English Dictionary, although highly respected, is not an official authority. The latest edition of this 20 volume collection includes 176,476 words in current use with full definitions; and 47,156 obsolete ones. But its compilers are constantly looking at new words that could be added.

While English is a Germanic language, it happily is home to words from many others, including French, Spanish, Italian, Chinese, Japanese, Hindi – well, you get the idea. Often, we are unaware of their derivation. I doubt that many people who live in them know that “bungalow” comes from Hindi, for example. But it’s so ingrained in the language that it really doesn’t matter.

What does matter is structure and convention. Just as in any language, the words only make sense if they are arranged in a way that everyone can understand. I don’t believe it’s done anymore, but I spent countless hours at the blackboard diagramming sentences under the steely gaze of a nun. The basic structure is “subject, predicate, object.” Add to that the adjectives, adverbs, independent and dependent clauses, tenses, pronouns – all of which can be confusing to the poor soul trying to learn English, but seem to make perfect sense to us.

Hitherto, words had established meanings, although many had more than one. Those 176,476 words in the Oxford actually swell to more than 600,000 when the various meanings are included. But some words, personal pronouns in this case, have had settled meanings for hundreds of years, although spellings and some forms have changed over time.

Not anymore. A few days ago, I read an article in the Chicago Tribune about a woman on the staff of a local museum who asked to be described as “they” instead of “her.” This is apparently becoming more common, as more and more people decide that they either encompass both sexes or none at all, or perhaps haven’t yet made up their minds either way.

The newspaper, of course, complied, since they seem to have an utter horror of offending even persons who probably don’t read newspapers in the first place. This policy follows along from the policy they established some years ago to identify persons by the sex they claimed to be rather than the sex they actually were. In many states, you can even change your birth certificate – an official document – if you disagree with the gender you were “assigned” at birth.

Pity the poor “assigners.” They counted upon the evidence of their eyes, and the reality of biology, to check the male or female box. There is an essential difference, it seems to me, between tolerance and belief. If a male person decides to live as a female, he is doing nothing that hasn’t been done throughout history. And vice versa, of course. But the apparently unpalatable fact is that you can’t change your sex, even if you have what is now called gender reassignment surgery.

As with so many matters of “political correctness,” I suppose we’ll just have to accept this as one of the many absurdities that the existentialists like me must embrace. It reminds me of the former comic strip hero Pogo’s (look him up) famous comment (and I paraphrase): “We have met the enemy, and they is me.”

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

A Noble Repast, Indeed!

By Patrick F. Cannon

As famous as I’ve become for my gourmet recipes – you’ll recall my Bologna Wellington, I’m sure – I realize that not everyone has the time or inclination to scale the culinary heights. This week, then, I’ll provide my faithful readers with simple, hearty food that can be on the table in mere minutes.

One of my favorite luncheons is the fried bologna sandwich, proving anew that this encased meat is eminently flexible. Ingredients are simple: two regular (not thin!) slices of your favorite bologna; one slice of American cheese (I prefer Kraft); Heinz Ketchup (no substitutes); and two slices of bread (I prefer Whole Wheat, but any sandwich bread will do). I should also warn you against low-fat bologna, particularly the Turkey variant. They may claim it’s real bologna, just as the almond growers of California claim their vile juice is “Almond Milk.” But it’s not!

            Prepare the bread by spreading ketchup on both slices. Cut a slice of cheese in half and have at the ready. Place the two slices of bologna on a hot frying pan. As they fry, they will almost certainly curl up, but don’t let this concern you. When you’re satisfied that they’re done on the first side, turn over with a spatula. Viola! The curl will dissipate. Now, bend the cheese halves in half again and place directly in the middle of the bologna. When the cheese is melted, place the two slices of be-cheesed bologna on one of the slices of bread, then cover with the other (do I have to remind you to have the ketchup sides in?). At this point, I like to slice the sandwich on the diagonal.

Present this classic sandwich on a plate with a kosher pickle spear and a mound of potato chips. By the way, to add a bit of historical perspective, the word “sandwich” comes from the 4^th Earl of Sandwich, John Montagu, who is said to have invented the handy eatable one day when he was gambling away his inheritance. It seemed he didn’t want to leave the table to take nourishment, and had a minion slap some slices of beef between two pieces of handy bread, so he could eat with one noble hand, and toss the dice with the other. The current Earl, the 11^th of the line, often regales his fellow member of Britain’s House of Lords with this legend, at least those not napping.

(To be fair to the noble 4^th Earl, he also helped to finance Captain Cook’s voyage of discovery, and the Sandwich Islands – now Hawaii – were named in his honor. It is perhaps all to the best that the islands were later renamed. Who would be willing to say “I’m from the State of Sandwich?)

There is no record of any of the Earls having eaten that other classic, the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or the P&J as it’s known for short. You wouldn’t think such simple fare would require a recipe, but you would be mistaken. As with everything worthwhile, complications enhance the experience. First, the bread. While other sandwiches may be made with a variety of breads, the P&J can only be made with mushy white sandwich bread. Wonder Bread still makes the classic of the type, but there are others. If in doubt, apply the squish test (which consists of compressing the loaf at both ends like a concertina. If it soon returns to its original shape, it passes the test).

Please note that it’s called the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, not the peanut butter and jam or preserves sandwich. And, really, why would you use anything but grape jelly? I realize there are other kinds – apple, mint (!), cherry, strawberry, pomegranate (!!) – but none are as aesthetically pleasing as the classic grape, particularly Welch’s.

As to peanut butter, there is some question whether regular creamy, or chunky, is best. I admit to some vacillation here, but personally come down on the side of chunky. In this regard, I permit personal preference to decide the issue.  As to brand, it is my understanding that all are made with peanuts, so actually vary little in taste. I prefer Smucker’s because I like the name, but Skippy, JIF and Peter Pan all have their passionate adherents. Avoid “natural” types at all costs. These come with the oil separated from the solids, requiring one to laboriously mix until the proper consistency is achieved. Why would any sane person do this?

I like to spread the peanut butter first, and liberally at that. Under no circumstances spread the jelly on the peanut butter! Instead, spread the jelly on the other piece of bread, then join the two together with due care. Many connoisseurs like to cut this sandwich into quarters, but this seems excessively precious to me.

I do like to precede it with a bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Tomato Soup; thus all the major food groups are accounted for. As to the soup, you will need to add a can of liquid to reconstitute this condensed product. You could, of course, economize by adding water; but I much prefer whole milk. If you were to add the aforementioned almond juice instead, you would create an abomination that would reverberate down through the ages. Don’t.

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

What’s Your Background?

By Patrick F. Cannon

My daughter Beth often suggests subjects for this weekly bit of wisdom, and this is one of them. On a recent morning, during our regular daily phone conversation, I happened to mention that I was watching the morning news, upon which a local doc was imparting his wisdom regarding the inevitable and relentless Coronavirus. He was obviously in his office, beaming his thoughts through Zoom or Shazam or whatever remote video thingy was available.

He had a fine head of white hair, which imparted a hint of wisdom; unfortunately, a fine shock of his manly mane was hanging in his face. Had he been in the studio, the staff makeup person would no doubt have combed the good docs hair and sprayed it with that gluey stuff to keep it in place.  In addition, his rather pasty face would have had a heavy coating of makeup to prevent that oily shine.

I know this from personal experience, having been interviewed on television many times. When you’re doing it in the studio, the resident makeup artiste does up your hair and slathers pancake makeup on your face, which gives you a healthy-looking tan, much like our eminent president. I hate it, because it’s the very devil to remove, short of a lengthy scrub with soap and water.

If you’re interviewed outside the studio, you can be a victim of the elements, as I was in Phoenix one July in a convention venue we were just setting up. The organization I was working for was notoriously cheap – who else would have a convention in Phoenix in July? – and would not pay to turn on the air conditioning until the venue was opened to the public. The local news team swooped down on me as I was dripping with sweat. The interview duly appeared that evening on the local news. Not only was my very red face dripping with sweat, but my shirt was covered with sweat stains.

I’m sure you’ve noticed that local and national news reporters and anchors are often broadcasting from their homes these days. It is the backgrounds that interest me most. A favorite is a bookcase filled with weighty tomes, a few family photos, and bits of pottery and sculpture (which might be a bust of Abe Lincoln, or some unrecognizable hunk of iron).  It’s difficult to see the titles of most of the books – they might be the collected works of Dame Barbara Cartland – but one I was able to read was behind Judy Woodruff of the PBS News Hour. It was Ron Chernow’s biography of U.S. Grant. In her case, it was possible to believe she had actually read it.

Most of the local anchors and personalities don’t seem to read, which doesn’t surprise me. One, who shall remain nameless, recites the weather from what appears to be her living room. On the wall behind her are framed bits of greenery, likely chosen by some designer. There is a couch and matching chair. On the chair sits a beagle, no doubt there to add some homey charm. Unlike most beagles, known for their energy, it never seems to move. Perhaps it’s dear departed Rover, stuffed.

The major network anchors live in New York, and mostly live in apartments on the upper east side. They can, of course, hire the best decorators. Two primary styles seem to be in favor – either what I would call “old money” coziness; or the spare rigor of the modernist sensibility, with the walls festooned with Pop Art and Abstract Expressionism. In both, one sees immense art books prominently displayed on coffee tables.

As an antidote to all this, I suggest you watch the regular Friday appearance of syndicated columnists Mark Shields and David Brooks on the PBS News Hour. Brooks does have bookcases in the background, but he’s entitled – he’s actually written several. Shields, an old campaigner at 82, comes to us from a room that looks both lived and worked in. The first time I saw the room, obviously his home office, it was more than a little unkempt. The following week it looked a bit more picked up. I suspect Shield’s wife watched it on the screen in horror, and decided to at least make the piles of stuff neater. But it still looks like a real room, not a stage set.

Next time, instead of watching the news reader recite the news, which is uniformly bad anyway, see if you can find any hints of actual human habitation where they live.

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

A Noble Roast!

By Patrick F. Cannon

On the 18^th of June, 1815, Field Marshall Arthur Wellesley, First Duke of Wellington, defeated the French armies of Napoleon Bonaparte on the plains of Belgium near the village of Waterloo. The bloody battle ended more than 20 years of Napoleon’s rule of France and much of Europe. Wellington, already a hero for his exploits in India, Spain and southern France, was now the most famous man in the world.

Soon after his return to England, he was feted at a lavish banquet at London’s Guild Hall. For the occasion, a special dish was created, ironically by Napoleon’s former chef, Savarin de Escoffier, who was happy to get the job, chefs being loyal only to their kitchens. The result? What we now know as Beef Wellington! Although there were many other courses – no wonder gout was rampant among the upper classes – the beef was served with white asparagus and Hollandaise sauce. For desert, Escoffier created a Bombe au Chocolat.  As promised, I will tell you how to make this historical meal. You will truly eat like a Duke!

The basis for this noble roast is beef tenderloin. This is the same cut of beef used for filet mignon, thus the tenderest part of the cow. Do no skimp here; buy only Prime grade. It may cost $30 a pound or even more, but remember that some fancy restaurant would charge you three times that to cook it for you. For eight servings, a six-pound roast should suffice.

To transform it into Beef Wellington, you will need a hunk of pate de foie gras, some mushrooms, spices, and prosciutto. You will also need the ingredients for butter-rich pastry to cover the whole lot. Now, I checked on the cost of the pate de foie gras, and it should only cost another $100 or so for the amount needed. I would estimate the other ingredients at another $25 or so; so the total cost would only amount to about $300.

$300? You gotta be kidding! Nobody in their right mind would spend that kind of dough to feed eight people, so let’s be realistic and come up with a substitute that would completely satisfy, but only cost a few bucks!

It’s my famous Bologna Wellington. Instead of beef tenderloin, have your butcher cut you a hunk of bologna about 8-inches long. Our butcher, Joseph’s Finest Meats in Chicago, makes a toothsome bologna, but by all means choose your favorite brand. Instead of the imported French pate – made by force feeding geese to fatten up their livers – you can opt for chicken-liver pate or braunschweiger liver sausage (I favor Usinger’s). Regular button mushrooms will suffice, but if imported prosciutto is too rich for your blood, thin-sliced boiled ham should do the trick. For the pastry covering, I find that Pillsbury’s Crescent Dough Sheets – available in your grocer’s cooler — are a handy substitute.

Set the bologna aside. Chop the mushrooms into little bits – a food processor comes in handy here – and put into a sauce pan with gobs of butter and a generous sprinkling of Herbs de Provence. It’s my go-to seasoning, and includes basil, fennel, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. Cook until it turns into a paste, then set aside. Put on Simon and Garfunkel’s “Scarborough Fair” while you’re chopping, if it helps you along.

Take your pate or liver sausage and slather it generously over the bologna. Ditto the mushroom paste. Cover this appetizing mess with a layer of the prosciutto or ham, then finish with the dough sheets. When all is snug, cut a few slits in the dough, and decorate if you have an artistic touch. Place it in a baking pan and slide in a 350 degree pre-heated oven. Bake until the pastry is golden brown. Since the bologna is already cooked, no tricky beef temperature to worry about.

I won’t insult you by telling you how to cook the white asparagus, but you may want to substitute bottled tartar sauce for the Hollandaise. The Bombe au Chocolat requires some instructions. For the base, I favor Hostess Twinkies, but lady fingers can work in a pinch.. Using the number of these classic delights you’ll have to work out for yourself, form a rough circle, then fill with more Twinkies. Add layers in descending size until you have something that looks like a rough dome. Fill in the spaces with marshmallow fluff, using a spatula to form the final dome shape. Pour chocolate sauce over the edifice to cover. Refrigerate until the chocolate hardens.

Plate the Wellington, sliced into one-inch slabs. Add three or four asparagus to each. A sprig of parsley as a garnish would not be amiss. A good wine for this incomparable dinner would be generous amounts of Carlo Rossi Paisano. After everything settles, hack into the Bombe au Chocolat and serve generous hunks. With the coffee, you might treat your guests to a tumbler of Mogen David Extra Heavy Malaga. And Bon Appetit!

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon

Aprons On!

By Patrick F. Cannon

Many people who never learned how to cook are stuck at home, discovering that ordering out can be both expensive and frustrating. They could, of course, eat Lucky Charms for every meal, hoping no doubt that the luck of the Irish would rub off on them. Or, they could learn how to cook, which would both save them cash and fill their lonely hours. Regular readers of this space will know that I’m uniquely qualified to teach this skill (and many others, if I may say so).

Almost everyone I know has a kitchen, so I assume this room is almost universal. If you’re not sure you have one, I suggest you wander around your house or apartment to see if there’s a space that contains at least a refrigerator, stove, and sink. If it includes a dishwasher and micro-wave oven, so much the better. I have been in several homes where this room is the largest in the house, with immense refrigerators, freezers, and stoves that would not look out of place in a restaurant. Many also include wine coolers and separate pizza ovens. Most of them look suspiciously pristine.

If you search carefully, I’m sure you’ll also find pots and pans and other accoutrements needed for the recipes that follow. Be of good cheer and put the frying pan on the fire!

Classic Bacon and Eggs.  As a young lad, my usual breakfast was a bowl of Kellogg’s Pep, unfortunately no longer available. On weekends, we might have bacon and eggs, or perhaps pancakes or waffles. It was only when the US Army sent me to France that I discovered to my astonishment that the French eschewed a proper breakfast in favor of a croissant or brioche, consumed at the local café, and washed down with something they call café au lait, which turned out to be coffee with too much milk (although artfully poured by the waiter). This was only one of many French customs that confound me to this day. For example, the first thing they do upon awakening is make love, then have a cigarette.

Anyway, the classic bacon and eggs can be found throughout the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and Ireland. It is usually accompanied by a piece of toast, or perhaps a crumpet. Seems complicated, but not if you follow my directions.

Bacon is sold already sliced, so no worry there. I see something called “Applewood Smoked” bacon has become popular. It doesn’t seem to taste much different than the regular kind, but feel free to indulge. By the way, my culinarily-accomplished son-in-law Boyd sometimes makes his own bacon, but he graciously slices it before delivery. Eggs are typically sold by the dozen, in medium, large, extra-large and jumbo sizes. I say go for the jumbo, and cholesterol be damned!

Fortunately, this is a one pan meal; in this case, a frying pan. Ideally, it should have a flat bottom of perhaps 10 inches, and tapering sides of two. One with a non-stick surface is preferable, although some cooks prefer a cast-iron pan. I believe only experts are wise to their cranky ways, so you should avoid their use. Put the pan on a stove burner and adjust the heat to medium. If you don’t know how to turn on the burner, please refer to the manufacturer’s instructions. Peel off individual strips of bacon and place on the pan. Three for each breakfaster should suffice. When the bacon turns brown, turn it over until it reaches a doneness you favor. Some people prefer their bacon burned; the same kind of people, it seems to me, who order expensive steaks well done.

Place the cooked bacon on a paper towel, which will absorb some of the excess fat. The bottom of the pan will have an abundance of this fat. It is flavorful, but the amount is likely excessive. Drain some into a container for later use, then add my secret ingredient, a large pat of butter. Faced with breaking an egg, many recoil in fear. Please don’t whack it with a large knife, hammer, or other implement. Tap it on a flat surface until it cracks, then break it into a small bowl. If the yolk – that’s the yellow part – is intact, repeat with another egg. If one of the yolks breaks, cast it into the garbage. When you have two eggs with intact yolks, pour gently into the pan. You will notice that the clear part of the egg will begin to turn white. When it seems completely firm, gently slide a spatula (see internet for description) under the egg and lift onto nearby plate. Treat the other egg(s) in precisely the same way.

As it happens, many egg eaters are frightened of runny whites, and will want their eggs turned over to fully cook them. This can be called over-easy, over-medium, or over-hard (for those truly terrified of both runny whites and yolks). Again, one slides the spatula under the eggs, but instead on transferring to a plate, you flip it over onto the other side. With constant practice, you will break the yolk only half the time. For over easy, a mere ten seconds on the second side will suffice; for over medium, another five seconds; for over hard, until the yolk is fully hardened and inedible.

In the meantime, you should have placed a couple of slices of bread in your toaster, which should be found somewhere in among your kitchen cabinets. When they pop up, slather with butter (no substitutes please, especially avocado). Add the bacon to the plate with the eggs, but serve the toast on a separate plate. It would be a kindness to provide some jam or preserves to complete the hearty meal.

Frankfurters a la Boston. What could be more American that hot dogs and Boston baked beans?  To make this wholesome and tasty meal, you will require two sauce pans. Fill one with water; the other with a can or two of pork and beans. You may wish to serve two dogs per person; thus you should multiply the number of persons to be served by two. What could be simpler? As to brand, this can vary by geography. Here, in the Chicago area, I prefer Vienna, but surely this is a matter of taste? In any event, all you have to do is put the dogs in the water and turn on the heat. When the water comes to a boil (that’s when bubbles appear) it will only be a matter of minutes until the dogs are heated through.

If cooking the beans at the same time is too daunting, you can just turn the water off and let the dogs stay warm. You can then turn the heat on under the bean pot, and stir occasionally until they reach a level of heat compatible with your wishes. However, I would advise adding some additional flavors to the beans, as the canned product is a bit on the bland side. I favor a dollop of barbeque sauce, a squirt of ketchup, and a soupcon of Dijon mustard. The truly adventurous will essay a dash of some hot sauce – Tabasco, for example – into the beans to add a bit of heat. I’m told that some cooks even chop an onion and toss it in, but I have never personally witnessed this, so it may just be an urban legend.

Decision time has now arrived. Do you serve the hot dogs on a bun, or naked? If on a bun, complications arise. Do you wish to serve a true Chicago dog? If so, you will need to have some poppy-seed buns, green relish, yellow mustard, diced onions and tomato, little peppers and celery salt. If this seem too complicated, limit your accompaniments to the mustard and relish. Do not be tempted to use fancy bakery buns – the cheaper the better. Sans buns, you need only serve jars of condiments, which one may use for dipping – but never ketchup!

To maintain proper standards, you must pour the beans into a serving bowl. Provide it with a large spoon, so each diner may partake as he or she wishes. It would be most helpful to also provide salt and pepper shakers, cutlery and napkins. A good lager would suit this menu. Wine choice can be tricky, but I would recommend a fruity Alsatian Riesling, properly chilled.

(Next time – Beef Wellington, with white Asparagus Hollandaise, and Bombe au Chocolat.)

Copyright 2020, Patrick F. Cannon