Author: beachbumpoppy

Ode to Okra

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Okra

Is there any vegetable more Southern than okra? Is there any vegetable more funky than okra?

Fuzzy on the outside, slimy on the inside, it can range from the ridiculous to the sublime. In Poppy’s opinion, boiled okra would be on lower end (slimy), but I can’t imagine gumbo without okra, both for its taste and as a thickening agent. Dipped in buttermilk then coated with a lightly seasoned flour-cornmeal mix it can be pan or deep-fried with excellent results. But if you are wanting to eat a little healthier (occasionally I do), then nothing beats roasted okra.

Roasting (IMHO) improves the taste of most vegetables, and okra is no exception. What starts out as fuzzy and slimy ends up crunchy with a divine nutty flavor.

Preheat your oven from 400° to 425°. Slice the okra into 1/4″ to 3/8″ thick pieces, depending on your preferences and diameter of the pods.

Toss the cut okra in a bowl with just enough EVOO to give it a slight coating. Arrange the slices cut-side-down on a foiled lined baking sheet wiped with a thin coating of EVOO. Expect to roast the okra for at least 30 minutes in a convection oven. I normally set a timer for 20 minutes, just to check on its progress. You can add some Panko crumbs or seasoned bread crumbs at this point if you want a little extra crunch, but lately I’ve skipped this part. If you’re ambitious, turn the slices for the final minutes of roasting.

Once the okra has achieved a proper level of crispness and browning, remove from the oven.

My favorite way to finish this dish off, is with a pinch of Cajun seasoning and a sprinkling of freshly grated parmesan cheese.

By now you’ve noticed that something is missing from this post … a photo of the finished product!

I’m going to blame my family for this error. It gets eaten before I can take a photo. My grandson in particular eats this stuff like popcorn, by the handful.

If you get a chance to roast some okra and want to send me a photo of the finished dish, I would love to use your photo in this post.

The Shadow and the Tree

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lincoln-1859

“Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing” – Abraham Lincoln

The design was unremarkable. The message was simple.  If it had not been on the eve of the second presidential debate, the t-shirt would have probably gone unnoticed.

Our family had just finished touring the Abraham Lincoln museum in Springfield, Illinois (which is excellent). As with all good American attractions, we were instructed to “exit through the gift shop”. Front and center upon entering the gift shop was a circular display filled with black t-shirts of various sizes. They all bore the same inscription in simple white letters … “I miss Abe.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” I thought to myself, “what I wouldn’t give for a good Lincoln-Douglas debate right about now.” Of course that was not to be, and instead we had Hillary and Donald.

Arriving back at our hotel, I fired up the iPad and started to catch up on the events of the day. I’ve made it a habit to switch between Fox News and CNN for my news feeds. It’s interesting to observe how two different news organizations can spin the same story in such opposite directions. Many times they pick entirely different stories to cover without even a pretense of neutrality.

Following both news feeds is an attempt on my part to get a balanced perspective. I can’t tell that it’s working.

What was working, was that after spending ten minutes reading about the latest shenanigans from both candidates, I was thoroughly depressed.

I thought about character. I thought about principles. I thought about personal values. I thought about Abe.

I’m sure over the years we have romanticized Lincoln to some extent. But we have enough of his writings, speeches and notes, not to mention the recorded history from the newspapers of that time to have a pretty accurate picture of the man.

I thought about our current crop of candidates.

I thought about character some more.

Do we, as a nation, care about character anymore?

Hilary and Donald seem to be in a race to the bottom. It’s as if they were in some perverse video game where the goal is to collect the seven deadly sins as bonus tokens during their free fall. And then when they have arrived at the bottom, jump up in front of us and say, “Vote for Me.”

Are we so desperate to align ourselves with a candidate that mirrors a particular position we hold, that we are willing to accept anything?

Let’s bring it a little closer to home:

  • Suppose you’re on the board of a worthy non-profit organization and you discover that the treasurer is skimming money meant to help those in need. But the treasurer holds the same views as you do on immigration and health care, so you let it slide.
  • You find out that your city councilwoman is taking bribes to award city business. You’re upset by that, but their stance on gun control and gay marriage is the same as yours, so you let it go unreported.
  • You discover your pastor is having an affair with the church secretary. You’re not happy with that, but the pastor agrees with your position on abortion and foreign policy, so you accept his immorality.

Of course those examples are ridiculous, no moral person would look the other way on any of those scenarios … why then do we accept such a lack of character, morality and principles from our candidates for the highest offices of the land?

I’m not so naïve as to expect perfection from anyone, let alone politicians. Backroom deals, chicanery and tomfoolery (to be polite) have been a part of politics since the beginning. But traditionally they were kept in the backroom, they were kept secret. Why?, because the majority of Americans would not have tolerated those behaviors.

Why do we now accept those behaviors? We have witnessed things in this campaign that would have derailed candidates in previous election cycles. And now that we have accepted the lowest common denominator, where do we go from here?

I miss Abe!

Addendum –

“Okay Poppy,” you’re thinking right about now … “you’ve shot your mouth off, what do you suggest”?

I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you a few things that have helped me.

Take an inventory of your values-

I can place mine in three buckets. In the first group are issues that I have some opinion about, but are of little importance to me. The second group contain issues that are important to me and all other things being equal, will be a deciding factor. The third group holds values that are to me, inviolate. I would never vote for a candidate who does not uphold that value.

Your values will vary, for me there is only one issue in that third bucket because I believe it to be literally a matter of life and death.

Understand your rights-

As an American citizen you have the right to vote.

As an American citizen you have the right to not vote.

If voting for either candidate for a particular office violates your conscience, then don’t do it. Don’t be guilted into voting for someone you don’t approve of or fall prey to the faulty logic of … “If you don’t vote for him, it’s a vote for her or if you don’t vote her it’s a vote for him.” It cuts both ways.

Demand better-

We don’t have to go back all the way to Lincoln to find principled candidates. It was not so long ago, that I could have pointed to the Republican and Democratic candidates for president and while I might have preferred one over the other, I believe both were of good character.

We all know principled men and women of good character. They exist! Demand more of everyone running for office on every level from dog-catcher to the POTUS. Don’t settle for click-bait. Get involved!

See you in four years!

Having “Skin” in the Game…

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At the time, I didn’t know his name.

All I knew was that I was in a hurry and he was partially blocking the entrance to the Shop N Save. He looked to be about 14 or 15 years old. The August heat radiating off the pavement, caused a thin sheen of perspiration to coat his ebony skin, soaking into his jeans and dark grey sleeveless t-shirt.

“Excuse me,” he said, holding up his hand motioning for me to stop.

Here it comes, I thought, He’s going to ask me for some type of handout.

He didn’t disappoint. His approach was direct and to the point.

“I need some money for the bus, could you help me?”

I’m quite sure there is an invisible sign floating over my head that only people who are panhandling can see. It says, “Soft Touch” or “Easy Mark”, or something to that effect, with an arrow pointing down at my head.

“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t have any cash on me.”

He paused for just a second then said, “Could you give me a ride then? It’s just down the street,” as he pointed in a southerly direction.

“What’s just down the street?” I asked, incredulous at his bold approach. Between my less than stellar hearing, the ambient street noise, and his thick inner-city dialogue he mumbled something that I didn’t quite catch. “I’m sorry, what’s just down the street?” I repeated.

“You know, it’s next to the Walgreens” he said with equal parts exasperation and desperation, “It’s not that far.”

Still not understanding everything he was saying, I said, “I’m going to get my groceries,” and walked past him into the store. I had less than a dozen items to pick up but that still gave me plenty of time for an internal debate.

It’s not my problem … he’s young, it won’t kill him to walk a few miles … but it’s 95° …what if he tries to carjack me? … he’s a skinny kid, I could take him … but what if he has a gun? … he’s only 14 or 15 … even 14 year olds have guns these days … if he was intent on carjacking someone, would he hang out in such a visible spot? …it’s just not smart to let a total stranger in the car with you … but he seems so desperate … I could go out the other entrance to the store and circle around to my car, he would never see me …it’s not my problem … I can spare 10 or 15 minutes out of my life to help someone .

I paid for my groceries. Not bothering to take a shopping cart, I balanced my two small bags of groceries in each hand and headed out of the store. He was sitting on the ground, back pressed against one of the brick columns that ran the length of the store. His arms wrapped around his bent legs, forehead resting on his knees, he was the picture of dejection.

“You ready?”

He glanced up and jumped to his feet, “Yes.”

I shifted the bags in my right hand to my left and introduced myself.

Tentatively he took my offered hand, “Maurice,” he replied.

I loaded the groceries into the back of the SUV while he climbed into the passenger seat. Opening the driver’s side door, I took one last inventory of my companion before settling in behind the wheel. “So, Maurice, where are we headed?” I asked, still not understanding exactly where he wanted to go.

“I’ll show you, it’s not that far,” he said trying to reassure me. “The people from the store let me hang out, I tried to earn some money by helping people with their groceries, but nobody wanted any help,” he volunteered.

Still trying to puzzle out his desired destination I asked, “So do you live on that street by the Walgreens?”

“Oh no,” he replied quickly, “I live in the city! That street goes to the bus station.”

“If you live in the city, how did you end up out here?” I asked.

“I was supposed to meet my cousin, but I took the wrong bus. Now I don’t have any money, I’ve got to get home … this is the worst day of my life!” he blurted out.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Maurice, I really hope this is the worst day of your life, but if you live very long I can pretty much guarantee this won’t be the worst day of your life.” Before my eyes the young black man I had viewed as a potential threat morphed into a kid … lost, confused, and just trying to get home.

“How much is the bus fare?” I asked.

“With the transfer, it’s $3.00, but if I ask the driver maybe they will let me ride for free.”

Good luck with that, I thought to myself.

“Let’s see what we can do.” I said, “There is always some cash scattered around in the truck I keep for tolls and such.”

“Can we look?” he said excitedly.

I pulled off the road and started rummaging through the cup holders and console. The drink holders yielded 79¢, the console revealed a long forgotten crumbled one-dollar bill along with some more change. I passed the loot over to Maurice bit-by-bit as he totaled it up.

“How are we doing?” I asked.

“We’ve got it!” he exclaimed.

When we arrived at the Metrolink station, a much more confident young man thrust his hand into mine and said, “Thank you.”

With his head held high and a bit of strut in his walk he made a beeline for the bus.

I’ve thought about Maurice several times since then. He told me what school he would be attending this fall; I have a fairly good idea what part of town he lives in … the odds are not in his favor.

I’ve lived in two houses built in 1890. I’ve learned to fix a lot of things. But the things I can fix pale in comparison to the things I can’t. I can’t fix racial strife and inequality. I can’t fix abusive police officers. I can’t fix the divisiveness of Black Lives Matter. I can’t fix either of the Presidential candidates or even top 40 country music, and that’s just scratching the surface! So why even worry about it?

I’ve flirted with Apathy. I’ve considered going steady with her. If I totally committed to her and embraced her, maybe life would be simpler … I wouldn’t have to worry about all those things I can’t fix. But Apathy will never be my mistress, you see I have skin in the game.

My grandson, whom I love more than life itself, is biracial. I see him as an amazing young man bursting with undeveloped potential. Society will see him as a black man.

Already tall, when he reaches the age of Maurice, he will tower over me. Five years from now, will he engender fear when he approaches a sixty-something white man? Will he receive extra scrutiny when he walks into an upscale store? Will he be viewed as an automatic suspect by police?

I don’t like the term white privilege; I find it simplistic and divisive. Privilege exists on an almost unlimited number of levels that are beyond our control or influence. If you are born into money, you will have advantages that others don’t. If you are born with perfectly symmetrical and proportional features that fit our definition of beauty, you will have advantages that others don’t. The majority of CEO’s are male, over six feet tall and have full heads of hair. Life is not, or ever will be, a level playing field.

While I may not like the term, white privilege, it would be naive not to recognize that my grandson will face challenges that I never had to face. Only by recognizing and acknowledging these challenges will we ever reduce or eliminate them. However, having challenges that I have not had, does not make him a victim. Not being born beautiful, rich, or having any of those other advantages does not make you a victim.

So where do we go from here as a society on the myriad of racial issues that face us as a species?

It would be the height of hubris for me to pretend I have the answers to those questions, but I can tell you how I would like my grandson treated (and by extension the Maurice’s of the world).

  • I want him seen as an individual, not as a member of some monolithic block. As an individual he will decide what types of food and music he will enjoy. As a unique person he will decide who to vote for. As an individual he will choose his friends, his educational path and his profession. I never want him instantly categorized on any level based on his appearance.
  • I want him to be held accountable for his actions. I want him to be judged but not prejudged.
  • I want him to be given a fair chance, but not to receive special consideration based on his skin color. I don’t want him awarded a ribbon for just showing up. A couple of years ago, I taught him to play chess. He has yet to beat me in a game of chess. One day he will best me, and on that day, he will know he has earned that victory.
  • Most of all I want my grandson viewed as child of God. Steinbeck wrote, “The great change in the last 2,000 years was the Christian idea that the individual soul was very precious. Unless we can preserve and foster the principle of the preciousness of the individual mind, the world of men will either disintegrate into a screaming chaos or will go into a gray slavery.”

What do I want from my grandson?

I want him to take the bullet points above and flip them around, so that he treats everyone in the same fashion I want him treated. I want him to always be grateful for the privileges he has and never look down on those with less. I want him to love God and country. I want him to live by these simple but profound words from William Shakespeare, “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”

And now the question that haunts me; If my grandson wasn’t who he is, would I have given Maurice a ride? I’m not sure … Poppy, 10/15/2016

chess

*Well, it finally happened, he beat me in a game of chess! … Poppy 9/21/2017

Poppy’s Honest Burger

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HonestBurger1

Buckle in … somewhere in with a great bar story and some musing is a recipe.

Is there any food more American? The hot dog, apple pie … forget about it. The burger is debated, ranked, written about and fought over. Fast food empires have been built on the humble hamburger.

I was tempted to call this “Poppy’s All-American Burger.” But that seems a little pretentious and my glass-half-full personality wants to believe, despite the current crop of politicians, that there is still honesty to be had in this great country.

It seems so simple, right? It’s a slab of ground beef between a bun … how hard can it be?

Until recently, I made it hard, I added spices, secret sauces, an egg to bind everything together. I cooked them here, I cooked them there. Were they edible? Yes. Was it a great burger? No.

It got so bad my family steered me away from making, as they called them, “homemade burgers.”

At that point my pride kicked in. I experimented, I researched, and most importantly I thought about the places that served up good burgers.

My favorite bar story…

There was a bar and grill in my hometown of Ferguson, Missouri (yes that Ferguson) that served up a great burger. This was not a fern bar. There was nothing trendy going on here, the regulars were unpretentious, the drinks were strong, the décor was “early attic”, it got cleaned once a month whether it needed it or not, and it delivered great burgers.

The lady that worked the day shift (Let’s call her Brenda) tended bar and did a little cooking as the need arose. At the end of her shift she moved from one side of the bar to the other. She ceased being an employee and became a customer. This coincided with the time I would normally stop by to get some take-out burgers for the family.

I honestly couldn’t say how old Brenda was, but I could say with conviction, she had not had an easy life.

I was seated a few stools down from Brenda where she was regaling the regulars with a story of her abusive ex. She related the time he pushed her up against a wall, thrust the barrel of a pistol up against her forehead and pulled the trigger. Brenda was still with us, so either the pistol was unloaded or it misfired.

She paused for a moment, bringing back the memories of that day, then said quite calmly, “you know … the funny thing is, that was the same gun I shot him with.”

My to-go order arrived about that time and I left with some good burgers and an even better bar story.

That bar eventually got bought out and cleaned up. The menu was expanded and food prep efficiencies were put into place. Unfortunately, the quality of the burgers suffered. The bar had an old-fashioned walk-in freezer some distance from the kitchen. With the old bar, when more burgers were called for you would see one of the kitchen staff walk by with a platter containing a mound of ground beef. The burgers were formed by hand, the shape and even the size varied, but they were always good.

Today the burgers are cooked from pre-formed patties … they are consistent in shape, they are consistent in size, unfortunately they are not as tasty. Aaahh progress.

Ok enough reminiscing Poppy … out with the recipe!

Here is what I have learned. As with most things in life, the simpler the better.

Start with ground chuck, it has the right mixture of meat to fat. We don’t like to talk about fat these days, but without it your beef would be dry and tasteless.

Unless you have a commercial grade griddle like that old bar in Ferguson, you are going to need a good cast iron skillet.  I don’t try to fit more than two burgers in a skillet. I have two cast iron skillets, but if you just have one don’t despair. Done Poppy’s way these guys cook up so fast you can rotate burgers in and out of one skillet and keep everyone happy.

Speaking of fast make sure your beer is cold and your side dishes are ready to go because these burgers are done in minutes.

The trick here is heat and nothing delivers heat better than cast iron.

Coat your skillet with a thin layer of vegetable oil or any oil with a high smoke point, not butter. Then crank your burner up to high and turn on your exhaust fan.

I usually go for 1/3 pound burgers and create a simple ball of ground chuck in that size.

When your skillet starts to smoke drop those balls of ground chuck in and immediately flatten with a good sturdy metal spatula. I know this goes against many theories of burger cooking but give it a try!

When you see the browning start to creep up the sides of the patties flip them over. Even though you have oiled the skillet you may have to use a little force here.

As soon as the patties are flipped, sprinkle them with a 50/50 mixture of salt and coarse ground pepper. Nothing fancy here, just simple and honest.

At that point add cheese if desired. I use a slice of provolone and a slice of medium cheddar, but let your tastes be your guide.

Because cast iron retains heat so well, I go ahead and turn off the burners. When the cheese has softened, transfer them to the buns and let them rest for a couple of minutes. Add your condiments of choice and enjoy!

(Spend the extra buck and buy some good buns)

… shown with roasted potatoes, sweet onions and zucchini.

(and don’t forget the exhaust fan)

Enjoy!

A Big Salute!

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DDay

I’m finally getting around to reading, “The Greatest Generation.” On this Independence Day I’m willing to say, shame on me. I’m humbled and proud at the same time. If it were in my power, I would make this required reading for every American.

From the book … “This generation was united not only by a common purpose, but also by common values­­ – duty, honor, economy, courage, service, love of family and country, and, above all, responsibility for oneself.”

When I read of the “sappers” (the soldiers at the front of the first wave on D-day, whose job was to find and detonate the land mines) who had their limbs blown apart but shot themselves full of morphine so they could stay conscious long enough to direct the men following them to safety, serving as human markers … I’m not too proud to say I choked up.

When I compare that to our current national debate over who can pee where … I’m speechless. Continue reading “A Big Salute!” →

Of Guns, Manatees and J.S. Bach

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GunsManateesBach

Driving cross-country gives you plenty of time to think. Maybe too much time.

The second and final leg of our journey home started just south of Chattanooga.   We were on the road by 7:30 Eastern time. Somehow, knowing that we were on the cusp of gaining an hour, moving from the Eastern to the Central Time Zone, felt like we had gotten an earlier start. The family, or at least the members that were with us (1 wife, 1 daughter out of 2, 1 grandchild out of 2, and 2 dogs out of 3) quickly settled into their traveling routines of napping, reading, and checking phones and iPads, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I rewound the events of the last week and played them back. We over-ate in moderation at a myriad of good restaurants, caught lots of sun but avoided any burns, and collected a fair amount of shells without turning it into a job. One night I introduced my grandson to “The Princess Bride.” By any measure, our week on Sanibel Island, was a success. The highlight being a guided fishing excursion in pursuit of snook. The bonus part of that expedition came as we waited on the docks of Jensen’s Marina for our guide. A large group (herd?) of manatee was frolicking at the marina. Having never been a manatee, I don’t know what was going on, but my best guess would be that they were intent on perpetuating their species. In any case they were more active than any manatees I had seen before.

Unfortunately, my rewind of last week’s events included much less pleasant events: the killing of a young singer, the slaughter at the Orlando nightclub, and a the death of a 2 year-old at Disney. Any one of those events is cause for dismay, but coupled together in the span of a week they were downright depressing. Continue reading “Of Guns, Manatees and J.S. Bach” →

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

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MomOnBillySunday

Mom astride her pony, Billy Sunday, preparing to ride in a parade (circa 1927). Mom claimed he was given this name by my grandfather because the pony was acquired on a Sunday. I have a suspicion there may be a little revisionist history going on here. By all accounts my grandfather was far from a religious man, I can’t prove it, but suspect that the obstinate and sometimes ill-tempered pony was christened thus to poke fun at the famous evangelist rather than pay homage to him.

Nobody outside of our family will care that the pony my mother was riding in the photo at the top of this post was named “Billy Sunday.” This is knowledge that can’t be obtained by “Googling.” This is information that is of no interest beyond a select few individuals, but it is a part of who I am.

Sometime before my mother lost her eyesight she had the foresight to go through our collection of old black and white family photos. With a soft pencil in her scrawling delicate script she inscribed on the back of each image the names of the people pictured along with the location and approximate year as her memory allowed. She told my brother and me that she was doing this because we would not know or remember the details she was recording.

She was correct.

Sure, I recognize most of the people captured on the prints primarily because they are shots of immediate family. Others however would be unknown to me if not for my mom’s record keeping.

Sadly, it has taken me years to have a real interest in my roots and my family’s history. My self-absorbed teenage years blended into my 20’s and 30’s which were only slightly less self-obsessed. Fast forward a few decades and now I would love to sit down with Mom and Dad and have them fill in some missing details from their early years. Dad passed from us in 2012 and a hundred years of living has worn Mom’s memory thin, it skips and jumps like an over-played cassette tape.

I’ve transferred Dad’s 8MM movie film to DVD’s and now have boxes of 35mm slides to go through. Continue reading “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” →

Roasted Potato, Onion and Spinach

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RPO3

I’ve been on a roasted potato kick lately, this is a variation of Poppy’s Cajun Roasted Potatoes. This time I’ve added sweet onions and wilted spinach.

It couldn’t get any simpler or more delicious. Cooking for three tonight (with planned leftovers) I cubed 4 scrubbed Yukon Gold potatoes (skins intact) into 3/4″ cubes. This was followed by dicing a medium-sized sweet onion into equally sized segments. While the oven was heating to 400°, the potatoes and onion were tossed with a couple of tablespoons of EVOO, then spread on a foiled lined baking sheet. The potato and onion chunks were then treated to a generous grid of coarse black pepper and a sprinkling of Cajun seasoning.

RPO1

Ready to go into the oven, I set the timer for 35 minutes. I had my oven set to roast with the convection turned on. Your mileage may vary, but don’t sweat it, an extra few minutes won’t hurt anything.

While the potatoes and onions were roasting (and sending a marvelous smell throughout the house), I chopped 4-5 ounces of baby spinach and tossed it in a skillet with a very slight drizzle of EVOO. Stir on your stove top with a medium to low setting until the spinach has wilted. remove from the heat and set aside.

RPO2

Once the potato and onion mixture is done (slightly browned), transfer them to the skillet with the wilted spinach, toss then sprinkle with some fresh ground grated Parmesan and you are good to go.

Tonight this served as a side to Poppy’s “Honest Burger”, but that’s a post for later.

RPO4

Cajun Roasted Taters

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Taters2

I love this because it’s easy (read, I’m lazy), because it tastes great, and is at least semi-healthy.

Preheat your oven to 425°

Start with some medium-sized Yukon Gold potatoes or similar. Scrub them  but leave the skins on. Quarter the spuds long ways and coat with olive oil. Place on a foiled lined baking sheet (for easy clean up … did I mention I was lazy?) Arrange them skin side down.

CajunTaters1

Sprinkle the potato wedges with some Cajun seasoning and some coarse ground black pepper. In my convection oven they stay in for 30-35 minutes. They emerge with some delightfully browned crunchy parts with a soft center.

If you want to get fancy you could add some diced sweet onions about half-way through the roasting cycle or some fresh grated parmesan about 5 minutes before the potatoes are through roasting. These browned beauties don’t require any butter or sour cream. They are the perfect side dish to just about anything.

This is almost too easy, this post is less than 200 words and I can’t think of anything else to add.

Oh yeah, enjoy!

EasyTastyHealthy

Hazel vs. Hillary vs. Donald

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hillary-trump

I try to stay away from politics in any form of social media. I’ve seen people so ready and willing to give everyone a piece of their mind, that they have little remaining. But gazing across the current political landscape I can’t help but comment and to shake my head and say, “Really, Is this the best we’ve got?”

Feeling a little down and hopeless, I remembered this incident in John Steinbeck’s brilliant, light-hearted novel, Sweet Thursday. It brightened my day, hopefully it will also provide a brief escape for you.

A sequel to Cannery Row, this story takes place after WWII as the characters are returning home from the war.

First, an introduction to some of the characters:

Hazel, one of the bums. Steinbeck describes Hazel’s mental status like this.

“Hazel was in the Army long enough to qualify for the G.I. bill, and he enrolled at the University of California for training in astrophysics by making a check mark on an application. Three months later, when some of the confusion had died down, the college authorities discovered him. The Department of Psychology wanted to keep him, but it was against the law. Hazel often wondered what is was that he had gone to study. He intended to ask, Doc, but by the time Doc got back it slipped his mind.”

Fauna, the madam of the local whorehouse, who gives horoscope readings. Continue reading “Hazel vs. Hillary vs. Donald” →