THE JANUARY SPORTSMEN'S BULLETIN

JANUARY 2008
Editor: Mike O’Neil – 101 Rambling Road, Vernon, CT 06066 boreegard@comcast.net
Staff: John Mundt, Karl Van Valkenburgh, David Foley, Jim Duda

Purpose: To entertain and occasionally inform our members.

From DEAD CERTAINTIES (unwarranted speculations)
By Simon Schama

At the Face of the Cliff
Anse du Foulon, Quebec, four a.m., September 13, 1759

‘Twas the darkness that did the trick, black as tar, that and the silence, though how the men contriv’d to clamber their way up the cliff with their musket and seventy rounds on their backs, I’m sure I don’t know even though I saw it with my own eyes and did it myself before very long. We stood hushed on the muddy shore of the river, peering up at the volunteers. They looked like a pack of lizards unloosed on the rocks, though not so nimble, bellies hugging the cliff and their rumps wiggling with the effort. We couldn’t see much of ‘em for they disappeared now and then into the clumps of witherd cedar and spruce that hung on the side of the hill. But we could feel the squirming, pulling labour of it all. And by God they were quiet alright. Now and then a man’s boot would find a foothold he thought secure and away would come a shower of soft dirt, near taking the fellow with him down the cliff. Curses come to a soldier as easy as breathing, but we heard none that night, not at the start of it all. Some scoundrel later put it about that the General himself had struck off the head of a man who curs’d too loud when he dropped his pack to still any who should think to do the same. But that was never the General’s way. Though he had the temper in him of a red-hair’d man, he was an orderly commander who liked things done by the Regulations, and it would go damned hard on any poor infantryman who thought to help himself to the spoils of war, be it just a goat or a pig, when all the killing and running was done.
I suppose the silence told Wolfe the game was in earnest. For had bodies come tumbling down or firing started from the top he would have stopped it right there and then. For all his soldierly zeal he was rattled by the cliff when he had jumpd from the landing boat and come to its face, and could see the height of it, near enough two hundred feet and the sheerness of it. “I don’t think we can by any possible means get up here,” we heard him say, “but we must use our best endeavour.” And so it fell to the turn of the Twenty-Eighth and we started to haul ourselves over the black limestone, reaching for stumps and scrubby patches of chokecherries and hawthorn that covered the nether part of the hill. By some cumbersome means we lugged ourselves up a bit at a time, skinning our hands, dirtying our breeches and praying the next but of scrawny stick and leaf was deep enough rooted to hold us up. One thing was sure, our coats and leggings weren’t made for such work, for they flapped and pinched as we dragged ourselves up; and I could swear the Rangers who were fitter dress’d for it sniggerd as they saw us struggling with our tackle. Indeed the whole business seemd perilous, vertical folly and nothing the King of Prussia would have commended. We all feard it might yet go badly as it had done in July at the Montmorency Falls where the French had peppered us with grapeshot and the drenching rain had turned the hill into a filthy slide. Men had come tumbling down in a mess of blood and mud and fear, and those that couldn’t run were left to face the Savages as best they could, poor beggars.
But our fortunes were fairer that night for when the sentries challengd our boats as we saild upriver, Mr. Fraser he answered them in French good enough to pass and even threw in an oath or two against the English bougres for good measure. And we were all glad of the Scotchmen this time, even the Highlanders, for of Delaune’s first men up the rocks they were all Macphersons and Macdougals and Camerons and the like. A good crew for a general who had fought on Culloden Field! And here too they did the King good service for I had no sooner got to the very top and was rejoicing and taking good care not to look down behind when our men gathered together amidst the tamaracks and the spruce. Before us were a group of tents, white in the first thin light of the coming dawn, and of a sudden a commotion and shouting broke forth. A Frenchy officer came flying out in his nightshirt as we loosd off our first rounds and sent them running across the open fields towards the town leaving a few of their company shot or stuck with our bayonets wearing that surprised look on their face as they lay there amidst the pine needles and brown grass.
Once the peace was broken and we were masters of the place and the French guns, we set up a huzzaing and men down below threw themselves at the hill, Wolfe first of all, they said, and suddenly the rocks were alive with soldiers, Rangers and Highlanders and Grenadiers groping their way to the top. Monckton even managed to find a zig-zag path, two men wide, to lug our field-pieces up. The boats that had dischargd the first men went back to fetch some more from the ships, and after an hour or two we stood in the dawn light, a cool spraying rain coming down, maybe four thousand of us, more than we had dar’d hope but not so many I still thought as would come to a prize fight at Bartholomews Fair, too few for the business.
Monckton and Barre formd us up again in our lines, smartly enough. The Grenadiers formed to our right and the Forty-Third, Forty-Seventh and the Highlanders to our left, Mr. Burton’s Forty-Eighth behind us in reserve and Townshend and the Fifteenth at right angles. Better though our situation was than we might have expected, there was not a man jack of us but didn’t feel the scare of the battle crawling through his uniform and was glad of the two days rum we had got issued. The General put some heart in us, coming to our lines to talk of duty and the King and what our country expected of us and all of Canada at our mercy if we but prevail this once. After he died they made him look like a Roman, even on the penny prints I have seen, but he lookd no Roman to us. For though he was six foot, he carried that height queerly, in a loping gait, with his bony frame and sloping shoulders ending in a poke-up neck. What was on top of it bore little resemblance to the Antiques either, what with his pop eyes and his little chins wobbling under his jaw, his skin the colour of cheese and a snout on him like a ferret. Nor was he much a humorous man, more in the melancholy way. Brigadier Townshend did some scribbles of him peering at the latrines or measuring the height of his reputation which got passed around the camp and gave us some mirth in the midst of our adversities, but they pleasd their subject not at all. Yet he was a good general to trust, even if it was his fancy to call us “brother soldiers,” for he was fearless and would walk before the men under fire, pointing his cane like Old Gideon’s staff, and we followed sure enough.

On the Heights of Abraham
Nine a.m., September 13, 1759

An ill day for a battle we thought, hard to see our enemy with the wet mist hanging on the hill betwixt us and them and the rain falling. When the low sun appear’d it shone straight in our eyes as we faced the town where the French were musterd in front of the walls. So at the start we heard more than we saw, first their drums in the clatter of some pieces and the low sound of men beginning their march. The General knew we were as much afraid as any men in such a position, who could have no way back and were held from going forward, so he came along the line to us and spoke some words to help our resolve and keep us still until it was time to fire.
We were tried, God knows, for as they came closer, the first musket shots came, cracking and hissing through the air and amidst the long grass, and from behind the cover of trees to our right we could make out Indians coming closer, some of them creeping on their bellies. Some of our men fell to their shot without ever making a move, like tin soldiers at a midsummer fair, and this gall’d us so our hands trembled and shook at our muskets and mixd fear and rage, the more when we heard the Savages whooping and yelling. Then we made out the grey uniforms of the French coming at us at a trot and yelling and singing that they supposd us turning tail at the sight of them. If God’s truth be told we damn’d nearly did so for directly behind me, a fellow dropp’d his musket and crumpled on the ground and cried in a low way he was shot before he stoppd squirming and was at peace. And I heard others about me swear and pray and another set up a little moaning under his hat, for we could now see them very plain two hundred yards, no more, coming at us, some breaking into a run then dropping for cover and advancing again. It was an irregular jerky movement like tongues of fire darting hither and thither but all in our direction.
. Still we held our pieces and the General himself he showed us his face and he was smiling an odd smile and holding his arm up and I could see his other hand had been shot away for there was blood on the sleeve of his fresh coat. And I could hardly bear to keep from going off for that flowing liquid feeling poured through my bowels and my heart banged inside my breast. No more than a hundred paces maybe and we could see their own faces now, their wigs all dirty and their run a kind of drunken stumble. Out of the corner of my eye I just saw Wolfe shout and drop his sword, the flash of it in the sun and the whole line barked out its volley; and we were sheltered in the great noise and smoke and smell of powder and dropp’d down to reload while the fellows at our backs let off their shot. We had done this so many times down below on the islands till it seemd a cloddish piece of obedience but now it servd us well as the volleys came so close together they made one great hellish thunder over and over again, echoing inside our heads and making our eyes swim and our throats choke. And when all that working and tamping and discharging were done and Mr. Monckton ordered the cease, the silence seemed to come from a great hole we had torn in the body of their army. For as the light came through the smoke and the din faded, we could hear terrible screaming and saw the slaughter we had done and their backs running to the town. The Highlanders began their shouting and with the skirl of pipes set after the French their broadswords out, but I was glad we didn’t follow for I had little stomach for it.
Then up comes the Captain and tells me to take a message to the General to say our line had held and the enemy was put to flight. And I had rather it had be another man; I was tired at all we had done last night and this morning. But I obeyed and ran over the field stepping through blood and faces upturned in death and a few horses, poor beasts their bellies all spilld open. But the General was nowhere that the Brigadier had said, nor wherever I looked and I was making to go back down our line when I suddenly saw him, lying on a mound beside a sorry little bush attended by just two men, one leaning over and supporting Wolfe with his arm. Mr. Browne, for that was his name, was begging him to lie and shouted at me to come fast and help. I approached Wolfe and saw his face had gone stiff and greenish and his red hair glistened with sun and sweat. Blood had matted his belly where another ball had struck him and now more was oozing through his shirt and coat, so seeing he would not live I told him our news and in a groaning, gurgling sort of way I could hear him praise God for it.
























‘Twas the Week Before Christmas”
A Trout Fisher’s Wishes

By Judy O’Brien Van Put
December 20, 2007

‘Twas the week before Christmas and all through our streams
The trout were the subject of trout fishers’ dreams.
Both children and grownups were snug in their beds
With thoughts of “the big one” that danced in their heads.
Ed had shut down the woodstove and added a log,
And I’d just finished walking dear Tessie our dog.
I looked up above and saw stars shining bright,
A comfort to see on this cold winter’s night.
The horses were fed and asleep in the barn,
And the chickens were roosted, all fluffy and warm.
With a sigh of relief that the chores were all done,
We retired to our bed and were glad we were home.

When out in the yard there arose such a clatter
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Then Tessie the beagle let out a big howl,
To protect all her family from beasts on the prowl.
With the moon shining brightly and stars all aglow
It appeared to be daytime on objects below.

As I peered up the mountain, no beasts did I see
Just an owl that hooted from his perch in the tree.
The road was quite empty, for it was dead of night
But from down by the river I saw a great light!
There was no time to waste as I pulled on my hat,
Jumped into my boots, coat, and tripped o’er the cat

I raced toward the river, through the woods I went crashing –
Saw the light in the sky and then heard a loud splashing
My heart was a-thumping, I wanted to shout
As I saw a tremendous and colorful trout!
He was big, he was bold, and he made quite a sight –
He was covered with scales that reflected the light
but what was most amazing, too strange to be true
was the fact that he had not just one head, but two!


The great trout of legend, I’d discovered the BEAMOC!
Who lived in both Beaverkill and Willowemoc!
The fish who inhabited the Junction Pool
Had swum near our house, this was totally cool!
As I thought about taking a photo or two,
The light started to fade, and the big fish did too….
I felt myself slipping into the “green deep”
When I found Ed was shaking me out of my sleep….
It was all a great nightmare (but one without fright!)
Happy Christmas to all fishers, and to all a good night!



Baby Jane and the Skunk
(A springtime reminiscence from Boreegard)



It occurs to me there are certain words that are seasonal, to the point of being used or even remembered, just once or twice a year. And after their brief run up the verbal flagpole they are taken down, refolded, and stored neatly back in the hope chest, there to rest patiently among the mothballs until next year’s resurrection. “Ides” is one of them—how often do you think of that word except around March 15th? The one I really love is that lumpy three-syllable presager, HARBINGER—you know, as in “the harbinger of spring.” [Editorial aside: did you know that there’s a wild flower called harbinger-of-spring? I didn’t. It’s a small tuberous early blooming North American herb (Erigenia bulbosa) of the family Umbelliferae, with ternate leaves and umbellate white flowers.]
Besides the arrival of robins and the renewed chorus of peepers, the vernal signs we contend with at 101 Rambling Road are the evidences our various cats bring us that nature is indeed awakening. This was overwhelmingly evident last Saturday night around 10 o’clock when Baby Jane scratched at the back door to be let in. Baby is one of our daughter’s two cats currently in residence (along with us and our four) here at Casa O’Neil. She is a sweet little three-year-old marmalade hunter who doesn’t like it when you pet her on the back—head only, please.
It was immediately and shockingly obvious that she’d just tangled with a skunk. Loudon Wainwright III (son of Life Magazine’s stylish essayist Loudon Wainwright) once wrote and recorded a tongue-in-cheek folk masterpiece titled “DEAD SKUNK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD—STINKING TO HIGH HEAVEN.” His song’s refrain cautioned that the realities of a dead skunk “are gonna make you swoon.” But the smell of an incautious highway polecat, perceived as you whiz by at 55 MPH, is nothing. It is a mere ghost compared to the real flesh and blood thing.
There are no words adequate to describe what a serious, close range application of a skunk’s glandular secretions really entails. Webster’s refers to it as “intensely malodorous”. Its pungency is over powering. It causes headache, runny evacuation of the sinuses, shortness of breath, and a compulsion to get as far away from it as possible. Baby Jane’s face and head were literally dripping with the stuff.
This, in retrospect, reinforced two things that I knew about her. She is, true to her species, curious—much too curious. And she is dumb as a post. This was the second time in less than a year that she’d made such a nocturnal overture to a skunk—each with the same result. Even now, a week after the incident, having been thoroughly scrubbed twice (bath # 1 was a mix of tomato juice and cream of tomato soup; bath # 2 was a concoction of white vinegar, dish detergent, and pure well water) she carries the faint hint of her former rankness. You notice it when you bend over to kiss her on the head or to whisper a secret in her ear.
Yes, we’re close to our cats in this house. Love me? Then love my cat.
Spring has sprung around here, for sure.

“Whan that Aprille, with her showres swete,
Then skunke inspir’d is, to wolk on padded feete,
And younge feline, is drawn to walk apace,
Perchance to lerne a lesson, as the perfume hits her face.”

Vernally yrs,

Geoff C.

Dialogue on the Ausable
By Oscar Godbout
(from The Gordon Garland)

He said he was an old man. He said it with a touch of pride. His age was indeterminate; his seamed face gave few clues.
Clearly, he was worn and tired. His hands were gnarled and twisted, crafted that way by a lifetime of hard work and arthritis. He worked on construction jobs six days a week. He spent his last winter in a hospital, but didn’t say what the trouble was. His name had a Chaucerian ring to it, but he asked not to have it printed.
He squatted beside my campfire and accepted a cup of tea, offering a cigarette in return.
“I thought you looked like a fly fisherman,” he said, looking at the rigged rod. “I’m a wet fly man. Never could seem to get the hang of dries. But I get enough fish. Not enough really big ones though.”
He flipped the creel open with the tip of his boot. Inside the firm-fleshed bodies of rainbows and browns glistened.
“Guess I got enough for supper,” he said. “I’m camped below you here aways. Pretty river to camp on, ain’t it?
“Course, it ain’t like the old days. Fish this river all my life. Back before the war, why I’d go down on that big flat stretch below here and I wouldn’t have to move out of that one pool.
“The fish were big then. What I mean is, you could expect to get into a four or five pound fish. It wasn’t surprising then. I mean, now to latch on to a three-pounder, why that’s something.
“That’s all gone now. Just about nobody came back in here then. Still ain’t too many bothered to get down here in the woods. Fishermen are lazy, you know that?
“It’s all going—fun, The fishing, the hunting—you know that? This is the last of it, and a sorry end too. Ten, 12, 13 inch fish.” He snorted with disgust.
“Eating fish. That’s all. I got five kids, one’s 5 years old. You know what I’m teaching him? To fly fish for bluegills. There ain’t nothing left here on the streams for him.”
He adjusted his hat, stiff with age, grime, fish blood and many wettings.
“I don’t want him to think that catching these miserable little hatchery trout is fishing,” he continued. “Oh once in a while you get hold of a nice fish now, but not often. I mean, the really big one that makes you know what you are standing in the water for.
“Guess if I had the money and time I’d go up to Canada for the big trout and salmon. But five kids and a wife take a lot of groceries. So I sneak out here and camp when I can get an extra day off. Does me good, I mean, just to be fishing the river and out in the woods. I guess that’s all I want.
“But I don’t think I’m going to be having that much longer. They don’t care about the fish and deer, you know that? The politicians, I mean. Every year they got a new bunch of kids buying licenses. That’s all they want. The license sales.
“Well, he said rising, “guess I’ll go fry some trout. Love trout. My wife says if she had spots, I’d fry her with a little butter.
He laughed at the family joke and picked up his creel and rod. A few steps took him outside the light of the fire and into the blackness of the woods.
“Enjoy yourself,” he called back. “There ain’t much more left. If you need anything just come down the river and ask.




The Editor’s Canard

People have their own idea about how to cook duck properly. That makes sense, because there are so many different types of canard. Not being a hunter—thus not privy to the more natural, athletic wild bird—I must make due with what the supermarket offers. This is a rather fat-laced farm bred bird, known generically as Long Island Duckling here in the east. Not sure what they might call it in Seattle. To make it palatable one most somehow deal with the excess fat, so that the final presentation has melted and drained most of it. What follows is a method of roasting that allows the melting fat to self-baste the duck, even as you apply a more traditional basting liquid for taste.

INGREDIENTS

A five to six pound duck.

Honey.

A mixture of dried or fresh herbs and garlic (tonight I’m using rosemary, thyme, and sage).

A cup of orange juice and white wine for basting.

TO DO

Split the duck—i.e. cut it in half.

Prick the skin (not the meat) thoroughly with a fork or other sharp instrument.

Place the duck on a roasting pan with a rack* in a pre-heated 400 degree oven—cover with aluminum foil and cook for 20 minutes.

Remove foil. Prick skin. Cut off the breast portion and set aside.

Spread a layer of honey on the leg and thigh portion and cover with herb mixture.
Reduce oven temperature to 350 degrees and return to oven for 15 minutes
.
Return breast (covered with honey and herbs) to the roasting pan. Prick, prick, prick. And baste all with the OJ and wine. Put in oven for 15 minutes.

Continue basting and pricking every 15 minutes for the next half hour (for medium rare) or 45 minutes (for medium). You do not want a well done, juiceless, dry ducky. Yucky.

To make cleanup much easier, you might do this: Presuming you’re using the conventional oven roasting pan, equipped with removable slotted cover, put a layer of aluminum foil on the cover. Slit the foil over the slots. Fill the pan itself with about a quarter to a half inch of water. If you don’t do this, be prepared to scrub burned duck fat drippings half the night through. You don’t want to do that, now do you Ducks?

Mike O’Neil
December 9, 2007



Auld Lang Syne
By Robert Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And never brought to min'?Should auld acquaintance be forgot,And auld lang syne?
For auld lang syne, my dear.For auld lang syne,We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,And pu'd the gowans fine;But we've wander'd mony a weary footSin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidled i' the burn,From morning till dine;But seas between us braid hae roar'dSin' auld lang syne.
And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,And gie's a hand o' thine;And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught,For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,And surely i'll be mine;And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yetFor auld lang syne.

CHRISTMAS AT SIX

Christmas at Six

Somewhere is the Christmas list I crayoned out to Santa,

Somewhere are the ashes from the evening’s lovely fire,

Somewhere are my parents, who swept me off to bed,

To dream of the saint who would soon shoot down our chimney.

All of that is here, as I number sixty-six.

Somewhere.

Boreegard

December 24, 2007

Happy X-Mas to Us

Happy X-Mas to us


First Lady Patty Rowland's poem


(WTNH) _ Here's the transcript of First Lady Patty Rowland's poem delivered at the Middlesex Chamber of Commerce breakfast delivered Dec. 17, 2003.

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, except me, the first spouse.
I was waiting for Santa, that jolly old elf,
to give him the list I'd drawn up for myself.

For I'd hung all the garland and tinsled the tree,
and festooned the house for the public to see
.I'd sent all the card to our friends far and near,
and thanked all our staff for their hard work this year.

I'd shopped and I'd wrapped all my gifts full of love,
for our five picky teens, the black lab and the gov.
I'd kept quiet and calm, through December's dark storms,
protecting my family from those who wish harm.

So now it was my turn to get Santa's ear,t
o tell him what I wanted for Christmas this year.
When out on the yard there rose such a hub-bub,
I thought maybe Jon Lender had jumped in the hot tub.


Now surely that man needs to go soak his head,
but there on the lawn stood Santa instead.
Come in dear Santa, and rest for a while,
I've got cookies and milk, I said with a smile.

I'm late said Santa, my last stop took hours,
all that coal I delivered down the (Hartford) Courant's tall towers.
They used to be good girls and boys, Santa said,
but the poison pen's power has gone to their head.

And I had the same problem at the media stations,
they've just simply forgotten good human relations.
Their thirst and their hunger for the day's biggest story,
has earned them black coal for their ill-gotten glory.

Oh Santa, I said, that is sad I agree,
they've acted like Grinches who've stolen our tree.
They've whipped themselves into a mad feeding frenzy,
they've embarrassed our children and our mamma McKenzie.

For this is the season for joy, peace and love,
of forgiveness that comes from our Lord up above.
Time for compassion to give what we can,
to lift up the spirits of our dear fellow man.

Ho Ho Ho, said Santa, I'd say that's the gist,
now why don't you tell me what's there on your list.
Dear Santa, this year, bringing warmth to those cold,
and safety each day to the young and the old.

Bring our soldiers home safely, without any hitches,
and give evil-doers a kick in the britches.
Help the lonely find love, and the lost find their faith,
take the drugs off our streets so our children can play.
Give our teenagers wisdom and courage and health,
show them family and friends are the best kind of wealth.

And last but not least for the man next to me,
a new year that's peaceful and refreshingly free,
of rumors and hearsay that do nothing but smother,
the positive works we should do for each other.

This man who has given you many years of his life,
who has stood tall and strong, throughout good times and strife.
He has championed our cities, our schools and our arts,
he's made sure that our children are ready and smart.

He doesn't get bullied by big union bosses,
who picket and whine and dwell on their losses.
He's the man with the plan for the good of our state,
and he won't let the press twist and turn our state's fate.

So please Mr. Santa, won't you grant me this plea,
And tackle this list that I've drawn up for me.

Santa stood up and gave me his hand,
That's quite a tall order, but I'll do what I can.
I'll spread Christmas cheer to each city and town,
to each man, woman, child, and I won't let you down.

He jumped in his sleigh, and as he flew out of sight,
he said Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.



Former Gov. Rowland gets a year in prison for graft

By Matt Apuzzo and John Christoffersen, Associated Press
NEW HAVEN, Conn. — Former Gov. John G. Rowland was sentenced to a year in prison and four months of house arrest Friday for selling his office in a corruption scandal that destroyed his career as one of the Republican Party's brightest and fastest-rising stars.
The judge imposed the sentence after Rowland pleaded for leniency and confessed that he had lost his way morally and developed "a sense of entitlement and even arrogance."
"I let my pride get in my way," the three-term Republican told U.S. District Judge Peter Dorsey.
Rowland, 47, pleaded guilty in December to a corruption charge, admitting that he sold his office for more than $100,000 in chartered trips to Las Vegas, vacations in Vermont and Florida, and improvements at his lakeside cottage. He resigned last summer amid a gathering drive to impeach him.
The sentence was less than the 15 to 21 months called for in the plea bargain, and well less than the three years prosecutors said he deserved. He was also sentenced to three years of probation.
"I am ashamed to be here today, and I accept full responsibility for my actions," he said.
Dorsey has a reputation as one of the state's most sympathetic judges and Rowland's attorney is trying to cast the three-term governor as a dedicated public servant who was betrayed by his subordinates.
He recruited dozens of people to write letters on Rowland's behalf, including state officials and Yale University President Richard Levin.
"I truly hope that people would remember John Rowland for the good he has done, rather than the mistake he committed," wrote state Rep. Selim Noujaim, a Republican from Rowland's hometown of Waterbury.
In a sentencing memo filed Thursday in U.S. District Court, Rowland's attorneys blamed his former co-chief of staff, Peter Ellef and contractor William Tomasso for much of the corruption. Both are under federal indictment.
Prosecutors, in their own sentencing report, argued Thursday that Rowland has a history of deceit and unethical behavior and that he only admitted and apologized for after it threatened his political career.
Rowland is expected to address Dorsey before he is sentenced on Friday.
Rowland soared through the political ranks, rising from legislator to congressman to Connecticut's youngest-ever governor at 37. He was an admirer of President Reagan and a friend to the Bush family. President Bush appointed Rowland to White House advisory committees and affectionately called him "Johnny."
But since the corruption scandal broke in 2003, Bush has kept his distance. Rowland resigned as chairman of Bush's re-election campaign in Connecticut, and when Bush came here to speak, Rowland stayed away.
Through it all, Rowland maintained that he never did anything wrong and predicted the corruption investigation would never touch him.
But with his former deputy chief of staff, Lawrence Alibozek, cooperating with prosecutors and Ellef under federal racketeering indictment, the pressure on Rowland became too much.
Rowland's plea deal avoided almost certain indictment.
If a judge sends him to prison, Rowland will become one of more than a dozen former governors to serve prison time and only the second in New England. The first was former Rhode Island Gov. Edward D. DiPrete, who was sentenced to a year in prison in 1998 for bribery, extortion and racketeering.

Here’s a recipe and little story about what Mima and PaPa are going to have for dinner tonight in a snow and ice-laden New England home.

PaPa Bo
December 19, ‘07


Julia’s Happy Anniversary Soup

Dateline: San Antonio, Texas, February 21, 2005

In order to celebrate their wedding anniversary and go to a warmer place, Mima and PaPa flew down from the wintry land of steady habits to the sunny land of the Alamo and mooched off Daddy and Mamma, Griffin and Julia at their newly erected yellow and white palace which is situated on the South Central Texas ridge known as Silent Hollow (where the deer and the antelope play—well, the deer anyway).

The day before they marked their anniversary, Mamma and Griff and Julia took Mima and Papa to the zoo. It was a fine warm day, and after visiting their favorite animals (the kangaroos, the lion and tiger, and of course the giraffe), they settled in at the wading pool on the sandy beach, where the management had thoughtfully provided a good number of plastic buckets, trowels and other implements to have fun with the sand. And while the little possums had worn their bathing suits for a bit of wading, they spent most of their time making an imaginary soup that later inspired the real thing. Griffin used the big shovel and provided the stock (sand) for the bucket (soup pot), while Julia provided handfuls of sandy ingredients with PaPa helping with a little culinary advice. It went something like this:

Julia: Should we put in carrots PaPa?
PaPa: Good idea.
Julia: Otay (as she put a handful of sand in the bucket).
PaPa: How about some white beans and chopped arugula?
Julia: Good idea (as she put two more portions in the pot).

And after the soup was completed, Mamma said, ”You know, I think I’d like to have soup for dinner tonight.” PaPa volunteered to make it, which he did, with Julia standing on a chair helping. It was a mighty fine soup, and not surprisingly it had many of the ingredients from Julia’s sandy zoo soup, without the sand of course.

Here’s the recipe:

INGREDIENTS

2 tbsp. olive oil
2 tbsp. butter
1 pound chouriso, cooked and chopped
1 onion chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced and chopped
1 medium sweet pepper, chopped
a 14.5 oz. can of Italian diced tomatoes.
2 14 oz. cans of chicken stock.
2 16 oz. cans of white navy beans
Fresh spinach, rinsed and chopped.
INGREDIENTS (CONT’D)

Baby carrots, as many as you think there should be.
Salt and pepper to taste.


TO DO

In a pot, cook the chouriso in the oil. Then drain on paper towel and dice.
Add butter and sauté onion, garlic, and sweet pepper.
Add tomato and diced chouriso and simmer, covered, for 5 minutes.
Add stock and beans, bring to boil and then simmer, covered, for twenty minutes. Stir occasionally.
Add spinach and carrots, cover, and continue to simmer until carrots are tender (about 10 minutes).

This produces enough soup to feed the remnants of Napoleon’s army after his winter Russian debacle. Six or seven hungry Americans will also do it justice. Serve with warm French bread.



Soups on!

PaPa Boreegard.

FRUITCAKE IS FOREVER

SUNDAY OBSERVER; FRUITCAKE IS FOREVER
By RUSSELL BAKER (NYT) 723 wordsPublished: December 25, 1983

Thirty-four years ago, I inherited the family fruitcake. Fruitcake is the only food durable enough to become a family heirloom. It had been in my grandmother's possession since 1880, and she passed it to a niece in 1933.
Surprisingly, the niece, who had always seemed to detest me, left it to me in her will. There was the usual family backbiting when the will was read. Relatives grumbled that I had no right to the family fruitcake. Some whispered that I had ''got to'' the dying woman when she was in extremis and guided her hand while she altered her will.

Nothing could be more absurd, since my dislike of fruitcake is notorious throughout the family. This distaste dates from a Christmas dinner when, at the age of 15, I dropped a small piece of fruitcake and shattered every bone in my right foot.

I would have renounced my inheritance except for the sentiment of the thing, for the family fruitcake was the symbol of our family's roots. When my grandmother inherited it, it was already 86 years old, having been baked by her great-grandfather in 1794 as a Christmas gift for President George Washington.
Washington, with his high- flown view of ethical standards for Government workers, sent it back with thanks, explaining that he thought it unseemly for Presidents to accept gifts weighing more than 80 pounds, even though they were only eight inches in diameter. This, at any rate, is the family story, and you can take it for what it's worth, which probably isn't much.

There is no doubt, though, about the fruitcake's great age. Sawing into it six Christmases ago, I came across a fragment of a 1794 newspaper with an account of the lynching of a real-estate speculator in New York City.
Thinking the thing was a valuable antique, I rented bank storage space and hired Brink's guards every Christmas to bring it out, carry it to the table and return it to the vault after dinner. The whole family, of course, now felt entitled to come for Christmas dinner.

People who have never eaten fruitcake may think that after 34 years of being gnawed at by assemblages of 25 to 30 diners my inheritance would have vanished. People who have eaten fruitcake will realize that it was still almost as intact as on the day George Washington first saw it. While an eon, as someone has observed, may be two people and a ham, a fruitcake is forever. It was an antique dealer who revealed this truth to me. The children had reached college age, the age of parental bankruptcy, and I decided to put the family fruitcake on the antique market.

''Over 200 years old?'' The dealer sneered. ''I've got one at home that's over 300,'' he said. ''If you come across a fruitcake that Julius Caesar brought back from Gaul, look me up; I'll give you $10 for it.''
To cut expenses, I took it out of the bank. Still, there was that backbreaking cost of feeding 25 to 30 relatives each Christmas when they felt entitled to visit the family fruitcake. An idea was born.
Before leaving town for a weekend, I placed it on the television set. When burglars came for the TV, they were bound to think the antique fruitcake worth a fortune and have it in some faraway pawnshop before discovering the truth.

By Monday morning the television set was gone, all right, but the fruitcake was still with us. ''I should have wired it,'' I told Uncle Jimmy. ''Burglars won't take anything that isn't electronic these days.''
Uncle Jimmy was not amused. ''You're a lucky man,'' he said.

Lucky? Bankrupted by an idiotic faith in higher education was what I was.
''Lucky!'' he shouted. ''Don't you know there's a curse on the family fruitcake? It is said that a dreadful fate will fall upon anyone who lets the family fruitcake pass out of the possession of the family.''

That didn't really scare me. Still, it couldn't hurt to play safe. After that, I kept the fruitcake locked in the crawl space under the kitchen. This afternoon, I shall bring it out again when 25 to 30 relatives come to dinner, and afterward we will all groan as people always groan when their interiors feel clogged with cement.

I now suspect Uncle Jimmy of lying about the curse. I suspect the dreadful fate carried by the family fruitcake is visited upon the one who inherits it. I wish I had a relative in the higher-education business so I could will it to him.

Now, here's something of a curmudgeonly nature for you.

Bo--


When I Am Old

by Ray Nargis

When I am old I shall wear a ball capFrom the St. Louis Browns
Because my grandfather once played in their farm system,
Or maybe a John B. Stetson hat, three-corner fold,
Four X and black chinos with both suspenders and a beltAnd the knees ripped out,
not as a fashion statement,But from work.
And black biker boots and a T-shirt with the slogan"I'm Working On My Issues.

"I'll use a walking stick and not a cane
And have a key ring with about a hundred keys
And I won't know what any of them open and I won't care.

When I am old I'll drink whiskey in the morningAnd coffee at night
And laugh and spit and swear wherever I want.
When I am old I'll help Girl Scouts across the street
Even if they don't want to go

And I won't have a car
And I won't have a bike
And I'll walk everywhere.

When I am old I'll have a dog named Sam Peckinpaw
And some summer's morning I'll lock up the house
And old Sam and I will walk over to see one of my sons
Even if he lives two states away

.When I am old I'll tell people exactly what I think of them
And surprisingly, most of the time it really will be good stuff.
When I am old I won't have a TVAnd I won't have a radio
And I won't have a computer or a clock or a phone in the house.
I won't read books and I won't read magazines
And I won't read newspapers and maybe,
finallyI'll learn something just watching the birds and the weather.

Boreegard's Brains

A COMMENT ON MY TASTE FOR BRAINS

Why do I bother with brains (Calves Brains to be sure)? They become harder and harder to find, and are more expensive than porterhouse steak—though it's interesting to note that James Beard in his THE NEW JAMES BEARD listed them in his section on "offal" (i.e. things to be thrown away).

My sister and I were introduced to them by my mother when we were children. In this, she was very clever. Brains and the other exotic innards such as the lamb kidneys and calves liver that Ma would occasionally cook for herself when Pop was out of town covering a story, were never forced down our gullets. Sally and I were naturally curious, and would ask for a bite, just to see what the taste of these yucky things might be like. After that, there was a time in my life when I insisted on being served brains in black butter and capers as my special birthday meal. My mother gladly complied.

On the other hand, I will report that there was one specimen of viand exotica against which my little sister rebelled. From time to time she and I would be served a firm, pink colored meat that was described as "beef". It went down well enough with liberal doses of mustard, and we each dutifully ate what was on the plate, so as to be eligible for dessert. That all changed the day Sally lifted the cover of the stew pot and discovered that this particular beef cut was a big cow tongue. There is no disguising a tongue, until, that is, it can be carved thinly and served to the unwary. A tongue is a tongue is a tongue. For that matter, a brain is a brain is a brain. Even after simmering it and slicing it, it is hard to disguise.

A NOTE ON THE WAY OTHERS WILL INSTRUCT YOU TO PREPARE BRAINS

You will find, if you go to reliable cookbooks, that those with a recipe for brains will make a big thing about pre-prep. For instance, the Time-Life Book titled FRENCH PROVINCIAL COOKING by M.F.K. Fisher (junior consultant—Julia Child) will tell you to soak your brains for up to three hours in an aciduated water, changing the water several times, and then will have you slowly pluck off the membrane and the various blood clots very carefully, so as not to damage the delicate meat. Craig Claiborne in his NEW YORK TIMES COOK BOOK, even my mother's 3 by 5 recipe card, will tell you to do this sort of thing. It is French. It is cosmetic. It is unnecessary.

A REGIONAL ANNECDOTE

In the 1970's in Bloomfield, Connecticut there was a unique food store called COPACKO. It was a large independent operation that did its own livestock slaughtering. Wednesday, I eventually discovered, was "brain day."

I was only able to get to COPACKO occasionally because the convoluted highways of the time made it a long trip from Rockville/Vernon. But I found myself there one Wednesday, the only white guy in a meandering line leading to the special meats counter where you could get some very interesting things—fresh pig's liver, fillet of goat, and hog snouts among others. Finally my turn came. I stepped up to the counter and ordered two pounds of calves brains (then just 23 cents a pound—the offal price). In front of me a huge black guy, the size of Rosie Greer, who'd just ordered a whole pig's liver, turned to me in astonishment and said, "Man—you gonna EAT that stuff?"

"Oh yes," I said. I paid my 46 cents, left, and drove back east over the river. It was my birthday.


INGREDIENTS

o 2 lobes of a calf's brain (about a pound).
o aciduated water (water with vinegar added), enough to cover the brains.
o 3 strips of lean bacon.
o 3 tbsp. butter.
o ½ a medium onion chopped.
o several cups of chopped greens (spinach with arugula and romaine lettuce is a good mix).
o flour for dredging.
o paprika.
o 4 tablespoons (or more) of capers.
o 1/3 cup good red wine.

WHAT TO DO

o Bring brains to a boil in the aciduated water, lower stove heat to simmer and continue for 20 minutes. This will firm them nicely. Let them cool for ten or fifteen minutes.
o In a non-stick frying pan, fry bacon to crisp texture. Remove and drain.
o Add butter to frying pan and braise greens and onion until soft.
o Slice cooled brains into ½ inch pieces.
o Dredge brains in mixture of flour and paprika.
o Add brains to vegetables in frying pan at medium heat and braise until golden brown.
o Add more butter if necessary, add capers and a little red wine, and the crumbled bacon.

Serve with rice.

A pound of brains will serve 4 people nicely. Leftovers? Slice them and combine with scrambly eggs for breakfast, as they do in the South or in the great breadbasket. Yum, baby.


Boreegard