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  • Nov 25 / 2008
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Happy Birthday, Dad!

My papa was a great old man. I can see him with a shovel in his hand. — Clarence Carter

L: Pop ponders how to pick pod from 15-ft. okra stalk (NOLA, c 1968) R: Son with shovel in hand (Brockton, Massachusetts, 1986)

They didn’t call me “Patches” when I was young (why, I don’t know), but I can see my father with a shovel in his hand, and he was a great old man. November 25th is/was his birthday. If he were still alive, he would be 87 today. He died just after Christmas in 1990. I was working in Appleton, Wisconsin at the time and flew down to New Orleans for the funeral in January. Upon my return, I was fired. 1991 was getting off to a good start.

For as long as I can remember, my dad always had a garden, a vegetable garden, with okra and tomatoes mostly, and whatever he felt like adding in any given year: bell peppers, eggplant, sweet potatoes, carrots, etc. Whence the shovel, which, as I got older, was more often in my hand than his. He was the one who liked okra and tomatoes, but, somehow, it was me who got to do all the digging and weeding. For years I dreamed of escaping from the gumbo plantation and making my way along the suburban white kid’s underground railroad to store-bought food and freedom. Which I eventually did. Funny thing, though. One day, at the ripe age of 30, I finally got married and bought a house with a nice little side yard that just cried out for — a garden! Ever since, I’ve grown okra and tomatoes just like the old man; and some day my kids will remember me, I hope, with a shovel in my hand.

  • Nov 24 / 2008
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Your Weekly Politickle

Five years ago this week, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I got an urgent email from John McCaslin, the great Washington Times writer and all-round good guy, who for several years previous had been gracious enough to include my politickles on a regular basis in his “Inside the Beltway” column. He was just finishing up his column for the next day, had a tiny space left, and wondered if I could write a limerick on order for Thanksgiving. Needless to say, I dropped everything (which probably wasn’t much, as I was unemployed at the time) and put the old thinking cap on. Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving? What memories does that particular holiday conjure up? Ah, yes. Lots of good food, and the agony — for a kid, at least — of having to wait half the day to eat any of it! Thus, “Gobbler” and a new politickle tradition (the annual Thanksgiving limerick) were born (see archive below).

Each year at this time, I put the thinking cap (beret, actually) back on and try to dredge up something from my childhood (and adult) memories of Thanksgiving from which to generate a limerick: being glad to have guests over but hoping they won’t overstay their welcome (2004), being completely unable to fathom the appeal of cranberry sauce (2005), eating too much on purpose (2006), remembering in the midst of self-engorgement that some people aren’t so lucky (2007), looking forward to the annual opportunity to ogle the Rockettes (also 2007), and realizing in late adolescence that not everyone in America has the same Thanksgiving meal that New Orleanians do (2008). Click on the embedded links in “Ooh La La!” for some dandy recipes.

This year, having called the family together for a brainstorming session, I got lucky and wound up with two good ideas for a Thanksgiving limerick. I’ve got the one for 2009 already written, and for that I’m truly grateful. Unfortunately, you’ll have to wait a year to read it.

OOH LA LA!
A fried turkey injected with spice,
Shrimp-stuffed mirlitons and dirty rice,
Pecan pie, oyster dressing
How we rush through the blessing!
Yes, a Creole Thanksgiving is nice.

Archive:

GRATITUDE
If you’re thankful for your lot
And all the things you’ve got,
Then say a prayer
And give a care
For someone on the spot.
(2007-1)

FAVORITE DISH
How much better can Thanksgiving get?
In my bedroom a 60-inch set,
And in HD displayed
This year’s Macy’s Parade:
Waking up to a scrumptious Rockette!
(2007-2)

SATIETY
With the turkey and trimmings procured,
Our Thanksgiving repast is assured,
But it won’t be complete
‘Til we sit down to eat
And the family’s as stuffed as the bird.
(2006)

CIRCULAR SAUCE
If your husband’s a Thanksgiving fan
And a cranberry sauce kind of man,
You might make him a batch
Of the sauce all from scratch,
But he’ll miss that weird goop in the can!
(2005)

THANKSGIVING
Lord, we ask of you a boon:
To bless our guests this noon.
We’re so grateful they
Could come today —
And have to leave real soon!
(2004)

GOBBLER
Hold your horses; we’re not in a race.
Get that drumstick away from your face.
Now put your fork down
And stop making that frown.
You can eat when we finish the grace.
(2003)

Last week’s limerick:

NO CHILD LEFT
If a kid is a bit of a scamp
And resists the new socialist stamp,
He will be reassigned
And his mind realigned
At a reeducational camp.

  • Nov 23 / 2008
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The Portable New Orleans

Soon after we moved to Boston in 1986, people started asking my wife and me if we missed New Orleans. We had a ready response: “Not really. We brought our cookbooks and our records with us.” (And, of course, we brought ourselves, the coolest couple in the whole dang town — though you’d never know it, to look at us now.)

Food and music are the essence of New Orleans. With copies of Talk About Good, River Road Recipes, and the Encyclopedia of Cajun & Creole Cuisine, we expatriates have all the resources we need to enjoy la belle cuisine (though finding the required ingredients at an affordable price, or reasonable substitutes, is often a challenge). With albums featuring the best music of Al Hirt, Pete Fountain, Fats Domino, Professor Longhair, the Neville Brothers, Chuck Carbo and the Spiders, Beausoleil, et al., we have la musique necessaire to set the proper mood. We can laisser les bons temps rouler wherever and whenever we want to.

  • Nov 22 / 2008
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Food, Glorious Food!

My parents were both good cooks, and my six siblings and I ate well growing up: chicken gumbo, breaded veal cutlets with red beans and rice, stuffed mirlitions, eggplant casserole, crawfish bisque, boiled shrimp and crabs, etc. For certain meals, however, like fried chicken, a kid had to move quickly if he wanted to get the pieces he liked best (for me, the side breast) and enough of them. It’s taken me years to get out of the habit of bolting my food, and to avoid making myself sick at all-you-can-eat restaurants.

Unfortunately, my parents did not pass their cooking skills on to me, which is to say that I never bothered to learn them. So, when I first lived on my own as a young bachelor and had to cook for myself, my nightly repasts became suddenly spartan. In fact, it usually took three nights to complete a meal. I would fry up a pork chop on Monday evening, heat up a can of corn on Tuesday, top it off with a can of petits pois on Wednesday, and begin another three-course/three-night meal on Thursday. Sunday, I would ride the bus out to my parents’ house and remind myself what it was like to have a real meal.

When I moved to Lafayette in January of 1976 for a half-hearted stab at graduate school, I lived on boudin and chocolate chip ice cream, which I bought, almost daily, at a little grocery right next door. On the other side of the store was a pool hall that served the best Cajun gumbo I’ve ever tasted. As a native New Orleanian, I may be an apostate; but, to this day, I prefer the Cajun gumbo to the Creole.

In December of ’76, I got the chance to help establish and edit a bilingual tabloid called La Gazette des Acadiens (1976-77) and soon chucked graduate school. My first decision as editor was to hire my mother to write a regular cooking column.

La Gazette was a terrific little paper, but, like most start-ups, survived less than a year. Soon I was back in New Orleans, where I eventually managed to pass myself off as an advertising copywriter. Working in the central business district, just across Canal Street from the French Quarter, meant that I could have an excellent lunch every day, what with dozens of sensational, affordable joints all within walking distance. Deciding which one to go to was simple: the day’s craving would dictate the venue. Fried chicken called for Portia’s on Rampart Street, an oyster poboy could only mean Acme House on Iberville, seafood gumbo led inexorably to Mother’s on Poydras, etc.

Fastforward several years. I’m married and have kids of my own. Inside, my wife does the cooking; outside, at the barbecue grill, I’m the occasional master of incineration. Then, what happens? I lose my job and find myself going stir-crazy looking for something to do around the house. My wife’s absorbed in homeschooling the kids and doesn’t have time to prepare a hot lunch, so I figure I’ll give it a shot. Much to my surprise, I discover that I enjoy the hour or two it takes to prepare a decent meal for a large family, and that I actually seem to have a knack for it. Well, what do you know? My parents did pass their cooking skills on to me, after all.

So, here’s my advice to all the unemployed dads out there: Pitch in, start cooking, and bon appetit!

  • Nov 21 / 2008
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Brr! Global Warming!

Turn up the heat, somebody. The globe is freezing. Even Al Gore is looking for an extra blanket. — Wes Pruden, Washington Times

I’ll be glad when the global warming hysteria expires. I’m running out of ways to make fun of it.

ABATED BREATH
Whether sickly or healthy and hale,
We object when the air gets too stale,
But what shall we do
When they ban CO2
And deny us the right to exhale?

CHICKEN LITTLE
Doomsday deadlines bear recalling
When they’ve passed and we’re not sprawling:
If dreaded fate
Is running late,
Then perhaps the sky’s not falling.

GAG
The dry wit of George Gobel was charming,
But its after effects are alarming:
When we laugh ’til we’re blue,
We release CO2
And contribute to dread “Gobel Warming.”

HEAT RASHNESS
Every Spring they start their swarming
And fantastical alarming,
Fearing and oh-dearing
That the end is nearing,
‘Cause it’s April and it’s warming.

HOTHEAD
Has Al Gore taken too many tokes
On that strange cigarette that he smokes?
Still, the burden of proof
Is on every green goof
Who espouses the climate-change hoax.

HOT HEADS
They defend “climate change” willy-nilly,
And lately they’ve gotten plain silly:
Saying snow, ice, and sleet
Must be caused by the heat —
And that’s why the weather’s so chilly.

AN INCONSISTENT BOOB
Al Gore worries the world’s getting hot,
And all over the globe he will trot,
Warmly warning the masses
About grave greenhouse gases
Caused by people who travel a lot.

AN INCONSISTENT BOOB, CONT.
“If superior beings ignore
Certain limits and use a bit more,
Then the peons, I guess,
Will just have to use less,”
Sniffed a gluttonous, glutinous Gore.

SNOW DOUBT
As a theory it’s cheesily charming,
Except when the neighborhood’s swarming
With snow, sleet, and ice
From unfair Fahrenheits,
And we’re longing for real global warming.

THINK GULLIBLY, ACT LOCO-LY
The temperature rose in July
Compared to December, quite high.
It’s really alarming
This “seasonal warming.”
Oh, lordy, we’re all gonna fry!

TRUTH IN THE BALANCE
The temperature’s not getting higher.
Our environmental future’s not dire.
With the best yet to come,
There’s no need to be glum:
Al Gore, you’re an ozone liar!

VICTIMLESS CLIME
The penguin complained, “It’s too hot!”
The hippo replied, “No, it’s not!”
The gator, when polled,
Insisted, “Too cold!”
And the polar bear grumbled, “What rot!”

WARM MONGERS
Alarmists like to heighten
Anxieties and frighten —
Their aim’s made clear
In State of Fear
By author Michael Crichton.

  • Nov 20 / 2008
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Jimmy Carter’s Legacy

Nicaragua . . . wants to eliminate American economic, political, cultural, and strategic influence from the hemisphere. The space left by the U.S. will be occupied by countries like Iran, Russia, and China. — Luis Fleischman, Center for Security Policy

My two eldest daughters both got to vote in a presidential election for the first time this year — one had recently turned 18, the other 21. The older was exasperated that she had had to wait three years to participate in this ritual, and disgusted by the candidates she had to choose between when she finally got her chance.

I know exactly how she felt. I turned 18 in 1974 and had to wait two years to vote in a presidential election, only to have a choice between the bumbling Jerry Ford and the unknown but grating Jimmy Carter. I sat out the 1976 election, lived to regret it, and enthusiastically cast my first vote for president in 1980, at the ripe age of 24, for Ronald Reagan. Thirty years later, we’re still suffering the consequences of Carter’s single term and his insane encouragement of revolution in Latin America and the Mideast! Of course, in the absence of Carter’s disastrous domestic and foreign policies, Reagan might never have been president; nevertheless, if I had it to do over again, I would hold my nose and vote for Ford.

The only time I ever voted for a third-party candidate was in 1988, the year I covered the Democratic and Republican conventions for the news magazine I edited. I was living in the Boston area at the time, familiar with Michael Dukakis, and confident that he had no chance of winning. So, to express my disapproval for George H.W. Bush, who had made clear his contempt for the Reagan Revolution and his determination to steer a different course, I cast my ballot for Ron Paul. That, I have never regretted. I did vote for Papa Bush in 1992, however, when Ross Perot was siphoning off enough of his support to throw the election to Bill Clinton, which he did — to our country’s everlasting shame.

In several of the elections since, including this year’s, I have had heated discussions with self-avowed conservatives who expressed a determination to vote for a third-party candidate. Having once cast a protest vote myself, I am certainly sympathetic to the temptation (though not to the sanctimonious self-righteousness with which they announce their decision); but failing to vote for the lesser of two evils when the greater evil is likely to win as a result is, to my mind, just plain stupid.

  • Nov 19 / 2008
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The Bank Terrorist

For years, a self-described “bank terrorist” blackmailed banks into making bad home loans in our inner cities. Now those loans are defaulting by the millions, and he’s blaming banks. — IBD Editorial

I first encountered this phenomenon back in the early nineties, while developing advertising campaigns for a bank in Thibodaux, Louisiana. “Blackmail” well describes it.

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