Drawers’ Choice

     Once upon a time, mackerel jellybeans, one had to be so careful what one said.  Every word had to be measured before uttered, lest it cause offense.  And there were people on the alert for these offenses, so they could point them out to you and cry out to the world that you were unfit for decent society.

     Well, no, I didn’t mean last week on the Interwebs.  I was talking about a hundred or so years ago.

     The dictionary tells me people have worn “pants” since the 1830s, but it wasn’t a word that was supposed to be in wide circulation among the polite.  It may have been its assumed derivation from pantaloons, which was derived from the name of a vulgar clown, or it may have been where they were worn and what they were covering.  “Breeches” was similarly considered rather low class, and one spoke, if one had to speak of the lower garments at all, of trousers, or even, if one were terribly careful, of “bifurcated garments” (garments which forked into two parts.)

     It was not until the 1920s, apparently, that people started to use words like “underpants”, while words like “smartypants” or “fancy-pants” had to wait for the jazzier 1930s.

     And yet, people wore them, and they did attract attention.  Sporty gentlemen, like the elegantly dressed soul above, mighty wear fancy pants indeed.  This was largely discouraged by the refined, except when, say, playing golf.  (A hundred years before that, of course, men thought nothing of walking through the streets in skintight butter-colored…maybe THAT’S why “Regency Dancing” is so popular at pop culture conventions.)

     More likely to be commented on in the 1910s, and even less often to be seen nowadays, were the patched trousers, something which marked the wearer as someone too poor or too cheap to throw away a torn or worn pair of trousers.  Oddly enough, a number of different postcard companies developed lines of repaired pants for sending good wishes to one’s friends.

     Here’s a typical example.  The patches are always on the seat (I used to wear pants until they fell apart, but they never developed holes in the seat.  I don’t know if this placement of patches is a comic stereotype or if I just wore reinforced pants) and the caption is laden with puns.  This goes for a trifecta: rent behind could be slow payments on one’s abode or tears in the seat, while a quarter could be a three-month period or a square of cloth.   Why you’re wishing someone luck by showing the seat of your pants and complaining about yours is a separate problem.

     This is a little heartier.  Black and White is a popular whiskey, so a complaint about winter becomes a little joke between drinking buddies.

     This artist did the same sort of thing, only with a tartan patch.

     Here we are going a little far to make the joke in verse.  This comes from the phrase that no matter how good someone’s luck or talent or intellect may be, it isn’t good enough to be a PATCH on yours.  (Note also that it seems to be a preference among these jokes to refuse to mention the garment in question at all, allowing you to figure out the joke on your own.  Yes, I COULD just have shown these pictures and not explained the text, but that sort of column wouldn’t be a patch on my…okay, okay.)

     So of course you got the joke here, from the use of “check” as an obstacle.  Vocabulary, however, is not the only joy of this study of vintage bifurcated garments.  Have you noticed the different designs of the waistbands, and how most of these patched pants come with a pair of suspenders?  What can we learn about our ancestors from this, Horseradish Éclair?  Did only gents wear belts?  Did men usually hang up their pants with the suspenders still attached (if you had only one pair of each, that makes sense.)  Or can we….

     Very well, we shall conclude with this card which at least shows how our language has changed.  If used on postcards later in the century, this first pun would have had one more meaning.

Show Me the Funny

     And here we are on President’s Day, a holiday observed primarily by government employees and mattress sales.  There are, of course, a number of holidays waiting for us: St. Patrick’s Day, Easter (cue the Cadbury Bunny commercial), the Vernal Equinox, but the most advertised holiday of all is coming in the middle of April.

     So, in anticipation of tax Day, the old joke quiz revisits the subject of money: saving it, spending it, and giving it away.  I am not paying for correct answers: we all know them and, anyhow, they’re at the bottom of the column.

     J1.Barney liked the hotel except for the way he was expected to tip for every little courtesy.  One afternoon, a knock on the door was followed by a call of “Telegram for you, sir.”

     Hoping to avoid the outstretched palm, Barney called back, “Slip it under the door.”

     “I can’t, sir,” came the reply.  “(          )”.

J2.A panhandler stopped me on the street and told me he hadn’t had a bite in weeks.  So (          ).

J3.”Can you spare a dime for a cup of coffee, sir?”

     “I suppose so.  Here’s your dime.”

     “Thank you, sir.  (          )”.

J4.”Can you spare twenty dollars for a cup of coffee?”

     “You can get a cup of coffee for a dime at that diner!”

     “I know, sir.  (          )”.

J5.”Can you spare ten thousand dollars for a cup of coffee?”

     “A cup of coffee doesn’t cost ten thousand dollars!”

     “It does, sir, if (          )”.

J6.”Say, young man, can you tell me how to get to the bank?”

     “I can for ten dollars.”

     “Ten dollars just to give me directions to the bank?”

     “Of course.  (          )”

J7.Barney didn’t know what kind of store he’d walked into until he saw a scarf he liked and asked the woman at the counter, “How much is this?”

     She glanced at it.  “Eight hundred dollars, sir.”

     He reached across the counter and took her wrist.  “And what is this?”

     She blinked.  “That’s my wrist, sir.”
     “Oh,” said barney, “(          ).”

J8.”You won’t co-sign my loan?  Hey, didn’t I lend you fifteen grand to keep you out of bankruptcy in 2002?  Who went bail for your two sons in that used car scam in 2010?  And didn’t I get you out of those grand larceny charges in 2012?  Don’t you remember all that?”

     “Oh, sure.  (          )?”

J9.”It’s beautiful.  But it would be a sin to pay that much for a hat!”

     “Well, Ma’am, (          )”.

J10.”I need a new swimsuit, and I’d like to try on that blue one in your window.”

     “Sorry, Ma’am.  (          )”.

J11.Danny was going through some boxes of papers and cancelled checks he’d shoved way back in the closet years before, and ran across a receipt for a pair of shoes he’d left at a local shoe repair shop before he went into the Army in 1976.  He checked online, and found to his amazement that the shop was still in business, so he took his receipt and drove over.

     With a shrug, he handed the receipt across the counter.  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you remember this.”

     The man at the counter glanced over the piece of paper and opened a ledger on the counter.  “Brown Oxfords, sir?”

     “Why, yes!” said Danny.  “Don’t tell me you still have them!”

  .  The man nodded.  “(          )”.

Unlike the IRS, I do not penalize you for incorrect ANSWERS.

     A1.It’s on a tray

     A2.I bit him

     A3.And here’s your cup of coffee

     A4.I’m a heavy tipper

     A5.you go to Brazil for it

     A6.Bank directors always make a lot of money

     A7.Everything’s so high around here I thought it might be your neck

     A8.But what have you done for me lately?

     A9.The sin will be on your head

     A10.You’ll have to use a dressing room like everyone else

     A11.They’ll be ready a week from Tuesday

Vintage Whine

     I have called sending postcards the equivalent of texting or tweeting a century past.  (The very mention of texting and tweeting makes me seem a century old to numerous people who moved past those things ten years ago, but I can’t see a lot of them reading my blog.)  You could use a postcard to invite someone over for dinner that evening, arrange to be picked up at the train station, or just say “Hi!”

     So, of course, you could also use them to complain.  For those people who wanted to do so, some postcards were printed with the complaints already composed.  Mind you, the golden age of postcards was also one of those landmarks in positive motivational philosophers, and “kicking” (as complaining was popularly known) was a habit to be discouraged.

     Nowadays, if you’re not complaining, you’re not using social media to its fullest.  Posting (or reposting) complaints about anything from international politics to toenail fungus is practically your patriotic duty.  But once upon a time, such habits were heavily discouraged.  Which is what made them so attractive.

     It was an era when you were encouraged to get up and do things.  Working ennobled the soul, and the more sweat-inducing the labor, the better a person it made you.  The world didn’t owe you a living: you had to go out and squeeze money out of that world.  One or two folks, believe it or not, actually complained about this.

     It was different, of course, if you worked up to a leading role in your business.  If you were the CEO, you didn’t have to ask permission to work overtime, and make yourself even nobler.  There were people who complained about THAT.

     The American Dream, as it was called, was to work hard enough to be able to afford a home of your own, even if you had to go out and build it yourself.  Choosing the right spot to settle was, naturally, another source of complaint.

     Naturally, people who worked so hard had little time to send postcards.  Especially as we moved to mid-century, the people sending postcards were those enjoying a brief vacation from their labors.

     And yet, some of them just went on complaining.  Even if they got to get away from their humdrum homes and stay at a hotel, they complained.

     And if they went somewhere specifically because of the sunshine, they complained about it.

     However the weather worked out.

     People who work from dawn to dusk making themselves noble for minimum wage will sometimes just have too grand a set of expectations for their vacations.  And so they complain.

     Of course, there are things to complain about which are consistent whether you are at work or at play.  This one is fairly specific, and dates to an era when the telephone was becoming more widespread.  (This copy weas never sent to anyone.  By the way, who WOULD send a card like this?  And to whom?  Some other day we’ll talk about buying postcards to pin up on your bulletin board.)

     For some people, their life choices have brought them to a state of complaint.

     While others view what life has chosen for them, and complain about that.

     If you want my opinion, complaining is like a lot of other vices.  If you can do it in moderation, it’s actually good for you.  “Venting”, they called it in my younger days, and it was considered very healthy.  It has to be done correctly, however.  Just tossing out insults and calling names (what our ancestors called “knocking” something) will not do you as much good as a good complaint which states your case.  There were postcards to say so, so it must be true.

Hearts On the Plains

     The romance of the Old West was established well before the West had gotten that old.  Bill Nye, writing for the Boomerang in Cheyenne in the 1880s, liked to point out the difference between the West as it was lived and the West as people in the East liked to think of it.  The tenderfoot who arrived in town rigged out in “authentic” Western garb as supplied by a tailor in Newark was always a source of fun to the natives, while his version of the real life of the West was part of what made him one of the leading humorists of the day.  (He would start by pointing out that the average cowhand was more familiar with the handle of a hoe than with a handgun.)

     But the vision of the West, where men were men (and thus called “cowBOYS”) persisted, and postcards followed suit.  The cowboy above, for example, is found on a postcard of 1911, and sails somewhere on the fantasy side between reality and romance.  He’s had a shave recently, I see, and that shirt is mighty bright for something worn under the blazing western sun.  It was just the sort of thing people wanted to see, though, and the recipient, to judge by the back of the card, liked it well enough to paste it in a scrapbook.

     But if readers out East were hungry for details about cowboys, the appetite for cowgirls was ravenous.  It took a special kind of woman to head west, especially in those places where men outnumbered women by thirty or forty to one.  And how wild the Wild West was likely to get when Annabelle headed out for the wide open spaces kept writers of novels, pulp fiction, and postcards (and we must not neglect opera) profitably busy for decades.

     We have already covered this postcard evocation of the late nineteenth century love song Cheyenne, and how the cowboy begged his girlfriend, shy Anne (I still love that gag) to marry him.  Well, this was the direction taken by a multitude of novels of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: one stalwart man, one brave woman, love true and not to be denied by flood, fire, or marauder.

     Or you had the young couple facing the wilderness together, having found each other and decided that he was hers and she was his, and they were eaches.  This romantic vista comes courtesy of the cowboy painter poet (AND postcard publisher) Dude Larsen, who has called this “Dreaming” and has included, on the back of the card, a long poem of the same name .  This is pretty good, for postcard poetry, and tells of the young western couple looking forward to a life together in which their love will overcome hardships and preserve them from big cities with “their modernistic touch”.  Yes, even western writers had a touch of the dreamies when considering romance in the West.

     In more recent years, the fantasy has persisted.  Romance out west is just different.  You don’t see this in your modernistic big cities.  (Or do you?  You must go to better parties than I do.)

     Remember that this is, after all, The West, where men are men.  They know what they’re looking for.

     And the women…well, anybody can pick up a rope, after all.

     And as long as cowboy and cowgirl are happy about the result, who are we to comment?  Happy Valentine’s Day!  (Look, the time zones are different out west, too.  Or maybe I’m just really ready for 2023.)

All Rise

     I know it is Valentine’s Day, and I know that half of you had a really good Super Sunday (while the other half of you ran out of spinach dip in the third quarter.)  But it is Monday, and once again time for our Old Joke Quiz.  (Look at it this way: how will we ever finish with this unpublished book of joke quizzes unless we go through the jokes?)

     I find that this section of the Law and Crime jokes concerns almost solely jokes involving judges.  The judge joke was a staple of comedy just as thoroughly as the basic lawyer joke, and it is probably unnecessary to mention the “Her Comes De Judge”, which would get us into side issues involving The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Rowan and martin’s Laugh-In, Shorty Long, Pigmeat Markham, and enough material for six or seven blogs.

     So, as you eat your chocolates and leftover chicken wings, preparing to get out tomorrow and buy the half-price marshmallow hearts, be grateful you have only these jokes to deal with.

     J1.The judge glared down at the defendant.  “Have you been up before me before today?”

     “I don’t know, Your Honor,” said the defendant.  “(          )”

J2.”What brought you before this court?” the judge demanded.

     The defendant smiled.  “Two ;policemen.”

     The judge snorted.  “Drunk, as usual.”

     The defendant nodded.  “(          )”

J3.The judge thunder, “You have been brought here for drinking!”

     “Ah!” said the defendant.  “(          )”

J4.”Intoxication!” ruled the judge.  “Twenty dollars or twenty days!”

     “Well, Judge,” the defendant replied, “I think (          )”

J5.Down the hall, in another courtroom, the judge announced, “You are acquitted, sir.”

     The defendant frowned.  “Oh, ah….”

     The judge smiled.  “This means you are free to go.”

     “I see, Your Honor,” the defendant replied.  “So (          ).”

J6.In another courtroom, the judge intoned, “You have been found guilty, sir, and this court sentences you to ninety-nine years.”

     “Ninety-nine years!” cried the defendant.  “I don’t have ninety-nine years to live!  No one can do ninety-nine years!”

     The judge glared down at him.  “(          )”

J7.Yet another judge, farther down the hall, was demanding, “Couldn’t this case have been settled out of court?”

     The defendant shrugged.  “(          )”

J8.In divorce court, the judge announced, “This court finds for your wife, and awards her six thousand dollars a month in alimony.”

     The former husband nodded.  “That sounds really decent.  (          ).”

J9.”I was really worried about how the case would come out, but the judge awarded Jeffrey a suspended sentence.”

     “Let him go, huh?”

     “No.  (          ).”

J10.”This court has good news and bad news.  The good news is that your attorney has presented this court with irrefutable evidence.”

     “That’s great!  What’s the bad news.”

     “(          )”

J11.The fence between Heaven and Hell was getting worn down with so many failed attempts by the denizens of Hell to get out.  Though this was clearly the Devil’s fault, he refused to have anything to do with the repairs.

     “I’ll sure you for damages,” God told him.  “And you can’t win, since all the great judges are up here.”

     “Oh, yeah?” said the Devil.  “(          )”

If you should wind up in court one of these days, you’d better know all the ANSWERS.

     A1.What time do you get up?

     A2.Both of them

     A3.Let’s get started

     A4.I’d as soon have the twenty dollars

     A5.Do I get to keep the watch?

     A6.You can try, can’t you?

     A7.That’s what me and this bozo were trying to do when the cops grabbed us

     A8.And I’ll try to slip her a buck or two once in a while myself

     A9.Hanged him

     A10.It proves you’re guilty

     A11.Who do you think has all the lawyers?

Benched

     We have, as the jewelry ads on television keep reminding us, coming up on Valentine’s Day.  (The amount of chocolate in the stores should have tipped you off if you just don’t watch television these days.)  As valentine’s Day itself is a Monday this year, which is my old joke blog day, I thought I would take note of that romantic holiday now.  I know how you weep when the old joke quiz does not appear on schedule.

     But what I thought I would cover is less romantic than practical.  We will consider the sex aids used by our ancestors.  I have noted elsewhere that our ancestors knew about sex.  That’s how they got be ancestors.  And, like their descendants, they knew there were certain pieces of equipment to make the process easier to accomplish.

     I have mentioned before that a very common, and yet somehow scandalous, part of the Victorian household was the hammock.  I am not convinced of the efficacy of this: it seems too unsteady for me (though I admit my experience with hammocks is nil.)  even more common, though, when intimacy was involved on a postcard, was that ancient sexual accessory: the park bench.

     The card at the top of this column is actually part of a series, in which that bench, against a white or blotted out background, plays host to all sorts of different couples moving in on each other.  (One man actually has his arm around the woman’s waist!)  Not all park benches were built for such heavy action, of course.  These circular ones, though handy in the shade, limited possibilities (although they were not likely to topple over backward if an embrace grew fierce.)

     Now, benches had to be chosen carefully.  One is out in public, after all.  This bench is complete devoid of shrubbery for camouflage, so this couple will be subject to critical review if they move from here to, say, kissing.

     This is much more the thing, with trees, and a handy parasol for added hiding.  (She is ALREADY showing her ankles, Oyster Omelet.  What was the next card in this series like?)

     Of course, if you didn’t care, you didn’t care.  (This has to be one of the most famous park benches in the world.  The number of mismatched and homely lovers photographed by the Bamforth Company on that bench, against that backdrop of that fountain, is legion.  These being Bamforth cards, the course of romance almost never ran smooth.)

     Children, no more precocious on cards than in life, knew what park benches were for.

     Even our cute Dutch children took advantage of the outdoor furniture.

     You have noted, of course, another major accessory to a romantic encounter.  That full moon is virtually a prerequisite for outdoor intimacy.

     This continued into a later era of postcards.  The full moon must be looking on, approving of the goings-on.

     Though it must help if the couple are too wrapped up in each other to notice that the moon seems practically ready to make it a threesome.  (They sure don’t make full moons like they useta.)

No Typo, Just a Braino

     Once upon a time, communication was heavily based on print: things you had to read.  Yes,  you must be able to read things posted on social media (except for those high-tech people who post only video.)  But back in those elder days, things which had been printed were fixed on a page with ink.  The writer could not go back and change a spelling or a word if something other than the intended meaning was coming across.

     Books had their errors.  (I have seen a copy of the Wicked Bible, accidentally printed without one tiny word, so that the commandment read “Thou Shalt Commit Adultery”; heads rolled.)  Magazines, which came out more often and had to be assembled more quickly, were a riper field for errors,  Newspapers were better: those had to be put out every day in the big city, and in smaller communities had to be put together by a small staff chosen for gumption and correct politics than for any ability with words.

     But people seeking the accidental joke lived for their church newsletters and church bulletins.  These were often written by some employee who was also opening the mail, talking to congregation members who wanted something done immediately about that hideous doormat in the vestibule, getting in the coal to heat the church, and taking care of other odd jobs.  Small town religious institutions, operating on small budgets and often depending directly on what came in the offering plate, could not afford to hire a superhero who could be an accountant, secretary, librarian, Sunday School teacher, AND journalist.  The result ornamented many a joke column in the cold, unfeeling world.

     It is not quite fifty years ago that I did my stint in the world of religious journalism, preparing a weekly bulletin and a monthly newsletter, almost all of which had to be written by yours truly.  Once I had the hymn numbers in, the names of the lay readers, and the Scripture texts for the service, I was entirely on my own.  And empty space was a sign of failure.

     Now, filling space with words has always kind of come naturally to me.  (My blog posts have inspired writers who tell me, “And here I thought I shouldn’t write anything until I had something to say!”)  When I had to, I could fill space with an entirely uncalled-for editorial.  These large blocks of type served their purpose: they took up space and the reader’s eye skimmed past them, looking for more interesting things to read in the Prayers for the Sick and Wedding Announcements.  In any case, I never had any complaints.  (The only complaint I ever got was for my Wedding Announcements, where I frequently wished the newlyweds the best of luck.  An angry reader demanded to know why luck was being referred to in a godly publication.  I reworded my wishes, not so much to be more godly as to be less of a cliché.)

     But over my writing hung the deadline, enhanced by the technology at hand.  Everything I wrote had to be typed to work on a mimeograph machine: an ink-filled monster which could run off copies of what had been typed onto a stencil sheet.  This was a porous pink or green sheet which the typewriter (no ribbon) cut into so the ink would flow through the letters and print on the page.  Bad enough that the typewriter might cut out too much on a zero or the letter O, causing a black oval on the page, but any spelling error could only be fixed by typing over the letter—immediately obvious—or retyping the whole page.

     After the page was printed, there was no going back: you either had to throw everything away and retype, or go with what you’d printed.  A second printing, if you found you didn’t have enough copies, was intricate: ten to one that stencil sheet, now sodden with ink, would fold over.  No matter how carefully you smoothed it out (getting ink all over), you would have wrinkle lines on the page, showing you’d goofed again.

     Then, if you were mailing the newsletter, you had the joy of using the stencil addressing machinery.  You took ink-stained rectangles, each with an address, loaded them into an ink-stained feeder, and hoped they would move as they were supposed to, printing each envelope just as it was SUPPOSED to (and presumably will…in Heaven.)

     If I created any bloopers in this process good enough to be sent in to a joke column, no one told me, or sent me any royalties.  But my sympathies are with the newsletter writers, whatever postcard publishers made of the unwary sins they committed on the page.  (Though I will say this one has given me some sleepless nights.)

To Have and to Hold, To Gripe and to Scold

     What, is it Monday again already?  Well, you should have recovered from all the fried food we were discussing last week and be ready to tackle another onslaught of old jokes.  This week we go back into the chapter of jokes dealing with husbands and wives.  For those of you who have wondered to his blog for the first time, these are really ancient jokes which have had the punchlines removed.  If you are a true follower of bygone jests, you will not need to look at the answers for help.  And with any luck, you already know enough not to try these at home.

     J1.”That’s what worries me about you,” Maisie told her husband.  “For dinner on Monday, you liked pork and beans.  On Tuesday, you liked pork and beans.  Wednesday and Thursday you liked pork and beans for dinner.  Tonight (          ).”

     J2.”You know,” Rupert told Maisie, “That coat is way too short for you.”

     “Well,” Maisie replied, “It’ll be long enough (          ).”

J3.”Last night my wife dreamed she was married to a millionaire.”

“You’re lucky. (          ).”

    J4.Rupert and Maisie were barely speaking as they drove home from the party.  Rupert, thinking to get in a jab, remarked, “Was that you I kissed over by the bar?”

     Maisie looked at him.  “(          )”

J5.”Why don’t you bake the pies and cakes my mother used to make?”

“I will.  (          ).”

     J6.”There goes Marshall Silberwetter.  You know, his wife made him a millionaire.”

     “What was he before he married her?”

     “(          ).”

J7.Maisie went to a formal dinner with her parents, and was shocked, when the conversation at the table turned to gardening, to hear her father discussing the use of manure.

     “Nother,” she whispered, “Couldn’t you teach Father to behave in public, and say ‘fertilizer’?”

     “Honey,” said her mother, “(          ).”

J8.Rupert stumbled home at 3 A.M. after a party.  ““Lipstick on your collar!” cried Maisie, “Red hairs on your shoulder!  Now I know everything!”

     “Oh yeah?” said Rupert.  “(          )”

J9.”My wife talks to herself.  I think she’s nuts.”

“My wife talks to herself, too.  (         )”

     J10.”I hear Maisie’s husband beats her up every day.”

     “Not really!”

     “Yes.  (          )”

J11.”I never should have married you!” shouted Maisie.  “My mother was against it from the start!”

     “Was she?” said Rupert.  “(         )”

J12.Joey came running home from school.  “Dad!  Dad!” he shouted, “I got a part in the school platy!  I play a man who’s been married for thirty years!”

     “Don’t worry,” said Rupert.  “(          ).”

J13.Not every wife is like Maisie, of course.  Take my wife.  (         )

     J14.My husband has the world’s most even disposition.  (          ).

J15.”All the realty good-looking men are conceited.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  (         ).”

     J16.I didn’t know what true happiness was until I was married.  (          )”

J17.”Today in school we learned that a bigamist is a man with one wife too many.”

“Well, actually, kid, (          ).”

     J18.”Last night I lost my wife in a poker game.”

     “That must have been rough.”

     “I’ll say.  (          ).”

These jokes went out of style completely in the 2010s, but when they make a comeback in years to come (because no joke, no matter how bad, ever actually dies) and come that day, you will have all the ANSWERS.

     A1.suddenly you don’t like pork and beans!

     A2.before I get a new one

     A3.Mine dreams that in the daytime.

     A4.What time?

     A5.When you make the money your father used to make

     A6.A billionaire

     A7.It’s taken me all these years to get him to say ‘manure’.

     A8.What’s the capital of Iceland?

     A9.She thinks I’m listening.

     A10.He gets up at 5 and she sleeps until 7.

     A11.How I’ve wronged that woman!

     A12.Maybe next time you’ll get a speaking role.

     A13.Please.

     A14.He’s always cranky.

     A15.I’m not.

     A16.And then it was too late.

     A17.You don’t have to be a bigamist for that.

    A18.I had to fold with three aces.

Pour Choices

    There is no excuse whatsoever for posting this on what is, after all, NOT a Food Blog, and certainly not a blog for works of intentional fiction.  But I ran across one more picture of a soldier peeling potatoes, and was reminded of the ketchup question.

     I do NOT put ketchup on any type of fried potatoes, but I have numerous friends who would not feel they had French fries without ketchup for dipping.  Is this what led to all the dipping sauces now available for chicken tenders and such?  That’s for some FOOD blog to consider.

     But I have had only a few friends who went further and put ketchup on their fried eggs, usually eggs over easy.  Even the Interwebs seems to feel ketchup is more normal on scrambled eggs, not plain fried eggs.  But once upon a time, to steal a phrase, I was inspired by some CEO who answered an accusation about his hiring practices by saying, “I don’t care any more about what my employees do in the bedroom than I care whether they put ketchup on their fried eggs at breakfast.”  I wrote the following fairy tale.  No one published the masterpiece, for reasons which as usual are a mystery to me, but that leaves me free to slide it in here.    (Sorry the soldier and potatoes have nothing further to do with our blog.)

     In a kingdom far away there lived a beautiful princess, who was beloved by the people of her father’s kingdom except for one thing.  She put ketchup on her fried eggs at breakfast.  “Weird,” said the Queen.  “Grotesque,” said the Cook.  But she was a princess, and seemed normal otherwise, so they let her have her way.

     But this led to a problem when the time came for her to be married.  Princes and knights came from across the world to ask for her hand, but the princess was wise enough to insist that any of her suitors join her for breakfast.  On learning of her ketchup habits, many went right back home.  Others professed their undying love, but were so green in the face, this did not fool the princess at all.

     Still others insisted they ALWAYS ate ketchup on their fried eggs, and wouldn’t think of having them any other way.  The princess sent these blokes home, too.  “Suppose I change my mind,” she said.  “Sometimes I like my  eggs scrambled, with no ketchup, and sometimes I like a fried egg on my ham sandwich, and I never put ketchup on ham sandwiches.  Anyway, why should I marry a man who loves me only for my ketchup?”

     One morning, she went out to have breakfast on the south lawn, taking a frying pan and some kindling, as well as eggs and a bottle of ketchup, along with milk, bread for toasting, bacon, and other vital accessories to a nutritious breakfast.  The South Lawn was very picturesque, and bordered on a large forest, where unicorns were occasionally seen.

     The princess did not expect to see unicorns—most of these are known to be averse to ketchup and/or fried foods, but neither did she expect to see a small dragon.  It was easily fourteen times her size, and as she was picnicking alone (no one wanted to watch her put that ridiculous red stuff on her eggs again), she could only brandish her butter knife and tell the snarling, spitting beast to go home.

     “Let me help!” came a call from the forest, and a rather roadworn knight came charging out.  The dragon whipped around and knocked the knight over with its tail, whereupon the princess, remembering the bottle of hot sauce she had at the bottom of the picnic basket, ran over and began to toss this sauce across the dragon’s face.

     The dragon was startled, but hot sauce doesn’t hurt a dragon nearly as much as it would us.  But while he was facing the princess, the knight got up and, drawing his sword, poked the dragon in zseveral spots dragons do not like to be poked.  The princess, quick of mind, sprinkled the hot sauce on these sore spots, and soon the whimpering dragon scampered back into the forest.

     “Thanks for your help,” the princess told the knight.  “Would you mind joining me for breakfast?  I have bacon and eggs…and ketchup to put on the eggs.”

     “Ketchup on fried eggs?” demanded the knight.  The princess’s heart sank.  “Well, that sound interesting, Milady, but I brought my own provisions with me.”  He drew a packet out of his pocket.  “I have pickles and beer and a couple of fried egg sandwiches with mayonnaise.”

     “Mayonnaise on fried eggs?” demanded the princess, who had never heard of such a thing.  She saw the knight wince, and took his own tactic.  “That sounds interesting.  Have a seat while I light the fire.”

     So the princess and the knight had a long breakfast, with fresh fried eggs and ketchup, cold fried egg sandwiches with mayonnaise, and milk and beer and pickles and bacon and each realized they had found an interesting companion as well as a new taste sensation.

     So they were married, and lived happily ever after.  And how they had their eggs in the happy everafter is no more any of your business than it is of mine.

Choosing Sides

     I prefer not to use this space for controversial matters.  There are plenty of other blogs devoted to spreading division and discontent.  I’m just here to toss around a few factoids and have some fun and maybe sell some postcards.

     But one of my coolest and most loyal readers has asked me for an extension of my blog on hash brown potatoes.  (This is also not a food blog, by the way.  I’ve mentioned this before.)  He wanted to know a little more about the potatoes he gets at his favorite dinner.  He asks for fried potatoes, and gets what they call American Fries.  He has also, in his pursuit of fried potatoes, been served Cottage Fries and Home Fries, and wondered what gives.

     (He also causes conniptions by declining offers of ketchup/catsup or  hot sauce for his potatoes, preferring a sprinkling of black pepper.  We can get into condiments for potatoes and.or fried eggs some other time when things are too peaceful round here.)

     It was before my time, but my parents’ first fight after marriage was about the making of fried potatoes, that is, whose mother made them correctly.  My father’s preference won out, and I didn’t think much of it until I was cooking for my mother’s father one day and made fried potatoes.  These caused a stare of amazement, upon which my grandfather said, “Oh!  Potato chips!” and downed them with apparent, though possibly feigned, gusto.  So this is something matters.

     So let us consider our terms, and explore the differences.  Pan-fried Potatoes is a general name given to any potato fried in a pan.  It is the custom nowadays to BAKE your fried potatoes, which confuses a twentieth century soul like mine.  (“Frying” is a technical term referring to cooking something in added fat or oil.  You do not, thus, technically FRY bacon: you pan-roast it, because unless you have an unusual recipe, you do not add any fat to the pan before you cook your bacon.)

     Back to potatoes.  Cottage Fries are big and round, cross sections of whole potatoes, and apparently, these days, most often roasted.  They look to be a quarter to a half inch thick, and, if your potatoes are fat enough, four or five of these are a healthy serving.

     American Fries, as proposed by online chefs. are evenly divided between something like Cottage Fries and something like Steak Fries, which are another matter.  I see a number of recipes which make the round ones of leftover boiled potatoes, but others are made from fresh potatoes.

     Home Fries are LIKE American fries but are always round or cubed, and much more often made with leftover boiled potatoes, or potatoes you have boiled just for this purpose (I think fresh potatoes give you a crisper fry, myself. But we’ll get to my mother’s recipe presently.)

     House Fries is a lesser used term for Home Fries.

     Steak Fries are almost always wedge shaped, made by cutting a whole potato the long way into six or eight wedges.  The skin is often left on (we can get into THAT subject some other time, tool; ho with your heart) and very frequently baked in the oven.  These tend to invite the most creative seasoning, and one finds all manner of Worcestershire, Tabasco, Sriracha, and other variations.

     Bistro fries are basically Steak Fries, although they are often thinner wedges.

     I am sure I am leaving out a few synonyms, but I would like to get to the meat of the potato now.  I admit I did not spend days hunting down fried potato recipes, but I must state that nowhere did I find a recipe or a picture file dealing with my mother’s fried potatoes, which are, by extension, my father’s mother’s fried potatoes.  I do not, as mentioned hereintofore, wish to cause trouble.  But in the name of preservation, at least, this is how my mother taught me to fry potatoes.

     Take the square cast iron frying pan.  (We did not sue the word skillet in my house: local preferences.)  Heat up enough bacon grease in this to coat the bottom of the pan generously.  Too much oil will make your potatoes greasy, which is an abomination.  (We kept leftover bacon grease in a cup in the fridge.  YOU will have to figure out what to do for yourself.  You may use other oils.  Just don’t write and tell me about it.  I don’t care.)

     Peel a large potato, one with a good, firm grip on life.  If it is a large potato, quarter it.  We do not intend to turn these slices individually, so large round slices will NOT stay intact through the process.  Slice said potato sections.  An eight of an inch thickness is generous.  Being able to see the edge of the knife blade through the potato is a little thin.  But we do NOT want the slices to be uniform.  That is boring.

     You can do all of this, by the way, with leftover boiled potatoes, though the slices will need to be thicker so they’ll hold together, and the result will have a different texture.

     I hope you did most of the slicing while the grease was heating in the pan, so you don’t have smoke or the fire department or anything distracting while you cook.  Put the sliced potatoes into the hot grease.  If the layer is the right depth, you will have minimum spattering.  Let the potatoes fry.  Turn regularly with that instrument you usually use for flipping fried eggs.  The thinner slices will become crisp right across, while the thicker ones will stay mildly meaty in the middle.  If the edges are getting black, you’ve gone too far.

     Turn out the potatoes into a bowl lined with a paper towel: if you have done this correctly, a little grease will come with the potatoes to be soaked up by the towel.  Sprinkle with salt (and pepper or onion salt or garlic powder, but don’t tell my mother.)  Serve while hot.  What you should have is a bunch of quarter to half dollar sized slices not quite as crisp and thin as potato chips.  The result goes with meat, fried eggs, warm sandwiches, what have you.

     No, don’t…okay, if you want ketchup or gravy on them, do your own thing.  My mother gave up on you when you put the black pepper on.