What Lies Beneath

By Patrick F. Cannon

Unmentionables, scanties, unders, or if you prefer, underwear. That which lies beneath. The last bastion of modesty, or the trigger of desire. For most of mankind’s history, its origins have been shrouded in mystery, never a subject for polite discourse.

As with so many once taboo subjects, I feel it’s my duty to expose once and for all the history of an important branch of the apparel family. I should first tell you that for thousands of years there was no distinction between underwear and outerwear. In warmer climes, folks didn’t wear anything. Where the winter’s chill was likely, only animal skins were available until fabric was invented by the Assyrians. Even then, making cloth was such a laborious task that even one garment required the continuous labor of several slaves for a week or two (depending on size).

Until the Egyptians invented needle and thread in the Second Dynasty, the typical garment was just a square of cloth with a hole in the middle for one’s head, gathered together at the waist with a bit of rope. Such a lavish use of cloth was of course not available to the slaves and lower orders. They had to make do with left over bits; thus, the loin cloth.   They rather resembled the cloth diaper, which most people today have never seen.

You will be as surprised as I was to learn that it wasn’t the Greeks who finally invented underwear. It appears they had been too busy inventing philosophy, democracy, algebra, geometry, saganaki and the mushroom burger. Anyway, the climate in Greece was generally salubrious, so they must have felt no particular urgency to cover their nether regions.

Rome was quite another matter. Although the city itself was quite warm, the restless Romans soon ventured north to conquer all and sundry. As they got nearer the Alps, the cold breezes tended to sweep up under their tunic skirts and shrivel their privates. As if this wasn’t bad enough, it could also raise their skirts, thus exposing chill-reduced manhood. Across the battlefield, their enemies, the Extragoths, hurled abuse and guffaws at them.

That did it. The very nest day, their commander, Pubic Minimus, ordered his legions to wrap their scroti in cloth from their extra tunics. They didn’t immediately realize they had invented underwear, but we do.

Why it took so long for the next advance remains a mystery. Suffice it say that the idea of having openings for one’s legs doesn’t seem to have occurred to anyone until the 11^th Century. If one studies the famous Bayeux Tapestry, which commemorates William the Conquerors victory over Poor Harold at the Battle of Hastings in 1066, one might notice a tiny figure in the background. Apparently, a hapless Saxon, due to the fortunes of war he had been stripped of his outer garments by his conquerors. In his death throes, he seems to be wearing boxer shorts!

The next great advance was the Cod Piece. By the 15^th Century, tights had been developed. Since there was no room for standard underwear, the size of one’s manhood become rather noticeable. As the gents strolled along the avenue, the ladies couldn’t help noticing which fellow was more or less endowed. The Cod Piece, rather like a leather cup, could visually even the playing field, at least until the wedding night. (By the way, that’s Henry VIII up there. Perhaps if he’d gone commando, history might have changed.)

Things stayed much the same until the invention of the elastic waist band by Pierre DuPont in 1824. We now take it for granted that we can simply pull up our shorts, without needing to tie them tight with lace of some kind. Our only decision is the classic one – boxers or briefs? I’m a boxer’s man myself, but belong to a divided family; my brother Pete remains faithful to briefs, or “tighty whities” as they are often styled.

(I feel a responsibility to add something about one of the most complicated of all undergarments, the Union Suit, or “long johns” as they are often called. These winter-worn garments were donned by rustic types in the Fall, and not removed until Spring, whereupon they must now undergo a controlled burn by order of the EPA.)

What advances await us I don’t pretend to know. By the way, you may have noticed I haven’t said much about ladies’ undies. When I began looking into this, it soon became apparent that that subject was so complex that even my curious mind couldn’t even begin to understand its many twists, turns and permutations. Just look at a Victoria’s Secret catalog and you’ll see what I mean.

Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Choice is Good, Except When it Isn’t

By Patrick F. Cannon

As a good American, I’m a great believer in freedom of choice, but not in education. Let me clarify. I do think parents should have the power to send their children to the best possible school, if choice is even possible in their community. I do not believe, however, that children – or even their parents – should dictate what they can and cannot learn.

Americans are, for example, shockingly ignorant of their own history and institutions. Survey after survey has shown that only a small percentage of your fellow citizens can answer even the simplest of questions. One example should suffice: in a survey of students of the top 55 colleges and universities (yes, including Harvard, Princeton, Stanford, Chicago, etc), it was found that only 23 percent knew that James Madison was the principal author of the Constitution, while 99 percent were fully knowledgeable about Beavis and Butthead and their many cultural contributions.

How can this have happened? The answers can of course be complicated, but let me suggest that too much choice is basic to understanding the problem (not that everyone would even agree it’s a problem). Universities now seem to feel that their incoming freshman have had all the history they can stomach. Instead of the classic survey course in American History, which was usual when I went to college, they can pick and choose any of a number of “history” courses designed by faculty to fit their particular research interests (Sexual Politics in the Reagan Era, Marxism if We Gave it Just One More Chance, Why Vermont Matters).

I’ve picked on History, but the reluctance to look to the past extends to other fields as well. Take literature. Why should any American be forced to read Hawthorne, Melville, Twain or even Hemingway for that matter? Weren’t they just the typical white males, with all the horrors that that implies? Why should students’ tender sensitivities be challenged by dead men when the living Bob Dylan just won the Nobel Prize for Literature (broadly defined, as so much is these days).

One of my pet peeves is the conviction among many of the young that music – and almost everything worthwhile in the arts — began the day they were born. Never mind that America has a rich history in popular music. How many of them know who Stephen Foster was, much less Irving Berlin? And that the influence of Jazz and the Blues is pervasive around the world?

And it’s fruitless to even mention Classical music, the audience for which continues to decline in real terms. I suspect that the young people who do listen to and play serious music come from families that grew up in much the same atmosphere. Not to know and understand the differences between Mozart and the Smashing Pumpkins probably doesn’t matter to someone who has never even heard of Mozart (and maybe barely recalls the Pumpkins).

Nobody can or should be forced to like something, but not to even be aware of alternatives is one of the great failures of the current educational system. The emphasis on science technology, engineering and math (STEM), at the expense of the liberal arts, may seem sensible in a world obsessed with instant computation and communication, but who’s going to be left to write the poetry and run the country?  Will ignorance of history continue to lead to the White House?

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Copyright 2019, Patrick F. Cannon

Be It Hereby Resolved

By Patrick F. Cannon

When you reach my age, it seems pointless to make New Year’s resolutions. You have either reached perfection in all things, or have learned to live with, and even enjoy, your many failings.

This does not mean, of course, that the rest of mankind has achieved nirvana. Far from it, so I have taken upon myself to suggest resolutions for some people who surely need improvement in one or more ways.

One hardly knows where to begin with President Trump. His failings are many and substantial. He could perhaps begin by saying over and over: “I am not the only person in the world.”

Somewhat related to Trump’s need for self-improvement is a Republican Party in serous need of redemption. Never in living memory have so many elected officials traded basic morality for political expediency. They should resolve to become once again the party of Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, instead of the party of Warren Harding, Herbert Hoover and Donald Trump. The excuse they give most often is that “Trump is delivering on his campaign promises,” as though this absolves him of being a thoroughly bad man. And simply deciding not to run for reelection is not enough.

Before you consign me to the left wing, I’m afraid the Democrats need to make some resolutions too. One would be to finally say “goodbye” to their elders. A party that is so bereft of talent that it drags out Joe Biden as a serious candidate for President seems just the opposite of “progressive.” The ever-talkative Joe is 76 already, but even he has a year on Bernie Sanders, who is 77. Of course, they may go for a younger man, and drag Al Gore out of the internet for one more run. He’s only 70! Anyway, here’s a resolution for the party of the other Roosevelt: find a candidate in 2020 who’s younger than 70, and who could actually pass history and civics tests. Do not be tempted by the siren call of Hillary. And, for God’s sake, don’t try to foist Elizabeth Warren on our suffering Republic.

Closer to home (Illinois) we will soon have a Democrat governor and veto proof legislature of the same party. J. B. Pritzker was elected not for his qualifications, but because he was even richer than his opponent – the hapless Bruce Rauner – and so could outspend him, which he duly did. He has two choices it seems to me: he could just go along with House Speaker Michael Madigan (76 by the way) and raise taxes to pay for the sweetheart pensions the Democrats have given to their supporters among the public employee unions; or he could do the right thing and use his money and influence to end Madigan’s tenure, and finally pass a constitutional amendment that would permit serious changes to the pension system. If the state pension increases had been always been pegged to the same cost of living increases as the Federal Social Security system, instead of the automatic three-percent as now, the state would be much better off.

And, finally, resolve not to lose hope; or to hate someone just because his or her politics don’t agree with yours. And try to remember that none of us is as smart as we think we are. Happy New Year!

Copyright 2018, Patrick F Cannon

Christmas is What You Make It

By Patrick F. Cannon

You know Christmas is coming when ads for expensive French perfumes begin appearing on television and in print. You know Christmas is coming when stores begin opening before you’ve finished your turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Black Friday, cyber Monday – other festive harbingers of the season!

Although I don’t listen to them, I’m told that there are radio stations that start playing Christmas music even before Thanksgiving. I can remember when department stores actually closed on Thanksgiving, and used the day to decorate for Christmas. On the Friday after, many folks would travel downtown to see what Marshall Field’s had done to create magic in their windows, and begin to do their Christmas shopping. Now, Marshall Field’s is Macys, and although they still do Christmas windows, frankly they’re not up to Field’s former standards.

It’s easy to become cynical about the sometimes-overwhelming commercialization of what is actually supposed to be a religious holiday. Many folks seem to ignore this, but it’s supposed to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, although the actual date of the birth is unknown. A common theory among early authorities – and I think it’s plausible – is that it must have coincided with the Winter Solstice (which happens tomorrow, I think). What we know for certain is that people had been celebrating or at least noting the shortest day of the year for thousands of years before Jesus was born (which strangely enough seems to have been somewhere between 6 and 4 BC!).

Why not celebrate before the coldest and darkest time of the year begins, whether Christian, Jew, Muslim or Druid?  Can’t you imagine those ancient Britain’s dancing around Stone Henge singing Druid Carols? How we actually celebrate the season is entirely up to us. If I confess to any philosophy, it would be existentialism, which simply posits that existence is absurd and can only have the meaning we give it. Some Christians would call this “free will” (see Kierkegaard for the Christian branch of Existentialism).

What I’m trying to get at with this pretentious twaddle is that Christmas is what we choose to make it. To some, it’s about chasing down and giving presents (and, by extension, getting them). Others see it as purely a religious festival, and decry the commercial aspects. Most people fall somewhere in the middle. While my wife Jeanette and I (mostly her I must admit) do try to give thoughtful gifts, getting them is not too important to us. Short of getting a Ferrari, there’s not much I really need. The real joy is opening them with family.

Beginning with Thanksgiving, family events are central to our holidays. Last week, we attended a Christmas concert at a local church with daughter Beth and son-in-law Boyd and his sister Cathy, followed by dinner out. This week, we’re hosting Beth and Boyd again, with my niece Eve and her husband Tim (my niece Ellen, with way too many other relatives, has fled to Florida, along with my son Patrick, who was here for Thanksgiving). The very next day, Jeanette’s best friend Ro and her husband Jim are coming for dinner.

We spend Christmas Eve with one of Jeanette’s nieces, alternating between the families of her two sisters, Mary and Geri. Christmas Day this year will be just us and Beth, Boyd,  Boyd’s sister Cathy and their nephew Riley. Exhaustion won’t quite have set in, so we’ll spend New Year’s Eve with our good friends Barb and Ed Swanson (as we have for many years), followed in the morning by brunch with Mary and Geri and husbands John and Dominic. That should do it (I think!).

I see that this has turned into a kind of Christmas letter in reverse, telling you what’s going to happen instead of what happened in the past year. A change of pace may be in order. Following is one of the more notable missives we got last year, from the famous Yokum family. I’m doing last year’s because for some reason we didn’t get one this year. Rumor has it that the entire family has jointed the Trump Administration, which seems plausible. Anyway, enjoy and Merry Christmas!

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Happy Holidays, Folks!       

Well, another year has passed, so I thought I’d bring you all up to date on the family as the holidays approach. As usual, there wasn’t a dull moment for our relatives. First the bad news: old Uncle Abner won’t be with us this year – once again, the Parole Board turned him down. I guess he’ll have to serve the full sentence. Heck, he’ll only be 70 when he gets out. If he watches his health, he ought to be able to enjoy some of the cash he has stashed away. He still refuses to tell me where it’s hid, despite me telling him inflation is eating away at it, and I’d be happy to invest it for him. Oh, well, he’s as cantankerous as ever.

Daisy Mae is pregnant again. Not sure who the father is this time either. As you know, all her kids look just a little different. I call them the rainbow coalition. She’s a worker though. Taking an online course in beauty culture, using money borrowed from the government. She says no one every pays off them loans, so it’s like a free education. Aren’t these young folks smart?

As you know, young Georgie is in the army. He made it all the way to corporal before he got busted back to private for drinking on duty. At least they didn’t give him a dishonorable discharge like his brother Amos. I guess they treat drunkenness and attempted murder different.

You probably heard that Aunt Nellie got married again. You kinda lose track, but I think this might be number six. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that her former husbands all died suddenly.  At least they all left her some money. Maybe she’ll have better luck this time. So far, the new husband looks healthy enough.

I’m proud that the family remains on the cutting edge of social change. Cousin Charlie announced that he was changing his name to Charlene. Guess we’ll all have to bone up on our pronouns. I suggested to Charlene that the beard might be considered odd for a lady, but he’s (she’s?) quite fond of it, reminding me that the carnival that comes through town still features a bearded lady. So, it looks like a career change might be in the offing too.

I’m sure you’ve seen all the media stories about son Ralphie. As you know, he’s the only member of the family to graduate from college – and Harvard no less. He’d already graduated by the time they found out he’d phonied up his transcripts and ACT scores to get in, and by then were too embarrassed to go public. Ralphie says the trick is to get in. After that you don’t have do much, since they think you’re already smart enough.

Anyway, Ralphie’s now holds the record for the greatest Ponzie scheme in history. Unlike old Madoff, he got away to Russia with the dough before it was discovered, so all that education sure paid off.  That picture of him and Putin riding those white horses bare-chested made all the papers. Funny though, when we tried to get a passport to visit him, we got turned down. I complained to our Congressman, and he told me he was surprised too, since he thought they would be happy to see us leave the country. Not sure what he meant by that.

Finally, I hope you won’t believe that story about wife Rosie being found naked with the preacher. She told me it was just a new way or praying; something about going back to the innocence of Adam and Eve before they ate the apple. She said it made her feel so good she might try it again.

Well, that’s all for this year. You have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. As for me, I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for Yokum family.

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

The Walking Dead

By Patrick F. Cannon

Our peppy poodle Rosie is ever anxious to greet the new day. She rarely tarries abed beyond 6:00 am. On one recent morning, she began the day with her usual guttural emanations, signaling to me that it was time to drag myself reluctantly out of my warm bed, and heed her call to venture forth into the new day, armed with poop bag and leash.

In the latitude of Forest Park, Illinois, it is generally still dark at that hour. One rarely encounters another human soul, with the exception of one fellow on his way to the El station, who looks like he would rather have a job that didn’t require his early attendance. On this particular day, however, I was startled to see a group of men and women – numbering perhaps 6 or 7 – shuffling in my direction on the other side of the street.

How can I describe them?  They all walked with a stoop, and dragged one of their legs behind them. While clothes with holes in them are quite fashionable in some circles, theirs’s seemed mere rags. I also couldn’t help noticing that almost all of them seemed to be missing some body part or other – a hand for one, ears on another, even a nose for some poor chap.

Although not to my taste, I was aware that television’s so-called Golden Age was full of programs featuring the undead, the living dead, the walking dead or zombies of various sorts. Apparently, these creatures are meant to be metaphors for our government, greedy corporations and the popular music business. I had thought them to be products of the fevered imaginations of Hollywood hacks, but now they seemed to actually exist, unless I was still in some state between nightmare sleep and consciousness.

Strangely, I felt no fear. Their progress was so slow – due to their limping – that I should be able to outdistance them, even at my venerable age, with no problem. Even my loyal pooch seemed indifferent to any threat. Thus, I approached to within 10 yards of so, and ventured a “good morning.”

Their leader stopped, as did the others. He stared at me and my elegant canine through rheumy eyes and muttered a “good morning” in reply.

“You seem lost,” I said. “Can I assist in any way?”

“We seek sustenance for our bodies and souls.”

“Well, there’s a 7-11 around the corner, and if you go back the other way, in two blocks you’ll find a nice breakfast place, but it doesn’t open till 7.”

“Alas, no one seems to want to serve us We’ve been turned away wherever we go”

Changing the subject, I asked “By the way, I may have missed it, but I can’t recall hearing about cadavers rising from their graves at a local cemetery. Are you folks from Forest Home or maybe Graceland?” Their leader, whose unearthly voice seemed to have a phony folksy accent (hiding a hint of North Shore?) seemed confused by my question.

“We’re not dead,” he stammered, “we just seem that way.”

“Well, if you’re not dead,” I said perhaps too forcefully, for he seemed to cringe, “what in God’s name are you?”

“Illinois Republicans.”

“Oh, that explains it.”

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

R.I.P. President Bush

By Patrick F. Cannon

Before I retired from the daily grind, I had occasion to meet three United States Presidents. I actually met Jimmy Carter three times, once during his term and the others after. He was not a successful President, but has done a good deal since to enhance his reputation as an effective humanitarian. While others may not agree, I found him excessively judgmental and more than a little sanctimonious.

Ronald Reagan spoke at one of our international conventions (Lions Clubs International, where I managed public relations and communications). How can I describe him? I can only say he was much as you might have expected – playing his role to the hilt. I was cleared by the Secret Service to be near him, but only one of our staff members – a colleague who was in charge of physical arrangements and thus worked closely with the Secret Service advance team – had his picture taken with the President. His presence was a last-minute thing. He was barnstorming the country in 1985 promoting his tax bill (you remember supply-side economics, don’t you?) and decided here were 20,000 Lions club members from around the world ready and even eager to hear him in Dallas.

When a sitting President shows up, you basically get out of the way. An advance team shows up and tells you what to do, no input needed or allowed. If you’re going to be anywhere near the President, they do a background check. In a former life, I had had a top security clearance, so I was given a lapel button to signify my exalted status. Other than giving me his usual movie star smile as he passed on the way to the stage, I had no interaction with him.

George H.W. Bush was Vice President when he spoke at our Phoenix convention in 1981. As I recall, we had invited Reagan; when they offered Bush instead, we didn’t feel able to say “no thanks.” As it turned out, he was quite affable and approachable. He agreed to meet the entire Lions board of directors (100 people including spouses) at a special reception. Security wasn’t as intense as it would be with Reagan, and I was permitted to arrange for my staff to take photos. Bush spoke to each couple in turn, and was more than gracious. He had actually previously met a couple of the board members, and had mutual friends with others. After he spoke later that day, he took the time to thank me for my assistance.

In 1998, we hired him to speak at our convention in Birmingham, England. He had been out of office for two years, and was available because he had other commitments in Europe. As a past President, he still had a Secret Service detail. Only two agents arrived with him, although two London-based agents had come the day before to look the venue over.

He was scheduled to arrive about an hour before his scheduled speech, and I got a heads-up call about 15 minutes before his car arrived. Since the board members were already on the stage, the party greeting him consisted only of the chairman of the convention committee, the current international president and me. After we escorted him to the so-called “Green Room,” our officers left to take their places on stage.

It was a typical room of its type – a couch, two or three chairs, a coffee table and a phone. Coffee and soft drinks were also provided. I mentioned that the phone was a direct outside line and he was welcome to use it. I mentioned that we had met before, at our Phoenix convention. He said he remembered it well, and being a politician, maybe he did! After a few more pleasantries, I told him I would return about 10 minutes before he was due to be introduced (about 20 minutes from then).

I went to the arena to see how the program was progressing, and one of the Lions’ employees who worked on venue set up came up to me and asked if it might be possible to get his picture taken with Bush. My first inclination was to say no, but then I thought, why not? After all, we were paying his fee. I grabbed one of our cameras, made sure it had enough film, and told him to get any other staff members who weren’t busy just then and come with me.

I knocked on the Green Room door and the Secret Service agent let me in. Bush was looking at his notes and I said something like this: “President Bush, some of our staff members who actually do all the work here asked if they could have their picture taken with you.”

“Of course, be glad to,” he said immediately.

“How many are there?” This from the Secret Service agent.

“Five. I’ll take the pictures.”

“OK, one at a time.”

So, one by one they came in. Bush asked each one their name, where they were from and what job they did. He posed with each, and I snapped a couple of exposures. That’s all it was, but he did it with unfeigned interest and charm. The only regret I have is I forgot to get my own picture taken with him!

My experience with George Herbert Walker Bush wasn’t dramatic or earthshaking, but I think it says something about the difference between a true gentleman and the current President, who reminds me of the old joke about the Hollywood actress having lunch with a friend. She regales her with all her wonderful roles and other achievements, but finally stops and says “but that’s enough about me. What did you think of my latest picture?”

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Change is Good, Right?

My son Patrick is always on the alert for yet more proof of the absurdity of our curious species. His latest example is from a country notable for its humorless espousal of personal freedom: the Netherlands.

It seems that a 69-year-old Dutchman named Emile Rattelbrand (not brained) has petitioned the courts to change his birth certificate to reflect the age he actually feels, which happens to be 49. Emile claims to be in fine fettle, looking more like the younger age. Although his photo somewhat belies this claim, I concede that he looks to be in decent shape.

One of the reasons he gave is perfectly understandable, if weird. It seems that a fellow of 49 would have a much better chance of attracting ladies on the hook up and dating app, Tinder. Being of a rather venerable age myself and not in the market, I confess I hadn’t heard of it. Although their web site glosses over it, son Patrick claims many if not most of its customers use it to hook up for casual sex. Apparently, Emile feels that greater numbers of passionate ladies would consider a tumble with a chap of 49 rather than one pushing the dreaded seven oh.

Looking at Emile’s photo, I think a few other changes might help him to convince the courts to change a 6 to a 4 on his birth record. He has decidedly grey hair. A trip to the hair salon could easily fix this. I would caution, however, against going black. I had a grey-haired editor working for me who decided to go back to his youthful black (he was Cuban). He came to the office one day with not only coal black hair, but coal black beard, mustache and even eye brows. The laughter of his female colleagues’ echoes in my brain to this day.

The youthful Dutchman also could use a bit of skin tightening. A visit to a plastic surgeon would soon fix this, giving him every chance of convincing a judge that he had found the fountain of youth. Alas, without a change in the law, it might be of no avail. But Emile should take heart – the good burgers in the Netherlands legalized drug use years ago, as well as euthanasia.

Changing official birth records is not unheard of, even in this country. Although only some states permit it, it’s now possible to change the sex on a birth certificate (although some unfeeling states demand proof of sex reassignment surgery). Mistakes apparently are made at birth. The nurse or doctor who fills out the birth certificate – a legal document – often does so after merely looking at the newborn to determine if the squalling tike has a tiny penis and scrotum or a vagina. Apparently, the actual sex at birth is subject to later review.

If a person wishes to live as the opposite sex, he or she should be free to do so. After all, some people have been doing this for hundreds or even thousands of years. But the governmental sanctioning of the falsification of public records is going too far, isn’t it? If you can change your actual birth sex on a public record when it’s not actually possible to change your sex regardless of how many hormone treatments and surgeries you undergo, why can’t old Emile change his date of birth to increase his chances of getting lucky?  Actually, I’m feeling pretty chipper myself this morning!

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Give Thanks 

By Patrick F. Cannon

Note: This is from last year, with changes as necessary. It still expresses my thoughts about my favorite day.

It has always been good advice to stay away from politics while you’re enjoying your Thanksgiving turkey dinner. The holiday is meant to be a time to give thanks for our blessings, which our politicians have decidedly not given us for many years. So, let’s toss them on the trash heap of history where they belong and celebrate Thanksgiving properly.

First of all, let’s give thanks for the amazing turkey. Over the years, farmers have taken a wild bird of amazing toughness and developed one that, properly cooked, can be sublime. I can say that because I have been responsible for making the family turkey for many decades, and it always turns out to be edible, despite my feeble culinary talents.   Were Keats alive today, he would certainly write an “Ode to the Gobbler.”

(Of course, the noble bird isn’t perfect. I had a neighbor during my brief period of living in Albert Lea, Minnesota, who had been the county sheriff. He was part Native American and had a dry sense of humor. After he retired, he decided to raise some turkeys on an acreage he then owned. One night, there was a violent thunderstorm. His herd of turkeys became frightened and herded together, to the point that they smothered each other and mostly died. Sheriffy, as the locals called him, never ate turkey again. He told me their stupidity lost him a lot of money and thereafter he only ate ham for Thanksgiving.)

By tradition, so many side dishes are made that the most finicky of eaters can be satisfied. Even the vegetarians (how sad to be one on Thanksgiving) can find enough to eat. And when all are satisfied, my wife Jeanette and I have at least two more turkey dinners to enjoy, not to mention the turkey soup that the carcass so generously provides.

Around the dining table today will be our daughter Elizabeth and her husband, the inimitable Boyd; Boyd’s brother Bart and his wife Lisa, in from Seattle; son Riley, temporarily domiciled in Chicago, and daughter Rachel, in from Madison with her friend Peter. We’ll also welcome another Boyd sibling and our good friend, Cathy; and my son (yet another of that noble name) in from Florida. If politicians are discussed at all, it will be only to make fun of them.

In addition to being thankful for our families and friends, we can find much else to be grateful for. Amidst all the world’s problems, there is cause for optimism. For example, abject poverty in the world has been reduced from more than 50 percent 50 years ago to less than 15 percent today. In addition to inventing the more obvious technologies that have transformed computing and communications, American scientists and engineers have developed medicines and techniques that have helped people around the world live longer and healthier lives. And our agricultural scientists, despite the science deniers who oppose advances like GMOs, are helping farmers feed an increasing world population with an ever-declining availability of tillable land.

Our own country is now essentially energy independent; indeed, we are in a position to export fuel. Free market capitalism and some government programs, even though often poorly run, have helped reduce actual poverty to about five percent. Unemployment is about as low as it can get. Recent research has concluded that dysfunctional families are the only remaining significant cause of childhood hunger.

Finally, I would like to remind everyone that Americans are the most generous people on earth. Our donations of cash and labor help not only our fellow citizens, but people around the world. In addition to social services, our cultural institutions and great universities – the best in the world — are the creations of generous philanthropy.

I could go on. Just remember if you will that Thanksgiving is just that, a day to, as the old song says “accentuate the positive.” Let politics and other cares intrude on another day.

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Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

But I Don’t Like Turkey!

By Patrick F. Cannon

My ode last week to the joys of a proper Thanksgiving turkey dinner was well received on the whole. I must admit, however, to receiving some plaintive pleas from the few among my readers who actually don’t like Turkey. As pandering to minority rights is one of my priorities, I have decided to offer some menu ideas for this worthy, if misguided, group.

For those of my readers who are dedicated vegetarians, I offer this toothsome concoction. Into a food processor, throw generous quantities of the following: chick peas, lentils, wheat germ, oats, lima beans, pumpkin seeds, organic fresh avocado, Greek yogurt, black strap molasses and the whey from goat’s milk. Process until smooth. Here’s the festive touch. Pour into a well-greased turkey-shaped mold of the sort usually meant for Jell-O. Bake in a 350-degree oven for two hours. Let cool, then unmold and enjoy!

(If you’re a vegan, substitute tofu for the yogurt and almond milk for the goat’s whey. If your sensitivities don’t permit the turkey mold, you might try the internet to see if a mold in the shape of Miley Cyrus’ cute little head is available.)

By the way, a good starter for the above would be a concoction I recently heard an emaciated TV cook extol: avocado and miso spread. Sounds yummy to me.

In another vein, I find that many meat eaters among you deplore how we waste some of the animal’s innards that once were staples in our ancestors’ diets. Only our French cousins, it seems, regularly eat the organs and intestines of farm animals. In my own youth, kidney stew was a staple and favorite. And it’s so easy! For this recipe, I favor lamb kidneys. You may have noticed that they don’t appear regularly (or at all) in your butcher’s meat case, but any reputable shop should be able to special order some for you.

As they are rather small, you will probably need three or four kidneys to feed your hungry brood. After trimming arteries, connective tissue and other extraneous bits, cut the organs into bite-sized bits. Put into a large pot with chopped onion, and cover with water. Simmer slowly, skimming the crud off the top as you go. Now, one must admit that some more sensitive folk find the smell of simmering kidneys unsettling. Needless to say, running the exhaust fan and opening all the kitchen windows is helpful, but the weak of stomach may wish to take in a matinee at the local cinema.

Anyway, after the crud stops appearing, add cut up potatoes and carrots and season to taste. When the vegetables are tender, serve what has become a hearty kidney stew in bowls, along with a crusty bread. You’ll be surprised at the reaction.

A more obvious substitute for turkey would be ham. Now, you could just bake a whole or half ham, but I have another variation you might try. Instead of a large chunk of ham, ask for ham steaks. One steak should feed two or three, so buy accordingly. To speed cooking, they shouldn’t be too thick – a half inch is about right.

Grease a large frying pan or griddle with bacon fat or lard. Fry the steaks thoroughly on both sides until a crust forms. My daughter Elizabeth suggests that what we’re looking for rather resembles tree bark. When satisfied with the firmness of the finish, pour a bottle or two of maraschino cherries and their juices over the ham and continue heating until the sauce is piping hot. Cut into serving portions with a chain saw, and make sure your steak knives are sharp. As a side dish, canned asparagus can’t be beat.

Instead of the usual pumpkin pie, you might opt for a true American desert. Simply pile serving plates high with Twinkies and Ho-Hos. You might also provide a pitcher of chocolate sauce as an accompanying treat!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon

Gobble, Gobble

By Patrick F. Cannon

I have been told by those in the know that fear of Thanksgiving dinner is growing every year. Many couples and even families have fled their homes on this hallowed day, ending up in some expensive restaurant that promises Thanksgiving dinner “with all the fixings.”

If I may say so, this unfortunate trend is distinctly un-American. It is, after all, our unique holiday, begun – if you recall your history – by the storied Pilgrims in the 1600s, who sat down to a Turkey and Boston baked bean dinner with their Native American neighbors. Now, of course, the Native Americans have been moved to their own verdant landscapes in the storied West, so we must make do with family and friends. The concept is however the same: we gather over a hearty meal and give thanks for out blessings, such as they are.

As I understand it, the fear involves that actual preparation of the meal. My dear wife Jeanette and I have been hosting Thanksgiving Dinner for more than 30 years. We are happy to share the experience gained with those whose trepidation has led them away from hearth and home on this hallowed day.

All festive occasions should begin with hors de oeuvres. Because the meal to follow is a bit on the heavy side, I would suggest lighter nibbles. Little pretzel sticks always go well, as do dry roasted peanuts. For the gourmets, you could offer that old standby, sour cream and onion dip, but instead of rippled potato chips, cut up some celery and carrots into bite-sized sticks. Please save the pate de foie gras for another day.  The thoughtful host will also offer a full range of alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks to liven up the pre-dinner festivities. To impress your guests, I have a suggestion – do as I do and make a one-time purchase of a premium booze, Makers Mark bourbon, for example. After you’ve enjoyed it yourself, fill the empty bottle with Old Rotgut. Your guests will be none the wiser.

But the centerpiece of any Thanksgiving dinner is, of course, the turkey. A noble bird, indeed, and much improved during my long lifetime. Perhaps you recall Norman Rockwell’s famous painting, “Freedom from Want,” one of four celebrating President Franklin Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms (speech, worship, and from want and fear). In it, a beaming grandpa stands over the handsome bird, ready to carve it for his expectant and happy family. Tom Turkey looks scrumptious, but I can tell you from experience that looks can be deceiving.

In my youth, the bird often yielded dry white meat, which required copious amounts of gravy to make palatable. While the legs were moister, they were full of strange tendons and other bits and pieces, making it a challenge to separate enough flesh to actually eat. By contrast, today’s turkey is a miracle of modern science. Grandpa’s version was closer to the wild bird, which can scurry about and even fly for short distances. Through selective breeding and magic potions, we now have a fowl that can barely walk, much less fly, but yields much more – and more tender – white meat and much less supportive framework.

Nowadays, most folks buy a frozen bird. These are perfectly adequate and much less expensive than fresh, which you may also have to order in advance. If you’re a stickler for such things, suit yourself. Depending on the number of guests you expect, you can get one as small as 12 pounds or as large as 20 pounds or more. It should be purchased a week or so in advance, since it will take about that long to thaw in your fridge (a still frozen bird on Thanksgiving morning is a nightmare).

Some people, myself included, stuff the cavity with a mixture of bread and other stuff (my secret, alas). Others warn against this, claiming that if not fully cooked, it might kill you and your guests. Suit yourself, but I believe in actually cooking the turkey until it’s done. I have yet to lose anyone, and can tell you that the dressing cooked inside is tastier than that cooked outside. However, mine is so legendary that I have to do both to meet the demand.

There will be cooking directions on the bird’s wrapping and I suggest you follow them. As to the important gravy, I can offer no advice, since Jeanette makes it. As with so many other things, I refer you to the internet for suitable recipes.

As to side dishes, you must of course have mashed potatoes. The recipe is quite simple: cook suitable potatoes until tender, drain, then mash with whole milk, salt and pepper, and lots of butter. Depending on the state of your arm muscles, you can accomplish this with a manual masher or a stand mixer. Some people like to put other stuff in them, but why bother? Another classic side dish is the green bean casserole. This was invented in 1955 by Dorcas Reilly of the Campbells Soup Company, who died just this year at 92, full of deserved honors. The recipe includes green beans, mushroom soup (of course) and French-fried onions. Again, the internet is your source for detailed instructions.

Jeanette insists upon sweet potatoes, although I deplore them. If you decide to have them, make sure they’re cloyingly sweet and are topped with melted marshmallows. You should have at least one more vegetable. I recommend carrots. After peeling, I cut them on the bias, which gives them a jaunty look. They go well tossed with a bit of honey. Based on experience, I know that my wife will almost certainly make another vegetable. Because of the number of dishes, the standard dinner plate is not considered sufficient, so a smaller side plate is also provided.

I almost forgot cranberry sauce. I favor the canned, jellied variety. It comes out of the can in an impressive cylinder, which can be sliced into rounds, and arranged on a serving plate with perhaps a sprig of parsley to set it off.

As to wines, I prefer a good pinot noir and a dry Riesling; your guests should find one or the other to their taste. For desert, pumpkin pie is a traditional choice. For the more adventurous, can I recommend that other classic from the nation’s test kitchens – mock apple pie? I have written previously about my admiration for the anonymous genius who was able to look at the simple Ritz cracker and conjure up an apple pie without needing the fruit itself. A suitable ending, I think, for this most American of celebratory meals.

As you can see, it’s all very simple and doable. Why would anyone choose to go to a restaurant instead?

Copyright 2018, Patrick F. Cannon