By Patrick F. Cannon

A bottle of Domaine de la Romanee Conti red Burgundy, vintage 1945, sold for $558,000 at auction, the highest price ever paid for a standard-size bottle of wine. That must have been a good year, because a bottle of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild red Bordeaux of the same vintage sold for $310,000. Not to be completely outdone by the French, a bottle of Screaming Eagle California Cabernet Sauvignon (the main grape used in Bordeaux as well) once sold for $500,000. It was a relative youngster, vintage 1992.

At nearly 80 years old, are the French wines still drinkable? Maybe; then again, maybe not. Because of that doubt, I have always been puzzled by wine collectors. On the rare occasions when one of these bottles is opened, it’s just as likely to be undrinkable as it is to be transcendent. And there’s so much chicanery in this market that the finest Gallo Hearty Burgundy might be lurking in that bottle of Chateaux Margaux.

Collectors are interesting people though. Many are speculators, making bets on the future. I was watching a car auction recently, and several of the offerings were essentially brand new models that had been made in limited numbers or were the last of their kind. They had the kind of mileage a new car would have; some even had their protective covers intact. The idea was to buy the car new, wait a year of two, then hopefully sell at a profit. The seller would put a reserve price that would guaranty at least a small profit. Amazingly, to me anyway, a car bought for $100,000 often sold for $150,000 or even more.

The contemporary art market is similar, it seems to me. The collectors who bet on Warhol, Basquit or Jeff Koons early on have been amply rewarded for betting on what could become fashionable among the gullible (including museums). What their investments will look like in 100 years is open to question, but why should they care?

I’m not really a collector. If I had had enough dough when I was younger, I might have bought myself a Ferrari, but I would have driven it, even if only in good weather. Many years ago, I almost bought a small Rembrandt etching of a young man reading. It had been printed during Rembrandt’s lifetime, and could have been had for about $10,000. I decided against it. Had I bought it, it would be worth about $35,000 today. I think I spent the money on a new roof instead. (By the way, to me a single Rembrandt self-portrait is worth more than all of Warhol’s and Koon’s collected works.).

Of course, some people collect stuff because they love it. I had a colleague once who collected baseball cards. He was may age, and started collecting in 1945 or thereabouts. Why? He loved baseball. I’m sure lurking in his collection were cards worth a lot of money. But, alas, he stored them in his basement, which flooded one day when he wasn’t at home. He mourned their loss, not for the money, but for the love.

In comparison, what are we to think if the Saudi Arabian prince who paid a record $450.3 million for Salvator Mundi, a “lost” painting by Leonardo da Vinci? Did he buy it for love or ego? Does it hang in his bedroom, or languish in a vault?

The greatest fear of collectors in it for profit is the fickleness of the market. If you watch Antiques Roadshow, you may have noticed that the market for so-called “brown” furniture (Georgian, Regency, etc.), has declined significantly. And most of those collector plates that you used to see advertised in the Sunday supplements are now worthless (and the Sunday supplements are gone too). On the other hand, the strangest collectible of all, Beanie Babies, seem to be holding their own. I just saw one advertised at $40,000.

But the most successful collector I ever knew was Guido “The Collector” Santucci, from the old Italian neighborhood in Chicago where I used to live. I think his collecting must also have had something to do with baseball, since he always seemed to have a bat in his hand.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In my modest way, I have always tried to inject a note of optimism in these articles. As you may recall, last week I pointed out that the economy was actually fairly strong. Interestingly, recent polls have shown many folks think just the opposite. It turns out most of them are Republicans. Of course, if a Republican were in the White House, Democrats would be the ones crying gloom and doom.

We should all agree, however, that we are in the Golden Age of snacks. Let me begin by admitting I’m addicted to potato chips. When I was a young lad, there were few choices. In the Pittsburgh area, I recall that Wise was the main brand. In Chicago, it was Jays. Shipping potato chips is expensive – they weigh almost nothing – so local brands tended to dominate until national brands like Lays began to be widely available. And for most of their history, the recipe (the first one appeared in 1817) was basically thinly-sliced potatoes fried in oil, then salted.

By the time I started gobbling them up, the only variation was the ridged chip used for scooping up French onion dip. Both standard and ridged were then quite fragile, and many a partial ridged chip remained lodged in the dip, requiring a delicate and furtive touch to rescue.

Now of course we have the far sturdier “kettle” chip. Basically, these have been sliced a bit thicker, and the makers claim they are fried in smaller batches. I do prefer them – they hold up better and provide a more satisfying crunch. And the ridged versions rarely get stuck in the goo. Frankly, I would be quite happy if the classic chip – sliced potato, fried and salted – were the only ones available. But, as we know, Americans are restless snackers, so flavored chips proliferate.

Have a hankering for barbecue? Versions from mild to fiery are available. You no longer have to dip your chip in sour cream and onion dip – the combo is already there! In homage to the UK, you can have your chips pre-flavored with vinegar. Are you a ranch dressing aficionado? Why eat a salad when you can munch a chip? Are you a cheese fancier? How about yellow or white cheddar? The ubiquitous jalapeno pepper gets its due in various combinations, and the Canadians – ever weird – are partial to flavors like poutine, maple bacon, Jamaican jerk chicken, wasabi, Greek feta and olive, and even ballpark hot dog.

Although by no means exhaustive, a Chicago-area snack aisle will have potato chip brands like Lays, Kettle, Cape Cod, Ruffles, Jays, Vitners and Utz. I recently bought a bag of Great Lakes brand chips from Traverse City, Michigan (which state, by the way, produces more potatoes for chips than any other). I have bought chips from all of them, but currently favor Utz and Cape Cod. Cape Cod, by the way, makes a cracked pepper and sea salt chip, my only venture into flavored chips. Cape Cod also provides a map to its factory on Cape Cod should you care to visit (it’s on my bucket list).

I also have a weakness for cashews. Of course, there’s a separate aisle for nuts, and large sections devoted to pretzels, corn chips and other munchies. “Healthy” snacks have a somewhat smaller footprint, as befits that contradiction in terms.

Finally, remember that the noble potato is a healthy food. It’s rich in Vitamin C and Potassium, among other nutrients. And chips are now fried in vegetable oils containing no trans fats. Although I avoid them, you can even get chips with low or (horrors!) no salt. To add to our joy, some restaurants offer their own house-made chips!

By golly, it’s great to be an American!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

At the beginning of every year, I ask myself: can things really get worse? My inclination is to say “yes, by golly, they sure can.” But frankly, you just never know. Last year, for example, inflation and a looming recession were on our minds (well, maybe not the rich folk, who could give a crap). Well, there was no recession and inflation finally seems under control.

While the cost of fuel for our supposedly gas-guzzling cars is a constant source of complaint, in real terms, adjusted for inflation, it’s actually cheaper than it was in 1965; and average miles per gallon of current cars is 25.4; in 1966, 13.5. Persistently low unemployment rates have quieted calls for a higher national minimum wage, because the market has raised wages due to demand, as it always has. And despite what you may believe, real wages have increased faster than inflation.

All of this is going along just fine despite the chronic dysfunction in Washington. You would have to be some kind of lunatic to be looking forward to the 2024 election. I first voted in the 1960 presidential election, and I can’t think of one since that provided so clearly a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea. Frankly, I don’t think either likely candidate will survive the full four years, so we should all pay attention to who the vice presidential candidates are. I’m just a bit ashamed to admit I wish something would happen to both even before the election.

I do wish I could say that I was looking forward to a banner year for Chicago sports teams, but based on 2023, the future looks grim indeed. There was jubilation last Sunday because the Bears actually won a game. At 6 wins and 9 losses, they are unlikely to get in the playoffs, which they last did in 2018. Both the Bulls and Blackhawks are mired at the bottom of the standings, and the less said about the Cubs and Sox the better. Even the Chicago Fire had a dismal season.

Strangely enough, the Bears are the NFL’s fifth most valuable franchise at $6.3 billion; and the Cubs are MLB’s fourth most valuable at $4.1 billion. My wish for both is that the current owners cash out and we end up with folks like Jerry Jones of Dallas and the late George Steinbrenner of the Yankees, i.e., owners who have a passion for winning. As for Jerry Reinsdorf of the Sox and Bulls, I have no idea what goes on in his mind, but winning doesn’t seem at the top.

I can’t think of any resolutions for the coming year. Last year, I decided to be less judgmental. As a result, I keep dollar bills in my wallet and car and give them to panhandlers on a regular basis. I’m sure some of this money has bought drugs or booze, but I hope some has gone for a decent meal. Americans are the most generous people in the world, donating to charities and organizations of all kinds. Let’s keep it up.

I also fully intend to keep doing this blog as long as I’m able. This will be the 423^rd week in a row that I have posted. At a rough calculation, that’s about 275,000 words. Sometimes my readers don’t agree with me, and take the time to tell me so. I value any response, so feel free!

Finally, my partner, photographer Jim Caulfield, and I are in the final stages of finishing our eighth book on Chicago architects and architecture. It’s a major revision of an earlier book on one of America’s greatest architects, Louis Sullivan. It is titled Louis Sullivan: An American Architect, and should be available late next Summer. As usual, I have sworn it will be my last. Whether I actually mean it this time will have to await next year’s final blog post!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I spent some time recently on Ancestry.com checking my family tree. I was gratified to see that as far back as my great grandparents on both sides, I seem to be of pure Irish descent. My father was born in Ireland, thus an immigrant to the United States when he arrived in 1908, aged two. And while the Irish were looked down upon by some, they eventually were accepted as true Americans. After all, they came from Europe, and Northern Europe at that.

This bloodline may become important if former President Donald Trump succeeds in reclaiming the office next November. As it happens, his ancestors came from Germany and Scotland, which could explain his strange hair color – a combination of Nordic blonde and Scots red. So far, he seems OK with all Europeans, even Spaniards, Italians and Greeks. The rest of the world, however, seems to be a problem.

Although he has in the past complained about Africans and Asians, he seems most obsessed with illegal (and even legal) immigrants from Latin America. As he so elegantly put it: “Nobody has any idea where these people are coming from, and we know they come from prisons. We know they come from mental institutions and insane asylums. We know they’re terrorists. Nobody has ever seen like we’re witnessing right now. I’s a very sad thing for our country. It’s poisoning the blood of our country. It’s so bad, and people are coming in with disease. People are coming in with every possible thing you could have.”

Now, some people have pointed out that this kind of rhetoric seems to resemble the kind of language Adolph Hitler used to justify his racial policies. But I see a fundamental difference between Donald and Adolph. Der Fuehrer liked to wear quasi-military uniforms (the famous brown shirts), while Trump favors blue suites and red ties. Also, Hitler sported a mustache.

In the past, Trump has characterized Mexicans and other Latin American immigrants as murderers, rapists, drug dealers and likely to vote Democratic (illegally, of course). And, of course, in the usual run of things, they certainly include their share of miscreants – as it happens, however, at no higher a percentage than we pure-blooded natives. One area where they seem to be lacking is in providing their share of serial killers. Maybe they’re too busy cooking most of the food we get in restaurants, often after working their way up from washing dishes and bussing tables. And you may have noticed that upper income folk trust them to mow their pristine lawns and trim their hedges. I would also be remiss is I didn’t mention the cheerful ladies who clean my condo every other week. And who do you think owns those businesses?

Someone also pointed out the similarity of Trump’s rally crowds to those who attended Hitler’s speeches. Not the same at all. Except for all the red MAGA regalia, Trump’s adoring crowds look like any you might find at the county fair. Hitler’s, on the other hand, are more formally dressed. The gents are wearing either one of those snazzy German uniforms, or a proper suit and tie. A few of the ladies also sport uniforms, but most are wearing modest dresses. Since the events were shot in black & white film, it’s difficult to get a sense for color, but it’s easy to see that there’s many a blonde head in evidence. And, as the camera pans the crowd, an occasional tear can be seen.

Hitler, of course, promised to Make Germany Great Again. And, you know, for awhile he succeeded. And then he didn’t.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

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. First the bad news: old Uncle Abner won’t be with us this year – once again, the Parole Board turned him down. He didn’t help his case this time when he got caught running a dice game behind the mangles in the laundry.

I guess he’ll have to serve the full sentence, unless he gets smart and lets the screws win once in awhile. But 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. Took 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? Anyway, she’s got everyone in the holler sporting green, red, purple or pink hair (even yours truly).

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 seven. 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. Last year’s new husband looked healthy enough, but I guess he was on the clumsy side; he managed to fall off the balcony in that luxury Miami condo he bought her as a wedding present. Her new hubby is the building maintenance man, so that should be handy for her.

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 got 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.

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.

As for me, my run for Congress didn’t work out so good. I thought for sure having former President Trump’s endorsement would do the trick, but those crooked Democrats foiled me by actually going to the polls and voting. I was wrongly criticized for not having any political experience, which I thought was actually a plus. I also thought it was unfair to bring up those accusations of sexual misconduct, especially since the statute of limitations had already expired.

Anyway, if the former president of the United States can play grab (censored), why not your humble servant? I guess I’ll just have to go back to selling used cars salvaged from the recent hurricanes. I always hate to see stuff go to waste. Of course, if my new book, Hillbilly Theology, takes off like my publisher thinks it might, I understand a senate seat might come open!

My brother Caleb says he won’t be attending any of the family’s Christmas gatherings this year. Says he can’t afford to, since he claims I borrowed $5,000 from him some years back and never paid him back. He’s the eldest you know, and it’s sad to see his memory starting to fail him.

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 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Last Saturday, the Northwestern University Wildcats men’s basketball team defeated the number one ranked team in the nation, Purdue University, 92-88 in overtime. They did the same thing last year on the way to their first NCAA tournament appearance in many years. Now at 6-1, it looks like they’re well on their way to another great season.

After surviving a hazing scandal that led to the firing of football coach Pat Fitzgerald, that beleaguered team pulled together and won seven games for new coach David Braun, so it’s bowl eligible. Who knows, they may get a bid to the Pop Tart Bowl (actually they accepted an invitation to the Las Vegas Bowl). By the way, I played organized football at three levels (parish, midget and high school) and survived far worse abuse than was reported in this case, but I guess times do change (too late for me).

As a very long ago graduate of Northwestern, I’m proud of our athletes, whose overall 98 percent graduation rate is the highest in the Big 10; and its 97 percent football graduation rate is the highest in the country for major colleges. But there’s no doubt that the home football stadium, Ryan Field (Dyche Stadium when I was there) in Evanston has seen better days. My good friend Ed Swanson has had season tickets for many years, and I have attended with him from time to time. Let’s just say the joint’s a bit primitive (no elevators, for example).

Our fellow NU grad for whom the current stadium is named, Pat Ryan, has put up a sizable pile of dough to build a new stadium. It will have fewer seats, but all the modern amenities (elevators!) included. But to help pay its way, NU asked the City of Evanston for permission to host up to six concerts a year. Because of its design, noise from these mostly musical events would be well contained, but nearby residential areas – both in Evanston and neighbor Wilmette – would certainly be affected by increased traffic of not only cars, but perhaps of strange and exotic people!

There was no problem approving the stadium itself – it was just replacing what was already there. But the Evanston City Council voted separately on the additional concerts. You should be aware that there has always been a tension between NU and Evanston. The university uses up a lot of Evanston’s land, but pays no real estate taxes. While it’s true that recent campus expansions have been on new landfill in Lake Michigan, still many Evanstonians don’t think NU has ever paid its fair share.

To be frank, most game days haven’t been a big problem. The only time its seating capacity of about 48,000 is reached is when the opponent is someone like Notre Dame, Michigan or Ohio State. And in a typical season, there are only six home games. But concerts would likely be at night!

I lived in Oak Park for more than 40 years, and I always thought of it as “Evanston without the lake.” Both are “progressive” politically. The few Oak Parkers of a conservative nature fondly call their community “the Peoples Republic of Oak Park.” If anything, Evanston is more progressive. Even Oak Park has not passed a reparations ordinance, but Evanston has.

The deciding vote in favor of permitting the concerts was cast by Evanston’s mayor, Daniel Biss. He is a former Assistant Professor of Mathematics at the University of Chicago, and a graduate of both Harvard and MIT (where he got his PhD). Abandoning academia for politics, Biss was elected to the Illinois State Senate in 2010; ran unsuccessfully for governor in 2018; and was elected mayor in 2021. Over the years, his positions have been reliably progressive; he even supported Elizabeth Warren in her run for president in 2020.

Yet, he no doubt disappointed many of his constituents by voting “yes.” I’m sure he looked at all sides of the question, and decided on the basis of “the greatest good for the greatest number.” While NU may not pay real estate taxes, its students and faculty mostly live in the community and eat, drink and pay rent there. On game days, alums, parents and others pay an entertainment tax on their tickets, and no doubt avail themselves of local restaurants, which adds local tax revenue to the bill. Tickets to the added concert events will be far more expensive, boosting entertainment tax revenues. And those folks will no doubt eat, drink and be merry before and after the concerts.

So the mathematician did his sums before casting his vote and decided to be a politician instead of an ideologue. Compare his reasoned approach to that of his neighbor to the south, who is learning the hard way that governing a great city isn’t the same as being a former county commissioner, teacher and union organizer.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

I thought if would be a good time to report on my foray into Thoroughbred racehorse ownership. As loyal readers may recall, I began by purchasing a share in three horses to be trained by Chad Brown, one of America’s top trainers. Two were fillies – Night Combat and Ein Gedi; the third a colt, Three Jewels.

Although there are many companies that do these partnerships, mine is called “My Racehorse.” They buy horses at public auctions, usually as yearlings, then sell shares. As a reminder, all thoroughbreds become a year older on January 1, regardless of when they were actually born. As a general rule, most are born between February and May, but all become yearlings on the following January 1. My first three were bought as yearlings, but thoroughbreds are not permitted to race until they’re two (the first races for two-year-olds are usually held in April).

All are now three-years-old. Only Ein Gedi (the name of an Oasis in Israel) has made it to the races. She was born in Britain, where the breed was developed. Because her parents were successful racing on the turf (grass), she started twice on that surface. Although she raced “evenly”, she finished out of the money both times. Rather than dropping her down in class, it was decided to sell her as a broodmare prospect. She sold for $200.000. My share? Forty bucks.

The other filly, Night Combat, never made it to the races. She had a series of physical problems, and even when she was fit, didn’t seem particularly interested in being a race horse. Because of all her problems, she was essentially given away to a breeder in California, who thought she might make a decent mother. My share? Zero bucks.

Finally, the colt. Three Jewels, a son of Triple Crown winner, American Pharaoh, might actually get to the races early next year, when he’ll be four. Again, he had a series of niggling physical problems, exacerbated by a powerful libido that distracted him from his training, which was solved by gelding him (a nicer way of saying he was castrated). Assuming he continues to progress, he may soon begin serious workouts.

I also have a share in a two-year-old colt named Secret Crush. A son of top sire, Candy Ride, he has progressed in his training to such an extent that he will soon be sent to the barn of his trainer, Todd Pletcher, who has been many times America’s top trainer. Due to the time of the year, I assume he will start his career after the first of the year at Gulfstream Park in the Miami area.

Now, you might conclude that my luck as an owner could have been better. But to be honest, I should tell you that my total investment in the four steeds has been a bit less than $500. It’s entirely possible to spend a million or more with no result. For example, say you were in the breeding business and had a fine mare you wanted to breed to a top stallion. One of them, Into Mischief, can be had for a fee of $250,000, “stands and nurses.” That means you pay the stud fee only when the resulting baby (foal) is able to get to its feet and begin taking the mare’s milk. If it dies the next day, tough luck.

Now, most breeders sell the survivors at auction when they’re yearlings. Many of the produce of Into Mischief sell for a million dollars or even much more. If you buy such a young horse, you should be aware that only about 78 percent will actually get to start in a race, and only 56 percent will actually win. The most expensive horse ever sold at pubic auction, the two-year-old “The Green Monkey,” cost its buyers $16 million and never won a race. I think the poor thing was embarrassed by his name.

Compared to that, my $500 seems pretty paltry. And don’t forget, I still own parts of two horses who just might get to the races, and even win! And Secret Crush could conceivably run in the Kentucky Derby, just like Authentic who won in 2020, and was partly owned by My Racehorse. Hope springs eternal, don’t you know? Kind of like Chicago sports fans.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

This is being written several days before Thanksgiving. On the great day itself, I’ll be busy preparing the turkey, which I’ve been doing every year for some 35 years. That includes my world-famous stuffing, whose recipe is a closely-guarded secret. Before my darling wife Jeanette died, she made or planned all the hors d’oeuvres and side dishes, a task now carried out with aplomb by daughter Beth and husband Boyd.

Before starting to write this, I read the Sunday Chicago Tribune and on-line New York Times. As usual, the world’s a mess. To be honest, I’d be hard pressed to remember a Thanksgiving where people in many parts of the world have much or even anything to be thankful for. Not for the first time, I find myself thankful for being born in the United States of America.

I could, of course, assault you with a litany of the problems facing our country. Not today, though. Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, but the auto workers, writers, directors and actors all managed to negotiate new contracts in time to eat their turkeys with new gusto. And, of course, to create new “content” that will be just as good or bad as the old stuff; and electric cars that will wander the highways looking for charging stations.

The unemployment rate is at 3.9 percent, almost as low as it has ever been. Inflation is now at 3.24 percent, less than half of what it was last year. And even the cost of Thanksgiving dinner has declined by about 5 percent. All of this despite a completely dysfunctional Federal government, which might suggest that accomplishing nothing might not be so bad after all.

Although the height of the Fall color season is behind us, it was a good one. What is more satisfying than walking down a street full of trees beginning to drop gold, orange and red leaves all around us? And seeing kids jumping into newly-raked piles? I do miss the smell of burning leaves, but you can’t have everything.

There will be 10 people (and a baby) around my table this year. My son Patrick is here from Tampa, and my niece Eve and her husband Tim round out my side of the family. Boyd’s sister Cathy, niece Rachel, her husband Peter and baby Nora, and nephew Riley represent his side. In addition to the turkey and dressing, we’ll have the requisite mashed potatoes and gravy; creamed spinach and carrots; cranberry sauce; and both apple and pumpkin pies (topped with ice or whipped cream). There will be the usual alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages before, during and after dinner.

While I was salivating in anticipation of the feast, I got to thinking: what did those Pilgrims eat at the first Thanksgiving in 1621? While the historical record is somewhat spotty, in addition to wild turkey, it’s likely the Pilgrims and their Native American neighbors would have had the more plentiful geese and ducks, and even the now extinct but then abundent Passenger pigeons. The menu would also have included venison. Pilgrim leader Edward Winslow wrote that King Massasoit of the Wampanoag tribe contributed five deer to the festivities.

Alas, no mashed or any other kind of potatoes. The natives grew corn and a kind of green bean; and records suggest the colonists grew turnips, carrots, onions, garlic and a variety of squashes, including pumpkins! And, because they were on the Atlantic coast, seafood, including lobsters, clams and eels (!) would certainly have been enjoyed. As to booze, if it had been available, they would have happily quaffed some suds, which would have been the beverage of choice in England, where drinking the water might have been fatal. But it does seem to have been a bit early to have opened a brewery (Sam Adams wasn’t even born yet).

History tells us that the feast lasted three days! No doubt the meals were followed by naps, another tradition that remains to this very day. Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

A few years ago, I did a piece titled “Poor Little Rich Girl”, about child support payments from an uber rich man to a much younger ex-wife who had born him a daughter. The cost of raising the little darling was estimated to be about $3.5 million a year.

At the end of the article, I quoted author F. Scott Fitzgerald’s comment that “the rich are different from you and me,” and Ernest Hemingway’s rejoinder: “yes, they have more money.” That they’re willing to spend lavishly to enhance their comfort was demonstrated yet again in an article in the New York Times (of course) about the amounts they’re happy to dispense to avoid doing anything resembling domestic labor.

If you’re one of the 10 million people who subscribe to the Times digital edition, you’ll be aware that living in Manhattan is becoming out of reach for most middle-class folks. The rich, however, take it in stride, although costs are on the rise. For example, housekeepers now earn about $45 and hour, and competition for a good one means you will probably have to offer health insurance and other perks. If you have several homes, you might need an estate manager or chief of staff at upwards of $350,000 annually.

In the interests of full disclosure, I confess I have a cleaning service every two weeks. A team of two Hispanic women spend a couple of hours making my two-bedroom condo spic and span. They do not make $45 an hour, although I do tip them.

I live alone, so have to do my own cooking, although I rarely miss an opportunity to eat out, or eat already-prepared meals. Many Manhattanites employ a full-time chef at the going rate of $150,000 a year. They prepare only lunch and dinner, with breakfast the responsibility of the housekeeper. That’s because mornings are spent shopping for only the finest ingredients, like a live Norwegian red king crab at a mere $720 per. And why trust your wardrobe to the local cleaners when you can employ your own laundress to make sure that shirt is flawless at $50 an hour.

The rich also believe that raising children is best left to the professionals. A new trend is to have at least two nannies, each working several days, then taking a few days to recover, and so on. A typical salary would be about $120,00 a year (for each). Of course, cost is no object when it comes to raising one’s children.

Pets must also be pampered. Although the housekeeper is often tasked with walking Fido, many owners also enrich their lives by sending them upstate to be set free in natural surroundings for the day, at $250 per. Grooming, a monthly necessity for many breeds, can add another $150, plus cab fare. Initial training, surely a necessity, can cost $3,000. Wouldn’t want your darling Coton de Tulear peeing on the antique oriental, would you?

Oh, by the way, that in-house chef needs a day off occasionally, so dining out must be faced. Reservations at New York City’s hottest eateries can be hard to get even for the rich, but not to worry – there are web sites where you can bid on available tables. The Times reported that a two-top (in Chicago, that’s a table for two) at Carbone could be had for $450, not of course including the food. Since it’s New York, a meal of Veal Marsala, with an appetizer and house salad will only set you back about $160, plus tip. Add another $18 for a glass of house wine, if you would dare to be seen ordering such a thing. This is only about twice what you’d pay in Chicago, but, hey, you’re in New York!

I must look up what a full-time chauffeur costs. Driving oneself can be pure torture, even in a Bentley.

Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

At lunch the other day with some friends, the subject of mom’s cooking came up. Most of us are a bit older than average, so classic family dishes like tuna-noodle casserole were mentioned. One of the group mentioned her mom topped this classic with crumbled potato chips (I must try that, as I’m a potato chip aficionado). Nowadays, of course, culinary triumphs are photographed on one’s cell phone and shared with the world.

When my dear mother was cooking, the cell phone had not yet been invented, and I’m not too sure about the camera either. In fact, I don’t believe my parents ever owned a camera, so any surviving photos of their children were taken by someone else. Imagine not having your every move documented as you grow up? And not being able to “share” the images with all and sundry whether they want to see them or not?

Anyway, my mother’s culinary triumphs were never photographed for posterity. As her son, I feel some obligation to give a wider public some idea of her more imaginative recipes, so that others might try and enjoy them. Perhaps they could be defined as “Legacy” recipes?

We ate a lot of meat and potatoes, and there was nothing particularly adventurous in these everyday menus. She would take a big hunk of meat, salt and pepper it according to her mood, then pop it into the oven for at least 30 minutes longer than necessary. This would insure that all the savory juices were cooked out of the roast. But there was method here. To whatever was left of the juices and other stuck-on stuff at the bottom of the pan was added a mixture of flour and water, creating gravy that could perhaps add some life back to the gray and dry slices of meat and mashed potatoes. Adding some canned peas to the plate would create quite a picture!

But this was everyday stuff. When my mother’s imagination soared, she could create wonders. For example, she would buy a ham steak, of a thickness (or thinness rather) that would guarantee the fried meat would have the consistency of a roof shingle. Then, when it was fried just so, into the pan would be poured a bottle of Maraschino cherries to create a dish I like to call “Jambon al la Maraschino.” This would be accompanied by mashed potatoes (natch) and canned corn.

Another favorite was a preparation called “Casserole de Heinz.” Simplicity itself. To cooked egg noodles, add Heinz Ketchup (no substitutes please), mix thoroughly and top with Oscar Meyer (or your favorite) breakfast sausages. Pop into the oven for a half hour or so, and then serve with canned green beans. Wash it all down with a big glass of milk. Note the balance of protein, carbohydrates and vitamins.

Finally, there was my all time favorite – kidney stew. Take two or three lamb kidneys and cut into bite sized pieces. Put into a large pot full of water. Bring to a simmer and skim the crud off the surface until it stops forming. Do not open the windows, lest the neighbors call the police. Add potatoes and some carrots and cook until they’re very soft. Serve piping hot in bowls. A slice or two of Holsum Bread to soak up the gravy completes a unique experience.

Now, you are unlikely to find kidneys in your supermarket’s meat case. Fortunately, there are still old-fashioned butcher shops in most cities. While they might not have lamb kidneys in stock, they would be happy to order some for you. Despite the curious lack of demand, every little lamb has two kidneys, just like you and me. Chicagoan should consider Joseph’s Finest Meats on West Addison, or Paulina Market on North Lincoln Avenue. By the way, lamb kidneys are actually good for you!

Only I remain to carry on these family recipes. So, I hope one of my loyal readers will take up the challenge and try them out. If you do, please take a cell phone photo to share with your friends, and the wider world on Tik Tok.

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Copyright 2023, Patrick F. Cannon