Cooking Make Easy, Part Three

By Patrick F. Cannon
Simplify, simplify, simplify! That has ever been my culinary motto. Now, at long last, I shall reveal my strategy for cooking fine, but simple, dinners.
Let me hasten to say that I have nothing against complicated dishes; indeed my wife Jeanette specializes in meals that often take two or more days to finally reach the table. But I have always been mindful of the dictum of the legendary French chef, Pierre Savarin a la Carte, who admonished his assistants to KISS, as in “keep it simple stupid!” He has always been my hero and guiding light.
This is, of course, just a brief essay, not an outright cookbook. Therefore, I will only share with you two of my favorite and most famous dishes – steak, and linguini with white clam sauce. First, steak. For our purposes, there are three suitable and widely available cuts – porterhouse, New York strip and ribeye. The porterhouse is known as the “King of Steaks,” because it includes both the tenderloin and the strip. It takes a young person to consume this vast slab of beef; it can easily feed three or even more normal folk.
The strip steak is the most common cut, and is entirely acceptable. For the ultimate in tenderness, the ribeye is supreme. But – and I cannot stress this enough – only prime grade beef makes a great steak. Because you will pay between $18 and $25 per pound (depending on the wealth of the neighborhood where your butcher is located), you may only serve steak on rare occasions, unless you’re a captain of industry or a professional athlete. But keep in mind that the steak you buy and cook for $25 would cost $65 or more in a better steakhouse. Alas, poorer people will have to follow Marie Antoinette’s advice: “Let them eat pork.”
No matter the type, have your butcher cut it two-inches thick. Unless you’re feeding ravenous young men, a one-pound steak easily feeds two; a two-pounder, four; and so on. To cook it, you will need a heavy frying pan. When the steak is at room temperature, pat it dry, and salt and pepper to taste. Put some fat – I prefer butter, but other oils or lard are acceptable – into the pan. Turn on the burner (excuse me for being obvious, but some of our dimmer folk do require specific instructions) and when the fat is bubbling or shimmering, add the steak. Brown thoroughly on all sides, then put the pan into a 400-degree oven until the internal temperature of the meat reaches 135 degrees, which is medium rare. An instant-read thermometer is a helpful tool for this and other kitchen uses. (By the way, if you prefer your steak well done, ruin a cheaper cut of beef.)
Put the meat on a cutting board or platter and cover with aluminum foil (titanium foil would also work, but it doesn’t yet exist). After 15 minutes or so, slice against the grain and serve. To me, the classic side dishes are sautéed mushrooms, baked potato and steamed asparagus. Such things as bearnaise or A-1 sauce should only be served with lesser grades of beef. The true “prime” must stand alone! (Well, a great glob of butter could be placed on top when it comes out of the oven.)
Linguine with clam sauce makes a cheaper, but delicious meal. You can be a purist and buy fresh clams (quahog is only one possible variety), but it’s a lot easier to buy canned whole clams. One can is sufficient for 8 ounces of pasta; for a full pound you will need, not surprisingly, two cans.
In a 12-inch non-stick sauté pan, add a goodly amount of best olive oil (“best” is the pretentious word Martha Stewart uses in describing ingredients) or just plain old extra virgin, preferably from Italy. To this, add a bit of chopped onion or shallot and several of those garlic things, also chopped. Sauté until tender and fragrant, but not burned. Add the juice from the can or cans and a generous amount of vino bianco. Season with salt and pepper, a sprinkling of herbs de province, and red pepper flakes to the limit of your tolerance. When the liquid is reduced to your liking, add the clams, which only need heating.
In the meantime, you should have been cooking your pasta in salted, boiling water. When it reaches the perfect state of al dente-ness (which strangely enough means “to the tooth” in Italian), drain it (mandatory) and pour it into the pan with the sauce. Mix the pasta and the sauce on low heat until well mixed and piping hot. If you are that kind of cook, garnish with some chopped parsley and a drizzle of olive oil before serving in a great big bowl or, if you’re a stickler for form, in individual bowls. Serve the same vino bianco you used for cooking.
Technically, you should not provide any grated parmesan cheese, as it is widely thought that it does not complement clams or similar seafood. Yet, some people like to grate cheese on any pasta dish. I do not wish to use my undoubted eminence to guide your wishes in this matter. I can only say that at some Italian restaurants if you ask for parmesan for your linguine with white clam sauce, you will be screamed at, or worse. But if you insist on parmesan, you must only use the real stuff from Italy, not the ground up mixture that passes for it here.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon
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Cooking Made Easy, Part Two

By Patrick F. Cannon

I had hoped to continue my culinary explorations this week with advice on how to prepare an unforgettable dinner, but fate has intervened. A massive outcry from many of my faithful readers has demanded that I give the breakfast egg more of its due.

As you will recall, I only gave advice on cooking sunny side up, over-easy and over-medium eggs. What, the angry mob demanded, happened to scrambled, poached and various kinds of boiled eggs? Do not they have a place on the breakfast plates of our great country? Upon sober reflection, I am convinced that they do.

I suspect that the first scrambled egg was a mistake. Imagine Ogg the cave man breaking an egg on the hot rock; instead of staying intact, it splatters. In frustration, Ogg attacks it with a stick, thus further scattering it about. Food being a bit harder to come by in those days, he can’t afford to throw the mess away, so he eats it. Hmm, not bad, he thinks. The scrambled egg is born of an accident, just like most stuff we eat (the oyster being the best example).

It took thousands of years to perfect the perfect recipe for this simple dish, but here it is. First of all, let your eggs reach room temperature, unless you live in an igloo. Let’s say you’re making breakfast for yourself and your inamorata. Break four eggs in a bowl, and add one quarter cup of whole cream! Not whole milk. Not almond phony milk. Not anything but whole cream. Whisk the eggs and cream until combined. Set aside for a moment and place a non-stick frying pan on a burner set to medium. Add a lot of butter.

When the butter is just melted, pour in the eggs. With a spatula, continuously work the eggs from the outside in until done to your liking. Immediately serve them. Let the eater salt and pepper to taste. Do not permit anyone to season their eggs with ketchup, mustard, or hot sauce. Such condiments may be acceptable at a cheap diner, but properly scrambled eggs should never be thus defiled.

There are those who would claim that olive oil can be substituted for butter. It is no accident that they are usually natives of Italy, Greece or Spain, where most olive oil is produced. If you go to the dairy case of your local grocer, you will find eggs, butter and cream. You will not find olive oil. Ask yourself, why?

94-percent of Americans have never poached an egg, because the thought of doing so scares them to death. If you can get your courage up, fill a pan with water and bring to a steady simmer. Add a couple of tablespoons of white vinegar. If you were to add red wine vinegar, your eggs whites would turn pink. If that thought pleases you, then give it a shot.

An extra step is very helpful. Instead of cracking the eggs directly into the water, crack them into a small bowl, then gently slide into the water. Standing at the ready with a slotted spoon, watch until the whites solidify, then scoop out. What you do with it is your own business. I favor plopping them on a piece of buttered toast. If your tastes run to Eggs Benedict, I suggest you save your sanity and just go to a good restaurant.

I’m sure you’ve heard the old expression: “He (or she) is such a bad cook, he can’t even boil an egg.” If you believe yourself to be such a person, you have no doubt been frightened by everything I’ve written above. But don’t despair. I believe with all my heart that anyone can in fact boil an egg.

Take a sauce pan and fill it with water. Place it upon a stove burner turned on to hot. When the water boils, turn the burner down until the water is just boiling. You must have a timer. Again, the eggs should be at room temperature. If you want a really soft-boiled egg, set the timer for three minutes; turn it on and put the egg in the water. When the timer goes off, take the egg out and run it briefly under cold water to stop the cooking. Eat more or less immediately, as a cold soft-boiled egg is loathsome. If you want the white to be more set, cook for four minutes. Six minutes should give you a hard-boiled egg.

There are of course other kinds of eggs – the Chinese eat something called the 100-year-old egg. I won’t tell you how to make it; otherwise you might actually have to eat it.

(Next week, finally, dinner is served!)

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Cooking Made Easy

By Patrick F. Cannon

Regular readers of this space will remember my tribute to my late mother’s culinary skills in the article titled Home Cookin’. Some wondered if her accomplishments had influenced my own efforts to advance the cause of haute cuisine.

Indeed they have. I had meant for some time to share my expertise, but more mundane matters always seemed to intervene. This morning, however, I awoke with such a feeling of accumulated guilt that I felt I could no longer withhold my kitchen secrets from a wider world.

Now, my wife Jeanette has a shelf full of cook books. You should forswear the use of any of this advice from so-called experts. If you look into any of these alluring tomes, you will notice vast lists of ingredients and pages of instructions. No human can follow them without getting lost. The following recipes are all inclusive. Simply follow them and you can’t go wrong.

Let’s start with breakfast. Now, as we all know, a productive day must start with a hearty breakfast. If pressed for time – and aren’t we all? – simply grab a box of Cheerios, pour some into a handy bowl and add some milk. Whole real milk is preferred, but 2% is acceptable. Never use skim milk; it is a watery abomination. Adding a bit of fruit can be a healthy addition. (By the way, there is no such thing as “Almond Milk.” It’s juice, for God’s sake.)

If more time is available, can I suggest bacon and eggs? Many happy homes have been torn asunder by an inability to properly fry an egg. Bacon is relatively easy. Put strips of bacon into a frying pan and cook on one side until they look done, then turn over and do the same. I suggest putting the strips on a piece of paper towel to drain while undertaking the eggs.

Do not cook the eggs in bacon fat! It will overwhelm their delicate taste. Eggs must be fried in butter; no substitutes permitted. Simply melt some butter in a non-stick frying pan, then crack the eggs and slide what’s inside the shell into the pan. I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how to crack an egg. If you botch this simple task, cooking is clearly not for you. Anyway, there are two parts to the egg, the white part and the yellow part. The yellow part, called the yolk, should stay intact during the cooking. If it breaks, or leaks, the purist will throw this egg away and start anew. I would suggest feeding the offending egg to your dog. Dogs, as we know, will eat anything.

Some people will like their eggs “sunny side up.” This simply means you cook the egg until it seems done, then gently transfer it to the plate. But many prefer what is called “over easy.” These are queasy folk who are sickened by runny whites. The double-queasy want their eggs “over medium” to err on the safe side. For the first, you turn the egg over and cook for an additional 10 seconds, for the second, 15. If you lose track of the time, you might end up with “over hard.” Again, if you have a dog, that would be an option; or, you could try that old family refrain “take it or leave it.”

You must, of course, serve toast. Like me, you should always keep a loaf of Wonderbread on hand. Invest in a toaster. Most have controls that permit one to customize one’s toast. For example, it might have a scale of 1 to 5, 1 being “why bother” to 5 being “burnt to a crisp.”  One is constantly amazed at the wonders of technology.

If you want to get exotic and add side dishes like hash-brown potatoes, you needn’t worry. They, and many more breakfast sides dishes, are easily available in your grocer’s frozen food case.

Now that we have dispatched breakfast, we can move on to lunch. As a first option, I would suggest calling a friend and meeting him or her at a local restaurant. This gets you out of the house and hones your social skills. If you have to stay at home, I suggest the classic soup and sandwich combo. For soup, can I suggest one of those classics, Campbell’s Chicken Noodle or Tomato? You can, by the way, enrich the Tomato soup by using milk instead of water.

Although some restaurants gussy up the simple sandwich by adding exotic ingredients, including the dreaded avocado, simple is always better. Really, all you need are two slices of Wonderbread, some sliced lunch meat and cheese preferable pasteurized, processed American. I do tolerate some lettuce and tomato, if time permits.

As to condiments, ketchup must only be used for red meat, or fried bologna. Mustard may also be used for red meat, and goes well with ham and uncooked bologna. Mayonnaise is most acceptable for fowl, but has been known to be slathered on any sandwich, particularly the “Club”, which features turkey and bacon, along with lettuce and tomato. For the bigger of mouth, this classic is often double-decked. For the inattentive, ingredients in the lap are a possibility.

There you have it. Two-thirds of the daily nourishment dealt with, without recourse to any cook book. But a major challenge awaits!

(To be continued. Next week: Dinner is served!)

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

It’s Just Too Much!

By Patrick F. Cannon

I would never claim that our times are more vulgar than any in the past, but our claims would surely be at least competitive.

The word itself has many meanings and uses, which to me boil down to this – that which is more than it needs to be is vulgar. Let me give you an example. In a movie whose title I can’t remember, and whose plot escapes me, Bing Crosby is auditioning a girl singer, whose identity is lost in the mists of time (it was probably in late 1940s). As she sings her song, she does dance moves and gesticulates (love that word) in time with the song. Bing stops her, and asks her what is more important, her or the song. Then he sings the same song, standing quietly and enunciating every word of the lyric clearly. As I recall, she gets the message and goes on to be a great star! Of course. But would she now?

Tony Bennett, now in his 90s, still just stands there and delivers the song. Others who do the same are mostly jazz or folk singers, not exactly performers at the top of the charts. Live pop performers now rarely appear without a troupe of barely-clothed hard bodies, of both sexes, writhing behind them; and behind them, a band which seems to mostly consist of over-amplified guitars and an electronic keyboard, which makes a variety of strange sounds. At the front, of course, we find the Beyonce’s and Lady Gaga’s of the world, both of whom have actual talent, but have concluded that vulgarity sells better than the song itself. Can we blame Cher for starting this? Or maybe it was Liberace?

Having written five books on Chicago architecture, I see a good deal of vulgarity in the built environment. It’s interesting to me that similar ornament can be coherent on one building and vulgar on another. For one of our books, my partner Jim Caulfield went to Buffalo to photograph Louis Sullivan’s Guaranty Building. Built in 1895, there is scarcely any of the façade that isn’t covered with ornament – but somehow Sullivan’s genius makes it work. In contrast, for an otherwise nondescript condo building in Oak Park, the architect chose to apply panels of Louis Sullivan-inspired ornament to the façade. there it looks ridiculous and, yes, vulgar.

Vulgarity in architecture was raised to its absolute peak in Las Vegas, where it’s not unexpected, but even great architects are not immune to artistic overreach. The great Frank Lloyd Wright’s occasional flights of fancy sometimes miscarried, but most fortunately remain unbuilt. Current superstar Frank Gehry has designed some truly wonderful buildings, but several real stinkers too. His “Fred and Ginger” apartment building in Prague still bemuses the locals; and what was he thinking when he designed 8 Spruce Street in Manhattan, whose façade seems to be melting? Another stinker – and I realize my opinion may not be widely shared – is the Hotel Marques de Riscal in Spain. I’d rather stay at the Holiday Inn.

Let me end with a tribute to comedians like Jerry Seinfeld and Jim Gaffigan, who work “clean.” Let me admit here that when I was in the Army, my utterances often included the classic profanities: f_ _ _, m_ _ _ _ _f_ _ _ _ _, and c_ _ _s_ _ _ _ _.  I’m being delicate here, but you know what I mean.

After I left the Army, I largely abandoned their use, other than occasionally muttering them to myself on the golf course or in traffic. I also stopped eating ham for several years, after having to eat too much of it in Army mess halls. Eating ham isn’t vulgar, but profanity as a verbal crutch most certainly is. And when did comics of both sexes decide that their sex lives were endlessly fascinating? And when did we start agreeing with them?

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Leaping Lizards!

By Patrick F. Cannon

For those of us who live in Chicagoland, it’s been another eventful year. The capital of the Midwest got a new mayor, Lorie Lightfoot, whose tread on the political establishment has been anything but light. As usual, the Feds have indicted two aldermen, and have raided the offices and homes of a few more. Even though the murder rate continues to decline, you wouldn’t know it from listening to the evening news. Oh, and a special prosecutor has been named to look into the handling of a case of a no-talent actor who phonied up an attack on himself designed to get him a raise on a television series shot in Chicago, and then got off with a slap on the wrist.

There was much more, but all of it was eclipsed by the discovery of an alligator in a lagoon at Garfield Park. Until the poor creature was captured by Frank Robb, an expert imported from Florida, sightings and un-sightings were daily fodder for the local TV stations and even made the national news. He was dubbed “Chance the Snapper” in honor of Chicago’s own Chance the Rapper. Even after he was exiled to a refuge in Florida, his fame demanded a few follow-up stories, which may have finally stopped. Robb also had his moment of fame and must have been tempted to hire an agent. (As recently as Tuesday, there was a flash report on the news that he had found love. By the way, Robb sports a biblical beard. Biblical beards and tattoos seem to be today’s daily double. Why?)

My own experiences with the American Alligator are considerable. Most recently, on my many trips to Florida, I have spied the odd one lazing on the banks of a water hazard at one of the state’s many golf courses. Other than discouraging one from seeking a lost ball, they seem to mind their own business, which seems to be sleeping in the Sun.

On one trip, my brother Pete, his wife Mary Beth, and my wife Jeanette and I went to the Florida Everglades, where we took an air boat ride through that fascinating landscape, which I’m told is actually a slow-moving river. There were several very large gators in the waters surrounding the starting point, no doubt regularly fed by the owners to add a bit of atmosphere.

But my ultimate experience with the noble reptile came during a family trip to Disney World in the Summer of 1983. Son Patrick and daughter Elizabeth were then teenagers; we had taken them to Disneyland in California when they were much younger, and decided a trip to see the recently opened Epcot in Orlando was in order. We booked a package trip through a tour company, which included air, hotel and rental car.

The beginning was not auspicious, as one of the engines of the chartered jet caught fire at the gate. It was soon put out, and we were assured it was just a bit of spilled fuel that had ignited. We managed to get to Orlando, whose airport then was little more than a glorified hut, with outdoor baggage claim. We picked up our rental car, which broke down before we got to the main road. Duly issued another one, we finally made it to the hotel, which was OK, and even had a nice pool.

I won’t bore you with our experiences at Disney, except to say that we had a good time. Once we had exhausted its possibilities and ourselves, we had some free time and were looking for something else to do. In those days, Disney World was pretty much it; no Universal Studios or any of the other attractions that have turned Orlando into the fantasy capital of the world.

We did, however, stumble upon one of our Republic’s great roadside attractions: the legendary Gatorland Zoo and Jumperoo. We entered through a gators mouth (natch) into a building whose gift shop sold every possible gator-themed item – everything from refrigerator magnets to giant plush gators. The zoo itself included every imaginable permutation of the animal, with caimans and crocs thrown in for good measure. But it was the “Jumperoo” attraction that has embedded itself permanently in our memories.

Imagine if you will a platform extending over a pool full of alligators. Upon it stands a man with a wash tub full of raw chickens. The man takes a bird and holds it over the pool. In just a split second, a gator seemingly leaps up about four or five feet and grabs the chicken in its frightening maw and splashes back into the water below. While it chomps on its chicken, another chicken takes its place; another gator leaps – and so on until the tub is empty. (We were later told that the gators don’t actually leap, but rear up on their tails.)

Understandably, the audience was mesmerized, including our good selves. By the way, we couldn’t help noticing that the crowd mostly looked like it too had emerged from some dark and dismal swamp. Whole families seemed to share only one set of teeth. It may have been that Disney was a bit too rich for their blood, or perhaps it was just a matter of taste. Nowadays, a single day ticket at Disney costs about $110; at Gatorland, a mere $29.95.

Can’t recall just when, but the original building was destroyed by fire, but apparently has been lovingly rebuilt, including the gaping jaw entrance. You could enliven your next trip to Florida with a visit. I see on their web site that the show goes on.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Tax and Spend

As far as I can tell, the main difference between the Democratic and Republican parties is that the Republicans want to lower taxes and spend; and the Democrats want to raise taxes and spend more. In the end, it may be a wash.

In days of yore – that is, before Donald Trump was elected – Republicans mostly ran for office promising to cut spending and, hopefully, reduce the National Debt (capitalized on purpose because it has become so enshrined in the public’s mind). Perhaps you’ve noticed that this traditional litany has disappeared; indeed, the Republicans lowered taxes and recently struck a deal with the Democrats to raise spending. Is it any wonder then that Paul Ryan has decamped for small-town Wisconsin? And that increasing numbers of traditional Republicans are declining to run for re-election?

In the meantime, dozens of Democrats are running for President. While there is little to choose between their proposed programs, some of the candidates are more amusing than others. For example, a few days ago Judy Woodruff of the PBS Evening News interviewed New York mayor Bill de Blasio. He has an interesting past. He spent his honeymoon in Cuba, even though the travel ban to that worker’s paradise was still in effect. He was also a public and vocal supporter of the Sandinistas in Nicaragua. If through some miracle (you know, like the one that gave us Donald Trump) he was to be elected President, you can be assured that our relations with Nicaragua, Cuba and Venezuela would improve dramatically.

Woodruff asked him about his tax proposals. He would, he said, raise the top rate to 70 percent for incomes exceeding $2 million per year. The current top rate is 37 percent, which I actually believe could be raised modestly, perhaps to 45 percent. By the way, our tax rates are progressive, i.e., you do not pay the top rate on all income, only that exceeding (currently) $501,000 per year. Thus, the hated “one percent” of earners pay an average of 26.87 percent of their income to the Feds. That, by the way, accounts for 37.3 percent of total income tax revenue; the percentage for the top five percent is 58.2 percent. To bore you further, 44 percent of Americans pay no income taxes at all.

Let’s assume that candidate de Blasio would be satisfied with about 40 percent for the first $2 million, then the 70 percent for the rest. Then, take someone with $10 million in taxable income (sports and entertainment figures as well as titans of industry). They would get to keep $3.6 million, and happily give the government the rest. Since most of the Democratic candidates believe the rich are stealing their income from the poor anyway, that would be justice indeed.

While you ponder that, closer to home (Chicago), the Chicago Tribune reports that four members of the Chicago Teachers Union have returned from a junket to Venezuela funded by their fellow union members through crowd-funding. (See Kristen McQueary’s reasoned commentary in the August 20 Tribune). Their glowing reports found their way onto union internet sites, although the union now seems to be backing away from them, without actually disavowing their opinions, which strongly support President Maduro and his band of humanitarians. It seems that the Venezuelans who are left – according to the United Nations, four million have decamped – are highly literate. This is all to the good, of course. Without much actual food to be had, perhaps they can eat their words.

Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

A Porcine Fable

By Patrick F. Cannon

The old gentleman didn’t need an alarm clock. His inner clock told him it was 5:30 am, and he came awake. As usual, he could hear his wife puttering in the kitchen. When he finished showering, shaving and dressing, the coffee and juice would be next to the granola on the kitchen table. The radio would be tuned to the local all-news station, so he could get the latest weather and traffic reports before leaving for the office.

In the adjoining bathroom, he turned on the shower – all the settings preselected – and removed his pajamas. He couldn’t help but notice an unpleasant odor. He sniffed his pajamas, but they seemed OK. Even after his shower, the odor persisted, and it occurred to him that it might be a plumbing problem. He must remember to ask his wife to call a plumber to check and clean the drains.

The odor lingered as he got dressed. He chose his usual conservative tie, then carried his suit jacket with him to the kitchen and hung it on the back of a chair. His wife was at the table, eating some fresh fruit and reading the Washington Post. He never read the papers at breakfast, not wishing to start the day in a bad mood.

“Elaine, do you smell something?,” he asked his wife.

“Now that you mention it, I do”.

“I think it might be the plumbing – who knows, maybe some critter died in the pipes or there’s a clog. In any event, could you call the plumber?”

“Of course. I think there’s someone there by 8:00; I’ll call then.”

After he finished eating, and drank his second cup of coffee, he returned to the bathroom to do the needful and brush his teeth. When he was done, he fetched his suit coat and briefcase, kissed his wife goodbye and left the house. His car and driver were waiting at the curb. The driver opened the back door, and said “good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Joe”.  He settled in the back seat and checked his cell phone for messages. Nothing urgent, so he punched his office number. “Irene? I’m on my way – traffic’s not too bad, so I should be there in  about 20 minutes. Anything up? Good. See you soon.”

Strangely, the smell seemed to have persisted. Maybe it’s the sewers, not his plumbing. Not unheard of in this city. “Joe, do you smell something funny?”

“You know, I do. Maybe it’s something in the car?”

“No, I smelled it at home too. I think it might be something from the sewers, but it sure is annoying.”

When he arrived at his office, the staff was already busy. He said a general “good morning” and entered his private office suite. His secretary looked up and smiled. Then a strange look came on her face – she seemed to be sniffing the air. “What’s wrong?,” he asked.

“I don’t know. All of a sudden, there’s a strange smell that wasn’t here before. Kind of like a barnyard.”

Senator McConnell’s jaws dropped with the sudden realization that the odor might be emanating from him, that it had followed and hung about him from the moment he had gotten up. He sniffed his hand and the smell got worse!

Moral: When you spend too much time in the pig pen, eventually the smell becomes permanent.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Doth Age Wither?

By Patrick F. Cannon

With the Democratic Party already feverishly trying to find a presidential candidate who can beat the hated Donald Trump, there has been a good deal of talk about whether some of them might be just a bit too old to take on the challenge.

As someone who has himself reached an age older than any of them, I can tell you that I would be reluctant to accept the minimum four-year commitment of running the free world (and I’d hate to lose my afternoon nap). This doesn’t mean that I’m incapable of doing a bang-up job – I’m taller than any of the top three, and just as well educated. By the top three, I mean of course Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders and good old Joe Biden. I would describe the first two as doctrinaire and Joe as confused.

One of the hallmarks of old age is the conviction that one has finally discovered the wisdom of the ages. This is OK for someone like me, but is dangerous for a politician. Jimmy Carter is a perfect example of a President who had all the answers, but was a bit confused about the questions. Both Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren think they have found the secret formula for success. While their programs are somewhat similar, their styles are slightly different.

Warren was for many years a law professor. This has given her a talent for lecturing voters as if they were her students, not unlike President Obama. As with most professors, their version of the truth brooks no opposition. You want to pass the exam; you better listen up and regurgitate. While she doesn’t necessarily want to abolish Capitalism, she seems determined to jail all the capitalists. Dare I say that she believes you can legislate morality?

Like Professor Warren, Sanders is for free college tuition and Medicare for all. Unlike Warren and most of the other Democratic aspirants, he isn’t for these things to pander to the so-called “base”; he has always detested Capitalism as a committed Socialist should. In an office that demands flexibility above all necessary traits (think Franklin Roosevelt), Bernie has gotten more rigid with age.

What he would love to do is what has failed everywhere it was tried – punish the successful by taking their money and giving it to the wise government to redistribute as it sees fit. I’m sure he sees the Labor governments just after World War II in Britain, Castro’s Cuba and Chavez’s Venezuela as worthy examples. I must say that the people of Vermont seem to have exhibited a perverse sense of humor to have harbored a Brooklyn Marxist to their leafy bosom for so long. Kudos to them for being willing to share.

Joe Biden is just a bit younger than Sanders, but because he’s been around so long, he has managed to actually establish a record that his moral betters can now decry. Unlike Bernie, who managed to do almost nothing in his years in the Senate but yell at people (have you noticed that he spends most of his time yelling instead of speaking?), poor Biden committed the sin of working across the aisle to get needed legislation passed, then compounded the felony by spending eight years as President Obama’s loyal vice president, whose record he must now defend to that same carping base.

But who knows? Maybe the Democrats will decide that someone younger and less rigid might better appeal to the majority of voters who identify as Republican or Independent (by far the most numerous at 42 percent). It may also occur to some of them that if 80 percent of Americans are mostly happy with their health care that “Medicare for All” might be more of a nightmare than a dream.

This old fogey held his nose and voted for Hillary Clinton in 2016. I might be persuaded to vote for Joe Biden in 2020, but if the choice is Trump or Sanders, I might just spend the day playing Mah-jongg or Pickle Ball.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Nothing Funny About It

By Patrick F. Cannon

Regular readers of this space, and some friends and family, know that I have been publishing chapters of a (comic, I hope) history of the world. Nine chapters have appeared here, the last being a survey of our great scientific achievements. Chapter 10, when I get around to finishing it, will be The Age of Revolution.  Following that will be something on the Industrial Revolution.

And that might be the end. When I look at the 20^th Century, I struggle to find anything funny. Last week, I mentioned rereading Barbara Tuchman’s The Guns of August. The book ends with the Battle of the Marne in September 1914; after that, opposing trenches were dug from the Swiss border to the English Channel, and barely moved until the Spring of 1918, when something approaching mobile warfare returned, ending in the November 11 armistice. During those four years, approximately 40 million people died, including six million civilians. Here are the number of soldiers (rounded off) who died in action among the main combatants, with the approximate total population of the country in parentheses:

Germany                                 1,773,000 (68 million)

France                                     1,358,000 (39.6 million)

Great Britain                              908,000 (43 million)

Russia                                      1,700,000 (166 million)

Austria-Hungary                     1,200,000 (52.8 million)

Italy                                             650,000 (44.4 million)

United States                              116,000 (100 million)

Wounded would have been between three and four times those numbers. Appalling numbers to be sure, but let’s look at the same countries (minus no longer existing Austria-Hungary) for World War II, when at least 90 million died, including 45 million civilians:

Germany                                 5,500,000 (78 million)

France                                        218,000 (41 million)

Great Britain                               383,000 (43 million)

Russia                                      9,000,000 (175 million)

Italy                                              301,000 (45 million)

United States                               417,000 (132 million)

Comparisons of the two are instructive. For example, the far lower number of deaths for France and Great Britain in World War II can be largely explained by the fact that they were defeated by Germany in 1940 in a mere six weeks. In 1914, the French had gone to war with enthusiasm; in 1940, with deep pessimism. While some French units fought well, most didn’t and they dragged Great Britain down with them (thus Dunkirk).

The much higher casualties for Germany and Russia reflect the bitterness of that struggle. German dead on the Russian front were probably 70 percent of their total for all theatres. Many experts feel that the 9 million for Russia may well be conservative, with the true number closer to 12 million.

While the numbers for Germany, France and Italy are for Europe only, the others are for all theatres of operation. In Asia, Japan had 2.2 million dead; China 2-3 million. Adding everything up comes to about 130 million total deaths, military and civilian for both World Wars. To this we can add the “ethnic cleansings” in the Balkans, Africa, and Turkey; the Russo-Japanese War; the several Arab-Israeli conflicts; the Iran-Iraq war; numerous civil wars like Spain, China and the ongoing one in Syria; and of course our own wars in Korea, Viet Nam, Iraq and Afghanistan (and let’s not forget Panama and Grenada!).

Civilian deaths too were much higher in World War II. Not only were six million Jews killed in the Holocaust, but aerial bombing and outright murder killed many more – the Japanese, for example, were thought to have killed tens of millions of Chinese civilians; and the Germans ruthlessly murdered Poles and Russians. And let’s not forget that Stalin caused the death of perhaps 10 million of his own countrymen in the 1930s; and Mao the same in China the 1960s.

In sheer numbers of deaths caused by conflict and official murder, the 20^th Century is the undisputed champ. But as a percentage of population, it pales in comparison to the religious wars in Europe in the 15^th and 16^th Centuries; and the Bubonic Plague of the 14^th, which experts now believe may have killed 60 percent of Europe’s population.

So, you can see why I might struggle to find many laughs in 20^th Century history. On the other hand, it gave us Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Laurel and Hardy, Ring Lardner, James Thurber, Ogden Nash, Bob Hope, Jack Benny, Garrison Keillor, Lenny Bruce, Johnny Carson, Jack Lemmon, Myron Cohen – well, you can add your own favorites. They all found something to laugh about. Who knows, maybe I will too.

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Repairing the Past

By Patrick F. Cannon

I’ve been rereading Barbara Tuchman’s wonderful book about the opening battles of World War I, The Guns of August. In this classic litany of mischance and human folly, the activities of the German government and army stand out above the other combatants for their sheer brutality and arrogance.

Here’s an example. By treaty among neighboring nations, including Germany, Belgium was guaranteed her neutrality. Nevertheless, the German plan of battle in August, 1914 included invading France through Belgium. When that small country refused to permit the German army to transit Belgium without a fight, the German were so incensed at their resistance that they demanded they pay reparations for the inconvenience they had caused them! The arrogance of this was breathtaking, so it is no wonder that when they ultimately lost the war, they were required to pay substantial reparations to the victors.

In essence, reparations are payments to “repair” damages to individuals or property. Recent Congressional hearings have again raised the question of reparations for the descendants of Africans sold into slavery and brought to this country to be sold again as laborers, primarily in the South. Even after they were freed in 1863, Jim Crow laws in Southern states drastically curtailed their rights, including their right to vote. The insult was compounded when the Supreme Court upheld separation of the races in Plessy v. Ferguson (1896), which established the “separate but equal” concept.

Beginning in 1948 when President Truman signed an order desegregating the armed services, African-Americans have slowly regained their civil rights. While there is now no statutory limit on their freedoms, it would be naïve to think that racism and discrimination is a thing of the past in America. But it is primarily to redress past wrongs that many African-Americans and others believe that financial reparations are due to the descendants of Africans brought to this country against their will.

Not everyone remembers or is even aware that in 1988 Congress passed and President Reagan signed a bill that paid $20,000 in reparations to each surviving Japanese-American who had been interned during World War II.  It was finally done after more than 40 years because the blame for interning American citizens (it was common for enemy aliens to be interned) was easy to place – it was done by the US Government through executive order.

The blame for enslaving Africans is more complicated. In our case, it was Great Britain who largely delivered slaves to Southern ports. But they were the traders, not the original enslavers. That distinction goes to their fellow Africans, who either captured them during battles, or rounded them up during raids, before shipping them to West African ports. Slave trading was part of the triangular system: Britain shipped manufactured goods to Africa, exchanged them for slaves, who were then sent to ports in America – New Orleans, Charleston, etc. – and exchanged for commodities like tobacco and cotton destined for Great Britain. Then the commodities were – well, you get the idea.

Great Britain didn’t abolish the slave trade until 1807 or abolish slavery until 1833, only 30 years before the Emancipation Proclamation. Our Founders, mostly Englishmen after all, wrestled with the question when drafting the Constitution, but failed to abolish slavery, many believing wrongly that it would die out naturally. They obviously share the blame for the persistence of slavery, along with the approximately 25-percent of Southerners who held slaves, and the perpetrators of the Jim Crow laws that replaced it.

But what of the majority of Americans, who neither trace to the Founders nor whose ancestors owned slaves? What of the people whose family were abolitionists? Or arrived here after 1863? The promoters of reparations argue that there is a kind of collective guilt or the stain of original sin that we all share regardless of these mitigating factors. It is the same theory of collective guilt that persuaded the Germans to massacre Belgium civilians in August, 1914.

While it’s unlikely that reparations will ever be paid, that doesn’t mean that white Americans must not continue to try to redress the pattern of discrimination that our African-American citizens have and continue to suffer. After acknowledging our past sins, isn’t it better by far to concentrate on the future? What good did obsessing about the past do in Northern Ireland or the former Yugoslavia?

For the many Americans who feel guilty about our past, I would suggest they consider investing in the future by donating to organizations that invest in education, like the United Negro College Fund (www.uncf.com), or any of the many other organizations that focus on what can happen rather than a past that can’t be changed. Why do so many instead insist on resurrecting the likes of Richard Russell and James O. Eastland and throwing them in poor Joe Biden’s face?  Is it because they’ve made a living at it so long they can’t afford to stop?

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon