Never mind the bollocks

Because we Americans seem to be, at heart, a most unserious people, we have outraged national campaigns over this.

A naughtily named new flavor of Ben & Jerry's ice cream, "Schweddy Balls," has inspired a national boycott call and hungry curiosity in Omaha, as elsewhere.

Members of OneMillionMoms.com want the ice cream company to stop making the flavor.

The limited-edition flavor, launched this month, is a tribute to "Saturday Night Live." The name refers to a 1998 sketch in which Alec Baldwin played holiday goodie baker Pete Schweddy.

Monica Cole, director of the online activist campaign, said she's seen the skit, but she's not laughing at it or its namesake dairy treat.

"We find it vulgar, not what we would like our children to be seeing or asking for at the supermarket or a Ben & Jerry's outlet," Cole said from the group's headquarters in Tupelo, Miss.

-- Omaha World-Herald,

Sept. 24, 2011

But not this.

Black babies are dying in Omaha.

That's the simple, straightforward message the group of about 40 people — most of them black women — had to work with. Their assignment was to take 10 minutes to come up with a way of spreading that message to the people who need to hear it.

The fact that the infant mortality rate is high among blacks in Omaha was no surprise to many of those at a community forum earlier this week at the Turning Point campus in north Omaha. That for every 1,000 black babies born in Douglas County, more than 14 will die in their first 12 months.

Or that the rate is three times higher than the county's white infant mortality rate: 4.7 deaths per 1,000 babies.

But a Douglas County Health Department map showing that the highest concentration of baby deaths was near 33rd and Lake Streets, in the area around Salem Baptist Church, surprised Thelma Sims, director of the Salem Children's Center.

Sims first saw the map about a month and a half ago.

"I was really devastated and sad," she said.

She lives and works in the area but hadn't known that from 2005 through 2009 the neighborhood's infant mortality rate was 27 to 33 deaths per 1,000 births — in the range of the rates seen in Indonesia, Zimbabwe and Kyrgyzstan.

Rates are harder to grasp than actual numbers, so when looking at the state's vital statistics for 2005-2010, for example, you find that 113 black infants died in Douglas County during that period.

Of those, the leading causes of death were listed as sudden infant death syndrome, 21; maternal complications of pregnancy, 20; prematurity, 16; and birth defect, 14.

-- Omaha World-Herald,

Sept. 24, 2011

Really, America?

Really?

On this ship of fools, steerage is a dangerous place to book passage. Obviously.

Dear kids: Die. Love, the Tea Party

You know, if poor kids had had the decency to stay in their mamas' wombs, conservative Republicans at least could have pretended that their lives had some value.

Now feeding them costs federal dollars that otherwise could be living the high life in rich men's bank accounts. That kind of foolishness will have to stop.

Nothing to see here in this story from Channel 7 in Omaha. Nothing to consider as tea-party extortionists conspire to blow up the whole government to gain the right to budget-cut the food out of underprivileged kids' mouths.

About 55,000 children in Douglas, Sarpy and Pottawattamie counties qualify for free and reduced school lunches. Now that school is out, those lunches are served in parks where program organizers were overwhelmed with attendance.

The Salvation Army’s Kids Cruzin Kitchen is expected to feed about 350 children per week. Instead, in some cases, they’re seeing 1,000. So far, the kitchen has fed more than 4,000 children.

For 14-year-old Katie Glessman, sometimes a free meal is the only meal.

“I like it because sometimes my mom can't afford to buy food,” Glessman said.

Glessman and her friends who usually eat lunch at school said getting food in the summer can be a struggle.

“You have to figure out how to cook something or just go without,” Glessman said.

AMERICA IS a country with plenty enough money for guns all around the world. Certain factions in Washington, taking advantage of the deadened conscience of a country given over to mammon, want to make sure there's damned little in the piggy bank for butter.

Or bread.

Or Medicaid.

Or Medicare.

Or Social Security.

Or poor children who have survived long enough to emerge from the womb and begin to trouble their betters.

IT MAY BE little comfort for "the least of these" in the short term, but in the long term, we can be sure of at least one thing.

God don't sleep. And vengeance is His.

First, you choot 'em. Then you make a roux.

If Julia Child weren't already dead, she'd have to kill herself in protest.

Why?

That Swamp People cookbook that master alligator hunter Troy Landry is writing. I could lapse into full snark mode at this juncture, but decided to leave that to TMZ. You know, the website that causes serious journalists to kill themselves in protest.

According to Landry -- the guy who basically cooks everything on the show -- SEVERAL publishers have already approached him about a book deal since "SP" premiered last year ... but he's still weighing his options.

Landry tells us, he's currently compiling a master list of all his recipes -- which includes his most famous dish called "Nutria Sauce Piquante" ... a gumbo made from a semiaquatic rodent called a nutria ... basically an over-sized rat.

DEM TMZ PEOPLE horrified at dem "rodent stew," cher.

Meanwhile, Louisiana chef John Folse is set to kill himself in protest of TMZ's failure to appreciate the difference between gumbo and sauce piquante. Me, I'm just wondering why it's OK for Hollywood people to wear extremely expensive coats made of rat pelts (a.k.a., nutria and mink) but it's not OK to eat what's left after you skin it.

That's what you call a conundrum. What's not a conundrum is knowing what the first step will be in each of Mr. Landry's recipes.

"CHOOT 'EM! CHOOT 'EM!"

Happiest calories in Omaha

This is Zesto in the Florence neighborhood of north Omaha.

This is the spot on North 30th Street where calories go to make people smile.

Burgers, fries, shakes and malts -- they're all here, and have been for decades. As have decades of kids in Florence.

And their parents, too.

Welcome to a lazy Memorial Day in Florence, just shy of sunset. There's a world of malteds, burgers and banana splits in a simple frame building with a big sign on top.

There's a world of memories in there, too. Whole worlds of them. Inside that Zesto -- more properly known as "Zesto's" -- is the history of the lost youth of the Baby Boom in North O.

And Generation X in North O.

In there lies the joys and fears, crushes and heartbreak of the Millennial generation in North O. At Zesto's also resides the head of one gentleman (above) who -- apparently -- just can't get enough of the place.

Every summer, we hear ESPN announcers singing the praises of the south Omaha Zesto's delicacies during College World Series broadcasts. In Florence, one finds the same good food and the same tasty shakes and malts . . . albeit with one big difference.


The North 30th Street Zesto's doesn't jack up the prices at the first crack of the CWS bat.

Some traditions never get televised, and they just have to rely on the neighborhood clientele. That and generations of memories. And the hearts and minds they inhabit -- hearts and minds forever young, eternally refreshed at a hot-fudge fountain of youth.

Somewhere, it's always 1965. And if you're in 1965 right now, and if you're in Florence, my future wife seems to have lost her new transistor radio somewhere between 25th and Whitmore and the Safeway on 30th.

If you find it, drop me a line. I'll get it back to her.

M'm! M'm! Good!

Martha's widening her appeal, apparently.

Today on The Martha Stewart Show, it's an easy-to-make recipe she picked up from the culinary professionals at Club Fed, where she spent some serious time doing, uh . . . research.

Yeah, that's the ticket.

Power to the percolators!

Would you like to see the definition of insanity?

The epitome of consumerism run wild?

The alpha and the omega of insane faddishness?

Yet another example of planned obsolescence in the name of unnecessarily separating suckers from their no-longer-so-expendable income?

Making a damned cup of coffee a lot more complicated than it has to be?

HERE YOU GO, courtesy of Reuters:

Starbucks Corp, the world's biggest coffee chain, on Sunday said it plans to announce a new product for the single-serve market "in the near future."

Analysts long have expected Starbucks, which also sells Via instant coffee packets, to make a more aggressive move into the small, but fast-growing single-cup brewing segment.

Word of its new plan comes as Starbucks is getting ready for the March 1 termination of an agreement by which it provides coffee discs for Kraft Foods Inc's Tassimo one-cup home brewer.

Kraft's Tassimo brewer won some loyal fans with its bells and whistles, but it was bested by Green Mountain Coffee Roasters' generally lower-cost Keurig brewing system that now has a near-monopoly in the single-cup category with roughly 80 percent market share.

While several analysts expect Starbucks to begin providing coffee for the Keurig system, some also have concerns about expiring Green Mountain patents, patent challenges and whether current Keurig users will migrate to the company's new machine.

"Starbucks is currently exploring all options to expand its presence in the premium single-cup coffee category, beyond our initial entry with Starbucks Via Ready Brew," Starbucks spokeswoman Lara Wyss told Reuters.

"Single-serve is still in the earliest stages and no clear delivery system has been established as the gold standard so it is important for us to look at all options," Wyss said.

HERE'S THE PROCESS: People threw out their old drip coffee pots and percolators because somebody invented the Mr. Coffee, which was way better because it was NEW! And because it cost more.

But the Starbucks took over the world with espresso drinks and other gourmet coffees, which you couldn't have at home unless you bought an expensive espresso machine, which was better than a $25 stove-top espresso pot because it, like, cost 10 times as much. Duh!

Espresso makers, though, were too complicated. What was needed was something as simple as a stove-top espresso pot, but would make only one cup of coffee using high-priced, proprietary little packets that fit in little coffee makers that cost $200. This was real progress, which is defined as quadrupling -- through technology -- what the average consumer might have paid in Luddite days for an espresso pot and a hot plate.


ENTER the Tassimo single-serving coffee maker, for which Starbucks supplies overpriced coffee in little proprietary packets. The Tassimo represented a tenfold leap in progress, as measured by the cost of making a cup of decent coffee increasing from roughly a dime to a dollar.

Progress, however, requires obsolescence. Thus, the inevitability of Keurig -- shoving Tassimo to the margins of java history, and the need for your average coffeeaholic to shell out another $120 bucks -- Look, Marge! Economical coffee at home! The new coffee machine is $80 cheaper than the one we bought last year! -- for the new coffee-making system that's incompatible with the old one.

AND STARBUCKS will be there with a product that we know will be superior to whatever swill you're drinking now . . . because it will cost so much more.

It's The American Way.

As a card-carrying Democrat, however, I have no interest in The American Way. So you'll see me in the kitchen of our little collective here in Omaha, by God, Nebraska, spitting in the face of bourgeois society by making myself a cup of communist coffee in a proletarian pot.

On a prehistoric contraption called a stove.

This is a coffeepot

This is a coffeepot.

A coffeepot is what one uses to brew coffee. Not a "coffeemaker," a coffeepot. On a stove.

Making coffee in a coffeemaker is like leaving your children to be reared by a nanny. They might come out OK, but why did you bother having them in the first place?

Coffeepots are hands on. Coffeepots, especially in this Coffeemaker Age, make a statement. They stand out from the robotic hustling mob.

COFFEEPOTS are sacramental. Coffeepots are all about pouring a cup with the communion of saints, many of whom boiled a kettle of water and poured it into a coffeepot, where the hot water kissed the chocolate-hued grounds, then dripped into manifest destiny.

A coffeepot is grandma and grandpa. A coffeemaker is . . . is what, exactly?

This right here, friend, is a coffeepot. It seems to long predate Joe DiMaggio's first commercial for Mr. Coffee (he says, spitting on the ground, but never the grounds).

NOT ONLY is this a drip coffeepot, this is the finest example of a drip pot I've ever seen. It's made of heavy aluminum, and it wasn't made to wear out. Ever.

Mrs. Favog and I found it last weekend at an Omaha estate sale. The price -- $10. And now it once again fulfills its manifest destiny.

That would be making a damned fine cup of joe.

Cousin Eddie makes good, gets sued

"Where's the beef?" Wendy's restaurants once famously asked through its advertising, a swipe at its competitors' burgers.

The same question is now being asked by a California woman regarding Taco Bell's beef products, which she claims contain very little meat. So little, in fact, that she's brought a false-advertising lawsuit against the huge fast-food chain.

The class-action suit, which does not ask for money, objects to Taco Bell calling its products "seasoned ground beef or seasoned beef, when in fact a substantial amount of the filling contains substances other than beef."

It says Taco Bell's ground beef is made of such components as water, isolated oat product, wheat oats, soy lecithin, maltodextrin, anti-dusting agent, autolyzed yeast extract, modified corn starch and sodium phosphate, as well as some beef and seasonings.

Just 35 percent of the taco filling was a solid, and just 15 percent overall was protein, said attorney W. Daniel "Dee" Miles III of the Montgomery, Ala., law firm Beasley Allen, which filed the suit.

From the Los Angeles Times

Your Daily '80s: Before KFC was KFC

Once upon a time -- 1980, for example, KFC meant something. Like Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Branding. I just don't get it anymore these days. Thank God hardening of the arteries hasn't changed a bit over the years.

Don't try this at home

Boy, do I remember Great Shakes.

When I was a kid, I loved Great Shakes. I loved to make Great Shakes.

Except this one time when I didn't put the lid on tight enough. You remember that creepy Tay Zonday viral video on YouTube a few years back?

That wasn't the original "Chocolate Rain."

What time is it, boys and girls?

That's right!

It's just like Starbucks, only better. And much, much cheaper.

Coffee time

Cher, I was gettin' tired tired, and I damn near fall asleep, yeah! So I made me a pot of coffee.

I like my juleps dark roasted

I am from the South.

This means I will find a way to put fresh mint in everything. Even my Community Coffee.

No bourbon for mint juleps? No problem. Just make your pot of dark roast minty.

Personally, I thought the garnish in the cup was a damn nice touch.

It is always -- repeat, always -- nice to be able to walk out the back door and cut a mess of something to put in something that will make that something taste like something special.

Say good night, Petri

There's a reason, as it turns out, that the dinnerware at the Favog household includes a set of Petri dishes.

And, as it likewise turns out, there's also a reason the crisper drawer in the refrigerator hadn't been closing quite right. This happens to be the same reason my lovely and talented wife told me not to post this.

Ow!

That was Mrs. Favog hitting me in the shoulder just now.

Say good night, Gracie.

The year's first cuppa springtime

It's cloudy, and chilly, and it's been rainy around the Big O lately.

And the other night, we even had our first big thunderstorm of the season. Welcome to April on the Great Plains.

Welcome to spring.

Next week, the weather forecast calls for sunny and 90. Or snow, I forget which.

WHAT I DO KNOW is that the mint is coming in all over the back yard, and we're going to be in high cotton -- so to speak -- until late fall. You know what that means, right?

Mint tea, made with fresh-cut goodness from the yard.

In honor of the occasion, I thought I'd immortalize the first pot of the year in pictures -- from fresh cut sprigs of green gold to the steeping pot, to the fourth cup of the evening.

It's early April, my allergies are about to do me in, the weather is all over the place, they tested the tornado sirens this morning (meaning it's that time of the year) . . . and life is good. And it's served up in a cup.

Mortification

Chicken-and-andouille gumbo. Good stuff.

Can't have it today. No meat, fasting.

Die to yourself, you gravy-sucking pig, the church tells us this Ash Wednesday. Or, put more artfully as we receive ashes on our foreheads today, "Remember, O man, that you are dust, and to dust you shall return."

And hold the gumbo.

Of Christmas gumbo and 'offering it up'

EDITOR'S NOTE: We're waiting for the second round of ice to hit, the blizzard to come for Christmas Eve . . . and I'm pretty sure I have a sinus infection. So during this interlude before getting snowed in -- and then a spate of Christmas digging out from under it all -- I thought I'd rerun a "greatest Christmas hit" from Revolution 21's Blog for the People.

This originally ran early Christmas morning 2007, it's still true, and I find I have nothing more to add to it. So I'm just rerunning this reflection on Christmas gumbo and offering it up. Merry Christmas, y'all.

It's the wee hours of Christmas morning. The Christmas Eve chicken -and-andouille gumbo is in the fridge, the Christmas Eve guests are long gone and Midnight Mass is long over.

Christmas music plays on a Canadian station on our old Zenith, and I've just polished off a bottle of Cabernet. So I'm sitting at the computer, pretty much alone with my thoughts. And my memories.

THIS CHRISTMAS has been strange, to say the least. From the Omaha mall massacre to the passing of a young friend, it's been impossible to shake the specter of death looming over this season of joy. For so many here this holiday season, it has been a time of profound loss.

And in the dark and quiet of this Christmas morn, we take time to mourn, to recall those who live now only in our hearts and memories. . . .

Once again as in olden days
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Will be near to us once more

EVERY CHRISTMAS EVE I make a huge pot of gumbo and we throw open the doors to whomever wants to share in the largesse. It's my attempt to keep alive a tradition from my mother's side of the family in Louisiana, when my grandma -- and later my Aunt Sybil -- would cook up mass quantities of chicken gumbo and put out trays of sandwiches, relish, fruit cake and bourbon balls.

It seems like Aunt Sybil used to cram something like 100 relatives into her and Uncle Jimmy's tiny house in north Baton Rouge. I come from a family of loud, argumentative people -- it's a Gallic thing -- and opening the door to that caffeine, nicotine and highball-fueled yuletide maelstrom was more than a little like having front-row seats at a Who concert.

Without earplugs.

WHEN AUNT SYBIL and Uncle Jimmy moved out to the east side of town after my grandmother died, they gained some square footage. I'd like to think, though, that what the holiday gatherings lost in regards to that sardine je ne sais quoi, they made up for in "only in Louisiana" weirdness.

Like in 1983, when my brand-new Yankee bride learned first-hand that William Faulkner and Flannery O'Connor weren't making that s*** up.

Everything started out normal enough, ah reckon -- taking into account, however, that this was south Louisiana. You know, 87 quintillion relatives (the identities of some of whom, I had only the fuzziest of notions about) all talking at the same time. Loudly.

Of course, Mama assumed my bride had received full knowledge of all these people along with the marriage license. My bride, for her part, may well have been wondering whether she could get an annulment and a refund on the marriage license.

And then Aunt Joyce -- second wife of Mama's baby brother, Delry, whose first wife was mentioned only after spitting on the ground (or so it seemed) -- had a "spell."

IF WE HADN'T FIGURED this out by the trancelike appearance, the eyes rolled back into her head, and full knowledge of her bad heart, we would have been tipped off by everybody running around the house yelling "Joyce is havin' a SPEYUL!"

There could have been a fire, resulting in great carnage -- or something like that -- if Cousin Clayton hadn't been there to grab Joyce's burning cigarette.

Ever hear the song "Merry Christmas From the Family"? Robert Earl Keen ain't making that s*** up, either.

Anyway, 20 people crowding around her announcing that Joyce was havin' a spell brought my aunt around after a fashion . . . and the show went on. At least until Aunt Sybil died some years back.

The sane one in my family, Aunt Sybil was the ringmaster of family togetherness, probably because she believed in "Baby, you got to offer it up." Everybody else . . . well . . . didn't.

TWENTY-FOUR YEARS after Aunt Joyce had a spell and Mrs. Favog got a masters in Southern Gothic, almost all of my aunts and uncles are gone. And I make my Christmas Eve gumbo up here in the frozen Nawth for friends who like exotic fare and funny stories about Growing Up Louisiana.

Then we go to Midnight Mass, being that Mrs. Favog and I are Catholic now, in no small measure because of Aunt Sybil and Uncle Jimmy, wild gumbo Christmases and "Baby, you got to offer it up."

After we were confirmed in 1990, the wife and I got a package from Aunt Sybil and Uncle Jimmy -- a Bible, his and her Rosary beads, and a crucifix. The biggest gift, though, was one they never knew they were giving.

Someday soon, we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, well have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.

A bitter harvest of hunger

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As we emerge from our Thanksgiving food comas and start thinking about throwing away the leftover leftovers. . . .

See, I have this antique juicer. . . .

And when you're done, you'll also have a bowl of smashed apples.

What to do with your apple remains? Well, get you some of this kind of bread -- "multigrain sandwich thins" they're called.

See? Nice and thin. This will be important.

Because when you toast them, they get nice and crispy. And they won't get soggy when . . .

. . . you slather them with honey and cinnamon . . .

. . . and dump all your smashed apples on there.

You'll also want to add some cheddar cheese. And next time I do this, I'll drizzle some of the apple juice over the whole thing to make it more moist.

Finally, you want to throw it in the microwave to thoroughly melt the cheese and get your instant "pies" piping hot. That's where the toasted sandwich thins staying crispy comes in -- they won't get all soggy after being microwaved.

And there you go. A taste sensation.

No need to thank me, The Anachronistic Chef.

A nice, hot cup of . . . DUDE!

In the middle of a hard day's work on a cool fall day, nothing refreshes like a fresh pot of pot.

Dude!

HOLD THE PHONE. That's not how we roll -- er . . . not that we roll anything at La Casa Favog -- on this blog or at 3 Chords & the Truth. It just looks like it, kind of.

And the sight reminded me of the time some friends brought back some oolong tea from China and gave us some sealed in a sandwich bag, prompting Mrs. Favog to exclaim "It looks like a lid!" That brought down the house -- which you'd understand if you knew Mrs. Favog.

In reality, I was making a pot of Community Coffee (the coffee so good I advertise it for free) when I thought it would be nice to go outside and cut some fresh mint to add to the ground coffee. So I did.

So here's what you do, particularly if you're blessed with mint coming up all over your yard: Cut a nice sprig of mint, wash it off, finely dice it with a good kitchen knife and add it to your ground coffee in the pot.

It's as simple as that.

As the late Vernon Roger used to say at the end of his cooking segments on Channel 9 in Baton Rouge . . . "Tonnerre! Ça c'est bon, oui!"