Apollyon Appears-II
The False Prophet

Cult

We are children of the bomb.

Those of us–especially those growing up in the ’50s and ’60s–lived under the shadow of the mushroom. From elementary school drill of covering our heads and hiding under our desks (highly effective ways of surviving a nuclear attack, by the way…), to watching the Cuban missile crisis play out on grainy gray TV screens, we felt that primal fear of impending annihilation, of bomb shelters and fallout, of silos releasing their deadly arrows as we waited that agonizing 15 minutes until the incoming salvos struck.

We learned, over time, to live with–and even love–our dysfunctional companion, like a battered spouse returning home, with no where else to go. Perhaps it was the dark humor, a la Dr. Strangelove, which dulled our senses; perhaps the overwrought rhetoric and ridiculous answers of the anti-nuclear left, with their unilateral disarmament proposals and Grim Reaper costume marches. But the fall of the Soviet Union let us focus on more important things, like global warming and saving the snail darter, televangelists and “reality” TV.

With two global giants armed to the teeth, toe-to-toe in MIRVed madness, our focus–when we stopped to think of it–was “The Day After“–a massive missile exchange, nuclear annihilation, the end of Earth as we know it. It was, ironically, a calming, reassuring thought: no one could unleash such madness, such horror, such destruction of an entire planet: it would be … suicidal.

Exactly.

Nation-states–even though they be fixated on world domination, as were the Soviets, or small-time despotic troublemakers like Syria or Iraq under Saddam–ultimately have their own self-interest–and self-preservation–at heart. As much as they desire global conquest, or regional dominance, they value their own lives and the preservation of their power base to sustain such dreams of glory–and such vulnerability allows effective deterrence to their threat. The nuclear standoff of the Cold War was at its heart a high-stakes game of chess, where the goal was challenge and response, perceived threats and feints–without ever putting your king in any real danger. There were, of course some frighteningly close calls–the Cuban missile crisis and the story of Stanislav Petrov come to mind–but ultimately the calculation came down to this: there is no sense destroying the world–yourself included–if you want to rule it.

Suicide as a weapon is not without precedent in nation-state warfare and struggle: Japan’s kamikaze pilots in WWII proved a potent and lethal–albeit short-lived–weapon, for which the Allies had little adequate defense: Approximately 2,800 kamikaze attackers sunk 34 Navy ships, damaged 368 others, killed 4,900 sailors, and wounded over 4,800–this carnage occurring in the brief period between October 1944 and August 1945. Their effectiveness was limited by the rapidly crumbling Japanese war effort, the vast supremacy of U.S. air power–and ultimately by the abrupt end of the war brought about by the Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It was the destruction and defeat of the Japanese nation-state–almost ironically, by nuclear weapons–which brought an end to the effectiveness of the lethal kamikaze weapon.

In the first post on this topic, I used the vehicle of historical fiction to portray an apocalyptic vision of the near future. It may come as a surprise to many readers that I am not particular enamored of biblical prophecy interpretation or end-times fear-mongering. I neither pine for, nor live in terror of, any end-of-world scenario. The world may end tomorrow, or in a billion years when the sun exhausts its spent fuel in a spectacular supernova. I have no prescience about such things–nor would I wish to: life is more calmly and sanely spent living a day at a time, rather than obsessing about some future catastrophic event.

Nevertheless, it is instructive to note how threatened some seem by even postulating that nuclear terrorism is a distinct possibility, and that its effects on global stability and commerce, should it occur, would be profound and catastrophic in many ways. One erudite commenter opined that I was “crazier than those Islamic fundamentalists.” OK, yeah, whatever–unfortunately my spam filter doesn’t exclude commenters with IQs under 50. Another commenter gleefully pointed out a numeric inconsistency in the story, proudly proclaiming that the “inhabitants of the story are wrong,” broadly consigning both me and my readers to the trash bin of easily-duped fools. Sigh–such are the products of today’s institutions of lower education, which produce fine postmodern deconstructionists, utterly incapable of discerning truth from falsehood, or good from evil. Bad math is easily corrected; hollow-souled intellectuals far less easily fixed. The grand mansion of Western civilization still stands, majestic, but its supporting timbers are rotting, the termites of nihilism relentlessly nibbling at its ancient foundational beams. The neutered Last Man, so elegantly described by Van der Leun recently, is alive and well, blissful in his tiny, blinkered, spiteful world.

What is striking in our current age–unlike decades past–is the confluence of technology, global communication and commerce, with modern weaponry which makes a scenario such as my prior post so easily imaginable. Such capabilities have existed for many decades, of course–what has now changed is the disinhibition brought about by the end of the Cold War and the rise of Islam. In what may prove to be the ultimate historical irony, the fall of the Soviet Union led to the geopolitical balkanization of nations and cultures which allowed Islam to rise in power and influence–and further isolated and economically undermined dysfunctional client states like Syria and North Korea, leading to their increasing dependence on the development and export of WMD technology for survival.

How then shall we deal with the contemporary threat of Islamic radicalism, which like the Japanese warlords before them have embraced the suicide weapon? Unlike a nation-state, Islam is trans-national; it has no capital, no cities, no boundaries, no industrial base. It is fueled not by economic self-interest, nor the desire for imperialistic expansionism, nor wealth, nor national pride. It is driven by religious zealotry–and not merely this alone (for many faiths manifest zealotry among their followers)–but by a zealotry which envisions as its highest duty the destruction of all other religious faiths, and all unbelievers–and holds as one of its highest ideals the martyrdom of its adherents. Islam views itself as God’s instrument of conquest and vengeance: bringing all into forced submission to the will and rule of Allah–and destroying those who will not submit. Such ruthless zealotry, combined with access to weapons capable of killing thousands or even millions, and the willingness–even eagerness–to die for this cause, is indeed a frightening development in world history–unlike any other.

Islam is of course one of the world’s great religions, its reach rapidly expanding in many parts of the world. As such, it commands a great deal of respect–especially in a postmodern world where all beliefs are equal, all cultural narratives tolerated and valued. In many regards, Islam is today accorded a deference greater than of both Christianity and Judaism: anti-semitism is rampant and rising throughout the world; Christianity often skewered and ridiculed, its adherents frequently characterized as ignorant and bigoted, especially by the media, among the secular and the intellectual left . Yet rarely is a disparaging word heard about Islam in public, and the cry of victimization of Muslims rings out with a predictable regularity. Such selective bias arises, one suspects, from the widespread postmodern contempt for Western civilization. Islam hates Jews and Christians, so the Islamist must not be all that bad–as the moral and philosophical principles of Judeo-Christian faith form the central pillar of Western democratic traditions, now widely decried as racist, oppressive, and imperialistic.

Yet the blindingly obvious is rarely spoken–that the followers of Islam are the perpetrators of some of the most horrendous acts in our modern world: suicide bombings killing and mutilating innocent men, women and children; hijackings, bombings, and assassination; beheadings videotaped and widely circulated in the world media; honor killings of raped women; and of course the horrors and destruction of September 11th, and London, and Madrid. Of course, there is no shortage of evil and heinous acts in the world, which are hardly restricted to Islam; nor are the vast majority of Muslims involved in such acts. But the situation which most threatens the peace–and even continued existence–of the world today is not totalitarian states, nor ethnic cleansing, nor despots torturing and murdering their own people, nor racist Western imperialism: it is radical Islam, and the lethal fusion of a religion pursuing the death of its enemies, and the technological means to accomplish this–in spades.

But even the term “radical Islam” is misleading–for it implies that a peaceful, benign religion has been hijacked by a few crazies, who are wildly misinterpreting its teachings to promulgate violence and chaos. We hear constantly–from politicians and pundits, the media and Islamic apologists–that Islam is a “religion of peace.” But even the casual observer would be remiss if he did not notice that the daily fare from Muslims worldwide seems anything but peaceful: vicious and institutional anti-semitism; enthusiastic support of terrorist acts and suicide bombers (or at the least, silent assent, which seems little better); riots and violent retribution against any real or perceived insult to Islam (such as the current outrage over the publishing of satirical cartoons about the Prophet in European newspapers); death sentences issued–and sometimes executed–against artists and writers critical of Islamic practices; the suppression of free speech and free expression in Muslim countries; the repression and subjugation of women. The list is long indeed. One cannot but wonder whether those who pursue the most heinous of acts–terrorism, suicide bombs, torture–are not rather quantitatively, rather than qualitatively different from their less notorious brethren–and whether it is in fact Islam itself, rather than some extreme perversion of the extremist few–which is the true seed from which this hideous flower blooms.

If you have not done so, I encourage you to read the interview of Dr. Andrew Bostom in FrontPage magazine. It is lengthy, but well worth your time–and a mere foretaste of Dr. Bostom’s remarkable book entitled The Legacy of Jihad: Islamic Holy War and the Fate of the Non-Muslims. This is, by the way, not a religious attack on Islam, but is a rather remarkable work of history: nearly 800 pages of highly detailed, extensively footnoted research on the history of jihad, using both Islamic sources–some first translated into English during this project–and the writings and history of those profoundly affected by its belligerent imperialism. With the precision of cold surgical steel, Dr. Bostom dissects and exposes the history and myths of Islam, from its inception up to the present. The effect is nuclear in magnitude: utterly destroying the myth of Islamic tolerance of Christians and Jews (the so-called “Andalusian paradise” in Muslim Spain); detailing the rape, pillage, subjugation, massacre, and brutality to infidels of every stripe–Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, Zoroastrian; the centrality of jihad (holy war, not inner struggle) to the Islamic faith; the widespread deception found in Islam’s apologists today about the true meaning and goals of jihad. It is chilling in its calm, analytical approach to the “Religion of Peace”–and a wake-up call to a sleeping West desperately in need of clarity about its utterly committed, fanatical–and soon to be nuclear-armed–enemy.

We are daily told we are in a war on terror. We are not–we are in a war with Islam. It is not a war we declared, or wanted, but an ancient war now declared on us. It is imperative that we speak plainly about this, setting aside the soft sentimentalities which fear offending anyone. There will, of course, be hollers of protest by the usual suspects; these must be ignored, and answered firmly, with truth, and history, and fact, not wishful thinking and weak apologies.

The Prophet has told us his plans, his vision of a world at peace. It is a false peace, from a false prophet–yet his faithful followers pursue it to the gates of death, and we are their targets. The hour is late–it is dangerous to sleep.

Apollyon Appears-I:
Looking Back

The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and the sun was given power to scorch people with fire. They were seared by the intense heat and they cursed the name of God …

— Revelation 16:8,9 —

Vision of DeathThe fear resonates: softly, quietly, as yet still an undercurrent, like trickling water barely perceptible, but portending something deeper: the rushing of a torrent wild and raging and uncontrollable. The vast multitude still sleeps, with dreams of peace, and pleasure, and profit, and prosperity, their small lives ever constricted in one-dimensional bliss while imagining their own tumescence. And yet the beast grows, increasingly uneasy in his restraint, restless for anarchy and annihilation. There are dark days ahead–frightful, chaotic, unpredictable, foreboding–times no man should endure, but through which too many–by their own measure–will survive.

Apollyon draws near.

Historians may well reflect on these times–if there are historians to record them–and wonder how it might have been different. They will look to November ’79, and recognize the lost opportunity to crush the nascent Iranian Islamic revolution in its earliest days. They will ponder how a series of American leaders–from Carter in ’79, to Reagan in Beirut, to Bush in Gulf War I, to Clinton in Somalia–squandered the opportunity to establish by strength a bulwark against the rising self-delusional tide of Islamic fundamentalist zealotry. They will marvel at the senescence of Europe–once colonial conquerors whose might and resilience survived two global wars, now weakened and whimpering, their grand cathedrals as empty as their souls, their rotting culture paying feckless fealty to impotent diplomacy. And China: mainlining Mideast oil to sustain a leaden economy, buying off their oppressed billions with cell phones and computers, their children chained to factories churning out the worthless goods the West demanded to feed its own addictions.

It all seemed so–ordinary, so much like decades past, with petty diplomatic spats, brush wars, government corruption, ethnic cleansing and genocide in lost lands while CNN averted its eyes: the banality of evil hiding its hideous face behind a million facades. For great evil had shown its face before: the Great Depression gave rise to global fascism and the icy winter of Communism–but had also steeled a generation sufficient to its challenges, willing to sacrifice their lives to cool the ovens of Auschwitz and break the back of the gulag masters. Darkness had learned its lesson: better to drug the patient, seducing him with wealth, and pleasure, and shimmering screens made bright with empty images, normalizing the depraved while drumming away all reflection through iPod ear buds.

The outlines of the great Darkness formed slowly, over centuries, the confluence of myths and hatreds of ancient desert tribes with fiery fury over a New Mexico desert–ironically named Trinity. Scattered glimpses of its ghastliness were seen, demonic eyes furtively glancing from still-shuttered windows: nail-laden suicide vests shredding flesh and spilling blood; beheadings, hijackings and terror camps; moral equivalency leveling heinous acts with heroic deeds; the wrath of Khan in Pakistan. But still they slumbered, blind to the gathering darkness.

The curtain was ripped back one crisp morning in September 2001, as pretensions of peace and safety collapsed with the twin towers that dark day. The response was swift–and surprised those accustomed to hollow verbal threats unbacked by power. First in Afghanistan, and shortly thereafter in Iraq, the forces of terror sponsors and Al-Qaeda were dealt sharp and striking defeats, decapitating their leadership and decimating their ranks.

But the beast had many heads, and Al-Qaeda was but one .

History presents many ironies, and the defeat of Al-Qaeda was truly one–for in its defeat, slaughtered in remote mountain caves and on Iraq’s desert killing fields, lay the beast’s reincarnation, for its greatest foe was vanquished in its very victory. For Iraq had constrained the Great Satan, tying up valuable and limited resources in a task which was necessary but insufficient both in timeliness and extent. For secular tyrants–while always a threat, and happy to bed down with the zealots of Islam for their own ends–nevertheless always proved more interested in their own grandiosity and power–and hence proved feeble warriors, useful idiots, propitious diversions which bought valuable time.

But Iraq proved valuable in one other, more critical way: it exposed the soft underbelly of American will, fattened by wealth, pleasure, and materialism, weakened by those with whom the desire to govern a cowering giant trumped any sacrifice needed to assure her survival. America could throw a deadly punch–but could be trusted to leave the ring should the fight drag on.

The Iranian project started small–seeded by the Khan Islamic bomb effort, initially prodded by the ever-present threat from the hated infidel Saddam. But the neighborhood grew vastly more dangerous when Americans rolled over Afghanistan–an albatross which drained the lifeblood even from the Soviets–and soon thereafter roared through Iraq. Surrounded now on two sides with hostile forces unstoppable by any conventional army–much less Iran’s–the nuclear trump card become paramount. With the ascent of Ahmadinejad to the presidency–a fanatic Shi’ite who imagined himself the Twelfth Imam–the dry kindling was fanned to a blaze. If the martyrdom of one was glorious, the martyrdom of an entire nation would please Allah greatly, and bring about his kingdom–which Ahmadinejad would rule.

There were, it is now believed, eight bombs: four produced by Iran herself; two purchased from Kim Jong Il, desperate for cash to keep his movies rolling and his regime afloat; and the greatest prize: two high-yield nukes from the Russian Mafia. These broke the bank–but oil prices were high, their target was priceless–and money would be worthless after their use.

The Russian nukes arced toward Zion on pillars of holy flame. Patriot missiles took out the Haifa arm, but Tel-Aviv was incinerated, the waters of the Mediterranean boiling as the sacrifice climbed to heaven. The Palestinians would die, of course–but their usefulness to Allah had long since passed, their timid suicide acts pale archetypes of Allah’s true vengeance. Jerusalem would survive, though its inhabitants would die slowly and painfully, befitting of goats and swine inhabiting that most holy of cities. In a massive counter strike, Iran ceased to exist in any recognizable form. Ahmadinejad and his inner circle were long gone, of course–secure deep within their mountain redoubt in northern Pakistan. The hardened production sites in Iran survived largely intact–but the fruit of their bowels had long since dispersed to faraway cells in faraway lands.

The barge on the Thames was next, eight days later. The Korean nuke was low-yield and dirty, but served its purposes well, killing tens of thousands instantly, many more over the ensuing weeks, decapitating the government, and rendering London uninhabitable for a generation. Paris was next, three weeks later, the Iranian bomb prepositioned in an unused Metro tunnel, it is thought–to destroy a millennium of Western culture while preserving the Muslim suburbs. Russia was next–not Moscow, as expected, where security was airtight–but the oil fields, setting alight enormous blazes which would burn for years, destroying forever in one blow the economy of the butchers of Chechnya.

And then–the pause. Months passed, terror reigned, as anarchy roiled Europe and the Middle East burned. Global commerce stopped; oil became unavailable at any price. Jews and Muslims alike were slaughtered, torn apart by angry mobs and incensed governments. Angry recriminations flew like missiles between governments and politicians, as the world economy ground to a halt. Riots were everywhere, martial law ruled, as all personal freedoms were revoked under pain of incarceration–or worse. Religion was outlawed in many places–and suspect everywhere. Conspiracy theories abounded–was this calamity fomented by America, as yet untouched in this global conflagration? The truth could not be spoken: the last Korean nuke was discovered, serendipitously, in a freight yard in Atlanta–its ensnarement now top secret lest public panic ensue. The two remaining, quietly resting, somehow avoiding the frantic search of all inbound cargo–one in a tanker truck in the Jersey refineries outside New York City, the other in a warehouse just south of San Francisco, located directly over the San Andreas fault–awaiting their synchronized detonation, that fatal day on August 6, 2008 …

Update: Late-night writing makes for bad math. The numbers have been fixed.

Pan-Cosmic Mullings

flying saucerOK, this is a site worthy of browsing–especially if you want your higher consciousness expanded in ways you never imagined possible. What’s particularly frightening for me is the fact that it makes sense–which is doubtless a reflection on my own deeply disturbed psyche, detached from reality in ways I have yet to fathom. I stumbled on it courtesy of Dr. Sanity, who linked to this post.

Just to get a flavor of the site, here’s his blog header:

One Cosmos

The Innersection of Lumin Development, Mental Gymgnostics, Paleoliberal Futurism, Leftist Noise Abatement, Supernatural Election, Darwinian Revelation, Isness Ministration, Orthonoetic Logomystique, Stand-up Cosmology, Escatological Upunishantics, and Dilettantric Yoga

Don’t be too put off by the, umm, eclectic nature of this (I spent about ten minutes trying to understand even one of the above terms, with no success–which means I have way too much time on my hands). This fellow’s (? gal’s?) a deep thinker, and a good–if somewhat eccentric–writer. Check it out.

Christmas Break

Christmas TreeBeen a bit remiss about posting, but there’s been a lot going on. In addition to the usual Christmas rush of shopping and social events, my mother-in-law has been in the hospital this week, so there’s been precious little time to write.

We did get our Christmas tree up last week. The Pacific Northwest, while lacking the snow which adorns much of the country this season, is rich in evergreens, thanks to our warm, wet winter climate. We cut–as our annual tradition–a fresh Noble fir, about 8 feet tall. The Noble is a magnificent tree–firm branches and sturdy needles which are very resistant to dropping (last year we left the tree up for nearly 8 weeks, and had but a dustpan or two of needles on the floor). The branches are typically open, allowing lots of space for decorations, and the needles not too sharp. The smell of a fresh tree is extraordinary.

My wife finds ways to put more ornaments on the tree than is humanly possible–many of them Christopher Radko blown glass which she has been collecting for years. My role is to be the lumberjack, cart the beast into the house, string the lights, and place a few ornaments high on the tree where my height is useful–then rapidly move out of the way while the artist takes over. The lumberjack then reclines to observe the masterpiece take shape while drinking egg nog–not a bad gig, actually.

Anyway, I hope to get a post or two up the next few weeks, as time permits.

My best to all my readers, enjoy your Christmas and holiday time, and God bless.

Doin’ da’ Bird

turkeyOK, just when you thought it was safe to forget about the overindulgence and caloric excesses of Thanksgiving day, here comes another blog post on Thanksgiving recipes. This one sticks to the basics: roasting the turkey itself and making gravy. It is my traditional holiday task to make the dim-witted bird into a delectable feast (and yes, I know wild turkeys are very smart), so this recipe has matured with age–unlike me. So grab your blunderbuss, put on your Pilgrims hat, and let’s get to it.

First a few basic points.:

  • The Bird–I have a preference for fresh-killed turkeys over frozen–their water and fat content is lower (avoid pre-basted turkeys at all costs: the all-too-common Butterball is an abomination, if you must know, literally dripping with hydrogenated vegetable oil, the worst kind of fat). I have had a so-called “free range” turkey one year: excellent taste, but they are pricey, a bit dry, and relatively hard to get in my neck of the woods. We tend to have a lot of folks for dinner on holidays, so we usually get big birds–25 pounds this year.
  • The Pan–a large, heavy roasting pan is a necessity; the disposable foil ones are not only flimsy, but they seem to prevent browning to considerable degree, and definitely prevent the caramelization of the pan drippings and ingredients essential to making a good gravy.
  • The Rack–a good sturdy adjustable roasting rack is also a must. Letting the turkey sit on the bottom of the pan causes it to stew, prevents proper cooking and reduction of the pan drippings, and generally leads to a sodden mess unfit for eating.
  • The Oven–I have the good fortune to have a convection oven in my home, which is superb for roasting, as it cooks more quickly and at lower temperatures. The gas-or-electric dispute approaches a religious war in some circles; electric is easier to regulate temperature-wise in my mind–and besides, that’s what I have. Oh, and no foil tents–tin foil is ideal for conspiratorial hats and the like, but terrible for roasting, stewing the meat instead of roasting it.
  • The Temperature–I like keeping the temperature relatively low–the bird cooks more slowly, and browns more evenly. I use 325 degrees throughout; without convection, I’d move up to 350. Rack low in the oven.
  • The Saucepans–you’ll need two heavy sauce pans, one 4 quart (for the stock), one at least 2 quart (for the gravy). Of the two, the gravy pan is the most important, as even heat distribution with no hot spots is important when making the roux.
  • The Ingredients–if you’re looking for exact quantities here, you’re outta luck: this is definitely an eyeball project. Use fresh ingredients and spices–I am partial to Penzey’s spices, which are outrageously fresh and aromatic, compared to the decades-old spice bottles on the shelf at your local supermarket.

The project begins with the roasting pan–you must be thinking of the end when at the beginning. The key to a superb turkey gravy (or any meat gravy, for that matter) is in the pan drippings. The sugars caramelize to a dark brown, providing exquisite flavor and rich color critical for good-tasting gravy.

pan

I place the roasting rack in the pan, and surround it with sweet onions (Walla Wallas, Vadellias, or Mexican) coarsely chopped, chopped celery, a hefty handful of whole peppercorns (Penzeys has a 4-pepper blend which is both colorful and relatively mild), and yes–your eyes aren’t lying–apple slices. I use a crisp, moderately sweet apple (Fujis here in the Northwest). During roasting, the apples disintegrate, adding both sugars for caramelization and lots of liquid for the gravy stock.

stock

Next comes the turkey stock, which will be used in addition to the pan drippings for the gravy. In the 4 quart stock pan, I place the giblets, the gizzard, and the neck, followed by celery and celery leaves (the leaves have much more flavor than the stalks), a large chopped onion, several cloves of garlic, some celery seed, a pinch of salt, and more peppercorns. Fill the pan about 4/5 with water, and simmer slowly on a back burner while preparing and cooking the bird.

turkey

Now on to the bird: I pat the skin dry (moisture prevents browning), place the bird breast-side down on the rack, and place lots of butter and a hefty sprinkling of pepper and tarragon. (If you’re on a low-fat diet, this is not the meal for you; for the rest of us, that’s why God created Lipitor). The breast-down approach keeps the breast moist as it cooks. As you may notice, this turkey is ridiculously large for the pan–kinda like an elephant wearing a miniskirt. It works–but just barely (a larger roaster is on Santa’s list for this year, so I’m being nice not naughty). The bird then goes in the oven.

basting

I baste it periodically with a butter-tarragon mixture, kept over the oven vent to keep just melted without burning.

Cooking time? Anyone’s guess–it depends on the oven, the size of the bird, convection vs. non-convection. I generally give a bird this size about 1-1 1/2 hours breast down, basting every half hour and watching for the golden brown color of the skin.

stock

Now it’s time to flip the bird (I practice in the off-season while driving on the freeway). One heavy carving fork goes in the neck cavity, another in the tail, and a helping hand holds the rack down during the process.

turkey

As you can see, the breast is very moist, and has not browned at all. It is basted with the butter-tarragon mixture, and popped back in the oven. Notice the red dot: this is a cooking indicator. When the meat reaches temperature, a restraining wax melts, allowing a red thingy to pop up. Problem is, it’s hardly foolproof: I’ve had them stick, resulting in a desiccated bird–if you like pterodactyl, it’s just the thing. Your eyes, nose, and fingers are better judges of when it’s done. This bird took about 3 hours 20 minutes.

Turkey, like most fowl, is a bit tricky to roast, as the dark meat on the bones cooks at a different rate from the breast meat. I lean toward white meat that’s still pretty moist (but not pink), which generally leaves the thighs done about right. The indicators I use are the skin color; juices which run clear from the thigh; and a firm breast meat texture to compression. Wish I could be more specific, it’s an experience thing: if you’re uncertain, use a meat thermometer. I rarely do any longer.

turkey

Once it’s done, I turn my attention to the gravy. The turkey is removed from the rack, and the rack scraped to get all its precious drippings into the roasting pan. I then add some of the clear turkey stock we made above to the pan, and heat it on the stovetop while gathering all the caramelized drippings into solution.

drippings

Notice how the apples and the onions have largely disappeared.

juices

The drippings are then poured out of the pan into a large measuring cup, using a sieve or a press to squeeze the juice out of the solids. The fat (butter plus turkey fat) rises to the top–some of this will be used for the roux, to thicken the gravy, the rest discarded. Notice that the quantity of fat is relatively low–with a Butterball, you will have 4-5 times this amount, and it’s nasty and high in salt.

gravy fat

Some of the fat is then skimmed and added to your gravy pan–the amount depends on how much gravy you want, though I tend to be generous. Heat the fat over medium-low heat, until the water-based drippings just start to simmer.

The key to smooth, unlumpy gravy is the roux and the liquid addition. A roux is a flour-fat mixture– most commonly butter and flour–which is cooked together before adding liquid. The cooking creates a paste which eliminates the raw flour taste, and which will absorb a lot of liquid.

gravy

I add enough flour to make a paste about the consistency of cookie dough, and cook it slowly, avoiding burning or browning, for about 5-10 minutes. I then gather the roux on one side of the pan, leaving the heat about the same.

gravy

The dark liquid from the drippings (sans fat) is then added using a ladle, a little at a time, allowing it to heat up to a simmer in the bare pan before stirring. To avoid lumps, the roux must be well-cooked and blended, and the liquid hot, and added in small amounts initially. As you begin to blend the drippings into the roux, it will actually thicken at first, becoming quite stiff.

gravy

Repeating the routine–pushing aside the roux, adding liquid until hot, then thoroughly blending before adding more liquid–you will get to a stage where the paste is smooth and the consistency of thick pudding. At this stage, you may begin to add a little more liquid at a time.

gravy

The liquid from the pan drippings gives the gravy a rich, brown color–almost too dark. At this stage, I strain the clear turkey stock created earlier, and begin adding it to lighten the color and add more flavor. I tend to end up with a relatively thin gravy, which will thicken as it stands and cools.

The final touch is seasoning: salt and pepper. Taste it first–I use a lot of peppercorns, so more pepper is rarely needed, but salt sometimes is necessary.

gravy

So there you have it–all ready for feasting and piling on a few more pounds to take off after New Years.

Euthanasia Investigation in New Orleans

hospital bed

In the aftermath of hurricane Katrina, there were some scattered reports–in an admittedly questionable media source (a British tabloid)–of euthanasia of patients trapped in a New Orleans hospital. I discussed the initial media report here, and did a follow up post here which expanded on the questionable nature of the sources and some of the comments in response. In brief, there was widespread skepticism from some commenters on the veracity of this report, which was, in their opinion, pure urban legend–and I was castigated for lending credence to such an outrageous myth.

Apparently they never got the word to the Louisiana Attorney General.

CNN is now reporting that a very active investigation is currently underway of Memorial Hospital–where 45 patients were found dead–by the Attorney General’s office. This investigation to date has uncovered additional testimony that euthanasia was actively discussed and may well have been performed:

The Louisiana attorney general’s office is investigating allegations that mercy killings occurred and has requested that autopsies be performed on all 45 bodies taken from the hospital after the storm.Orleans Parish coroner Frank Minyard said investigators have told him they think euthanasia may have been committed.

“They thought someone was going around injecting people with some sort of lethal medication,” Minyard said.

A nurse manager, Fran Butler, is quoted as saying:

“My nurses wanted to know what was the plan? Did they say to put people out of their misery? Yes. … They wanted to know how to get them out of their misery,” she said.

Butler also told CNN that a doctor approached her at one point and discussed the subject of putting patients to sleep, and “made the comment to me on how she was totally against it and wouldn’t do it.”

Dr. Bryant King, a physician who was present at the hospital, was also interviewed by the AG’s office, and recounts his story:

But King said he is convinced the discussion of euthanasia was more than talk. He said another doctor came to him at 9 a.m. Thursday and recounted a conversation with a hospital administrator and a third doctor who suggested patients be put out of their misery.

King said that the second physician — who opposed mercy killing — told him that “this other [third] doctor said she’d be willing to do it.”

About three hours later, King said, the second-floor triage area where he was working was cleared of everyone except patients, a second hospital administrator and two doctors, including the physician who had first raised the question of mercy killing…

One of the physicians then produced a handful of syringes, King said.

“I don’t know what’s in the syringes. … The only thing I heard the physician say was, ‘I’m going to give you something to make you feel better,’ ” King said….

King said he decided he would have no part of what he believed was about to happen.

Time will tell how this investigation turns out–and it may ultimately be very difficult to prove what happened at Memorial Hospital, given the poor condition of the bodies and the difficulty in distinguishing therapeutic pain management and sedation versus the same drugs used in doses sufficient to kill. One suspects that those involved in such actions–if they occurred–will be loath to admit it–and likely would have been careful to avoid witnesses, if at all possible.

And I’m sure those who so vehemently argued the absurdity of this story will belly up to the bar and confess they may have overreacted just a bit–but I’m not holding my breath waiting.

Update 10-27-2005: CNN is reporting that dozens of subpoenas have been issued to find out what happened at Memorial:

The subpoenas were served on employees of all levels at Memorial Medical Center, which is owned by Tenet Healthcare, because “cooperation, lately, has not been as good as I had hoped,” Foti said.

The subpoenas require that people appear before investigators for questioning.

“Some people were not coming forward. We learned Tenet sent out a letter that had a chilling effect,” Foti said. “We had no choice but to issue these subpoenas.”

“They [Tenet] seem to be in a position of protecting themselves, while we are just trying to get to the facts of what happened at the hospital,” the attorney general said.

Stay tuned–this may begin to get very interesting…

The Engine of Shame – Pt I

Steam locomotiveA wise friend–a man who helped me emerge from a period of considerable difficulty in my life–once taught me a simple lesson. In less than a minute, he handed me a gift which I have spent years only beginning to understand, integrating it into my life with agonizing slowness. It is a lesson which intellect cannot grasp or resolve, which faith only begins to illuminate–a simple principle which I believe lies close to the root of the human condition.

My friend taught me a simple distinction: the difference between guilt and shame.

While you no doubt think I am devolving into the linguistic morass of terminal psychobabble, I ask you to stick with me for a few moments. What you may discover is a key to understanding religion, terrorism, social ills such as crime and violence–and why the jerk in the next cubicle pushes your buttons so often. On the other hand, if you’re among those who believe guilt and shame are simply the tools of religion and society to restrict your freedom–that as a perfectly liberated postmodern person you are beyond all that–well, you are probably wasting your time reading this. But most of us recognize the influence of guilt and shame in our lives–even while trying not to focus on them, as they are uncomfortable emotional topics, best avoided if possible.

There is a tendency to conflate guilt and shame, merging them into a single human response to bad behavior or personal shortcomings. Yet they are quite different. Guilt is about behavior, shame about being. Allow me to expand on this a bit.

Guilt is an emotional–or some would say spiritual– human response to behavior or actions which violate a respected set of rules. The rules violated may be internal or external, and may be based either in reality and truth or distortion and error. The rules which may engender guilt must be respected: that is, they must originate from a valid source of authority–parents, elders, religion, law–or have been internalized into one’s personal mores or conscience from one or more such sources. Rules which are not respected pose no difficulty: I feel no guilt at not becoming a suicide martyr for Allah, since I do not respect (i.e. recognize as valid) the rules which promote such behavior. The response to violating respected rules is at its heart based on fear: fear of punishment by God or man, fear of rejection, or fear of ostracization from friends, family, or society.

Since guilt is an uncomfortable emotional state, we generally make efforts to avoid or mitigate it if possible. There are a number of means by which this can be accomplished, with greater or lesser efficacy. We may of course, practice avoidance of the behavior which induces the guilt. If the rules are legitimate and based on worthwhile principles, this is obviously a beneficial approach: if you don’t steal things, you won’t go to jail for burglary. But avoidance may prove destructive if the rules are based on error. For example, if your parents or religion have taught you that all sexual activity is wrong or evil, this can prove a huge impediment to physical intimacy and relationships in marriage.

Guilt may also be mitigated–especially when it is chronic and recurring–by changing the rules. You may leave a religion which is highly legalistic for another less so–or for none at all; you may change your situation or environment to one where the rules can be ignored and not enforced; you may seek counseling to correct perceptions about sexuality or other destructive interpersonal biases or beliefs. Or you may simple practice denial–justifying your behavior through the creation of new internal or social rules, while avoiding or rationalizing the inevitable consequences of your still-errant behavior.

So guilt may be addressed by modifying behavior or changing belief systems, through choice or denial. What then about shame?

Shame–the very word makes us uneasy, striking deeply into the core of our being. For shame is not about what we do, but about who we are. It speaks to a deep sense of unworthiness, rejection, inadequacy, and isolation. It says we are not OK, that what we truly are must be hidden. And this we do with all the energy at our disposal, throwing up an impenetrable wall to keep others out at all costs. For the essence of shame is relational–it says that if you really knew what I was like, you would be repulsed and thus reject me. The resulting isolation–real or perceived–is a devastating threat, engendering a pain so profound it approaches unbearable.

The origins of shame are varied, and not fully understood. We seem to be programmed to interpret certain words and behavior by others–especially parents and siblings in childhood–as not simply critical of our behavior, but a statement of our worth. This is an especially powerful force coming from parents, under whose authority and supervision we are molded into social beings. While this may be especially pronounced in dysfunctional or abusive homes–alcoholism, sexual abuse, and mental illness come to mind–it occurs even in well-functioning family units, and with speech and actions which are not intended as critical or demeaning, but which are interpreted as such. The soil of the soul seems fertile ground to bring forth a tainted crop of shame, even from the seemingly benign bruises of normal human interactions and relationships.

From the Judeo-Christian perspective, this propensity toward shame is understood as rooted in the spiritually-inherited rupture of our relationship with God, manifesting itself in an extreme self-centeredness and self-focus, which acts as a toxic filter letting in the destructive while keeping out the good. Having been born into a state of remoteness from God–perceived at a spiritual level as rejection by Him, though in fact just the opposite–we are acutely sensitized to rejection by others: it fits the mold perfectly. Thus every real or perceived hurt, criticism, or rejection simply confirms that we are rejected, worthless, and of no value. Our self-centered mindset insures that even events not focused on our self-value are interpreted in ways that affirm our sense of shame–hence the child that blames herself for her father’s drinking and abusiveness.

While shame lives deep below the surface–a monstrous child kept hidden from public view–its manifestations are legion, and its ability to percolate to the surface and alter our lives and behavior is formidable. The pain of shame requires response, no less than a hand on a hot stove, and it may be triggered by many means: by concerns about physical size, strength, skill, or ability; by issues of dependency or independence; by competition with others; by worries about personal attractiveness and sexuality; or when dealing with matters of personal closeness and intimacy. Thus triggered, an outward manifestation is inevitable, and will generally fall into one of four general responses:

  • Withdrawal — perhaps the most natural response to pain, we retreat from its source to avoid the risk of exposing our vulnerability. Hence we steer clear of people or circumstances which may trigger shame, withdrawing into a nominally safer–but profoundly lonely–world. This response may range in manifestation from shyness up to deep, pathologic depression or psychosis.
  • Attack Self — The loneliness of withdrawal and isolation is itself a deeply uncomfortable state, and often raises the profound terror of abandonment. To avoid such painful estrangement, many will resort to demeaning and depreciating themselves, thereby becoming subservient to others more powerful, resulting in a condition of dependency. While this may lessen the pain of isolation and abandonment, it further exacerbates the underlying shame by reinforcing one’s worthlessness and inferiority. The relationships so formed are not those of equals, and therefore satisfy the need for true intimacy poorly. Such responses range from obsequiousness and self-demeaning deference to others, to depression, and all the way to masochism, self-mutilation, and suicide.
  • Avoidance — If the shame cannot be eliminated, the feelings most surely can: shame is soluble in alcohol, can be freebased, and its pain assuaged as well by a host of other self-destructive behaviors. One’s choice of drug–chemical or behavioral–is influenced by genetics, neurochemistry, and environment, but all have the common goal of emotional oblivion. Eating disorders, obsessive-compulsive behavior, behavioral addictions to work, computers, gambling, or sex can divert the mind and stimulate sufficient endorphins to make the pain go away–at least for the moment. But the drugs and behaviors only worsen the underlying sense of failure and inadequacy, and lead to fractured and destroyed relationships, loneliness, and sometimes physical illness and death.
  • Attack Others — Rage and anger are common responses to shame, as we seek to defend our threatened worth by destroying the antagonist–or at least diminishing their worth, through sarcasm, criticism, gossip, physical, verbal or sexual abuse, or violence. But as with other coping mechanisms for shame, the outcome is invariably destroyed relationships, and adverse consequences, both legal and personal.

Thus the engine of shame drives a host of behaviors which are both personally destructive and socially disruptive. If you scratch the surface of nearly any dysfunctional personal or social problem–alcoholism and drug abuse, obesity, school violence, inner city crime and teen pregnancy–even international terrorism–you will find at its dark heart the issue of shame. It is, at the very least, a common thread among such societal and personal liabilities, if not a central driving force.

So it behooves us to get a handle on this matter of shame, uncomfortable though it may be. Our responses to its provocations are major causes of personal agony and social crisis. But like a schoolyard bully, once confronted face-to-face, the tyranny of shame can be broken through courage and openness, and the strength of numbers. On these thoughts I will be reflecting in a subsequent essay.

Goodbye, Lil’ Buddy

SmokeyThis is a sad day in our home–we’ve lost an old friend. Our fourteen-year-old Persian cat, Smokey, had to be put to sleep today.

About one year ago, he began to develop some weakness in his hind legs. He was evaluated and found to have some lesions in his spinal cord, which were originally thought to be a parasitic infection called toxoplasmosis. The diagnosis was never confirmed for certain, and several courses of antibiotics were of no avail.

Nonetheless he remained stable over the past year, and was comfortable, although he sashayed when he walked, and had increasing problems with incontinence. This morning he awoke quite ill, unable to eat and with total incontinence. The vet confirmed that he had a severe bladder infection and a paralyzed bladder. We all knew the time had come, and he was put to sleep at noon today.

Mopey–as we always called him–was a special cat in so many ways. Possessed of the laid-back disposition so common to Persian cats, he spent the better part of his life sleeping on his back, and virtually all of the remaining hours looking for food. His culinary tastes were eclectic, to say the least–he loved vegetables, especially green beans, chickpeas, and broccoli. His few athletic moments were in such pursuit, stretched to full length to get at the butter dish on the top cabinet shelf, or trying to open the cabinet latch to get at his cat food, just out of reach. Unlike many cats who self-regulate their eating, Mopey was positively Bacchanalian in his dining habits–watching him eat was like witnessing a Roman orgy. Thus engorged, he would stagger over the to furnace intake vent, where he would loudly meow, the echo amplifying his voice as he envisioned himself the great hunter on the plains of Serengeti, roaring his satisfaction at the kill to impress the pride. Then he would stagger off to sleep in some bizarre configuration, spine twisted, legs in the air.

His pursuit of food was legendary. There was the morning I left my lunch in a paper bag with cord handles–the type Starbucks uses when you buy coffee beans–as I went to brush my teeth. On return, I found him with his head in the bag–not the easy way, mind you, noooo!–but stuck through a handle. I yelled at him, and he took off–racing through the house, me chasing close behind, dragging the bag along with him, enleashed by its handles. Screaming at him to let go of my lunch as I chased him was to no avail, as his normally-ponderous frame leapt forward at a pace to make a cheetah proud. Only a torn handle saved my repast from his ravenous appetite.

Cats are meticulous in their cleanliness–but personal hygiene was not Mopey’s bag. Too much work. He had a spotless area on his chest–the only area he could reach with his tongue without straining; everywhere else was the domain of the great unwashed. His oddly-misaligned teeth reminded one of a scene from Deliverance–you half-expected the banjo to start pickin’ in the background. And then there was the nightly holler: locked away in the laundry room for the evening, he began howling in a rising crescendo, sounding somewhere between a brain-damaged infant and a demonic Dantean vision. Strangers were startled and typically headed for the doors at the sound, politely excusing themselves with stories of children to bed or an early rising which loomed. It was an unsettling sound, even after hearing it for years.

But we will hear it no more, and the loss brings tears to the eyes and a tightness to the throat. He was a friend, a companion, a member of the family, a source of many laughs and the particular aggravations which domestic animals seem uniquely able to inflict on their keepers. Our animals are our friends, God-given gifts to entertain us and foster our most affectionate and protective impulses. They are a blessing–but a blessing which departs all too quickly, their candles extinguished to remind us of our own mortality and the power of love and loss.

We love you, Mopey, and will miss you greatly. May your feline heaven bring you endless meals and long naps in the sun.

Update: My daughter, who is in vet school, sent this video along to lift our spirits.