SIMCHA FISHER

Well, well! What’s for Supper? turns 40. Happy birthday, you old bat. Never let anyone tell you you can’t wear giant hoop earrings, orange maharishi combat pants, or feather-trimmed anything. Anything!

Yes, you’re still pretty. Very pretty.

***

SATURDAY
Aldi pizza

On Saturday, we went to visit my parents, bringing five Aldi pizzas with us. It was a nice visit, and good pizza. And we got a washing machine drum.

***

SUNDAY
Cookout!

Sunday, Father’s Day, we went to my husband’s sister’s house for a BBQ, and had burgers, hot dogs, chips, corn on the cob, and ice cream.

[img attachment=”109060″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”bbq corn” /]

My brother-in-law is vegan, so my mother-in-law made a very tasty bean salad for him. But he was called away, so I ate most of it, to the delight of everyone who accompanied me on the hour-long drive home.

Oh, and we let Corrie have as much soda as she wanted.

[img attachment=”109061″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”corrie soda” /]
I see no downside to this plan.

***

MONDAY
Jambal-oh-I-can’t

Here’s the email conversation between me and my husband on Monday:

Husband: What’s for supper?

Me: SUPPER. Well. The original plan was to serve grilled chicken with salad, and couscous on the side. Then I realized I didn’t really have enough chicken, so I thought I’d mix the chicken into the couscous, which is a thing. Then I burned the couscous, so I fried up some kielbasa and now I’m cooking some rice to make jambalaya.

So, beer.

Husband: BEER!!!!!!

The jambalaya wasn’t actually bad, but it certainly wasn’t actually jambalaya, either. It was rice, chunks of chicken, chunks of kielbasa, a jar of sliced jalapeños, and a jar of salsa.

[img attachment=”109069″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”jambalaya” /]

Hey, Damien, I just realized that’s where all the salsa went! I knew I bought salsa.

And beer. As always, when I make something that no one especially wants, I made about nine cubic feet of it.

***

TUESDAY
Deli sandwiches, chips

Tuesday we were cleaning up for a party (this is the main reason we have so many parties. We’d never clean, otherwise), so we had cold sandwiches. Nothing to report. I think we went to the beach at some point.

***

WEDNESDAY
Sesame chicken, roasted broccoli, rice 

Requested meal from the birthday girl. This is the recipe from Budget Bytes, a recipe previously classified as foolproof. We had to make three separate trips, first to get more chicken, then to get more cornstarch, then to get more brown sugar. And more oil. I proceeded to fry up twelve pounds of chicken, and that part of it turned out great. It was all light, fluffy, and golden. I made it in nine separate batches, drained it, and transferred it to a dish so I could just add the sauce and serve.

Then I read the rest of the recipe which I have made a million times before, and discovered for the millionth time that you have to cook it up in the sauce to thicken it. There was no way I could do this (see “nine separate batches”) on the stovetop; and the oven was full of broccoli. So I dumped the chicken in my giant metal bowl, thinking I could use it like a wok.

I couldn’t. I don’t want to talk about why.

Anyway, the sauce had issues of its own. One child had graciously offered to help, an offer I gratefully accepted — until I realized that said child saw no difference between tablespoons and heaping tablespoons.  Towering, really. Also, there’s no particular reason to count how many tablespoons. Just keep shovelling cornstarch in there, whoopee!

Thanks for your help, honey. Maybe just chop some scallions for me?

But at least we have decent rice, right? HA HA. Another child also graciously offered to help, an offer I also gratefully accepted. So I tell him to measure out twelve cups of water, which he does . . . using a half-cup measure. Is he sure there are twenty-four half cups of water in there? Yeah, pretty sure.

How are those scallions coming? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I’m sorry, I know you’re helping. I’m sorry. I just find it faster if you cut them all together, instead of one at a time. Maybe use a knife, and not . . . you know what, gimme that. Thanks. Thanks.

Okay, so now please measure out six cups of rice. NO, DON’T DUMP IT IN THE WATER. Okay, sure, use a colander and just strain it as best you can. I know you were helping. Just . . . wait, are you sure this is twelve half-cups of rice? Okay . . .

So, sometime around bedtime, I served up twelve pounds of soggy sesame chicken in dubious sauce on heaps of slimy rice custard. Hap. Py. Birthday. The chopped scallions made all the difference, let me tell you.

[img attachment=”109068″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”sesame chicken” /]

For dessert, the birthday kid made her own cake and frosting, because I am a horrible person. She also put up her own decorations and blew up her own balloons. One of her presents arrived broken, two of them were the wrong size, and the other thing was something she’s kind of over now. Here’s the cake, which I forgot to take a picture of until we had eaten half of it.

[img attachment=”109057″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”dora cake” /]

We don’t always use almond slices to make flowers on cakes, but when we do, it turns out like this. Remember that X Files episode where the murderer psychically affects photographs? That’s where that shadow came from. From murderbrain.

Did I mention that Wednesday was CD 28? If you don’t know what that means, just move along.

The broccoli was freaking delicious, thanks for asking.

***

THURSDAY
Fish tacos

Frozen fish fillets, shredded cabbage, fresh limes, cilantro, sour cream, and a tiny bit of salsa (see: Monday) on tortillas, and tortilla chips. That is what the kids made while I was holed up in my room writing, after running around like a maniac on errands all day long.

***

FRIDAY
Cheesy crab rolls

Gonna try this today. It seems like it’s possible that it might taste good, but not if you call it “Cheesy Crab Burritos,” as the recipe does. I happen to love imitation crab meat. I know it’s made out of flour, gelatin, dextrose, and mackerel squeezings, but I love it.

Now tell me I’m pretty!

Hands down, my happiest childhood memories are memories of being read to, especially if lots of people were in the room, listening and laughing. Nothing binds a family together like enjoying a story together.

The gold standard is a book that’s interesting enough for all ages, even if it’s aimed primarily at one age group; and a book that’s not only good, but sounds good when you read it out loud. The best read-aloud authors really know how to write dialogue, so it’s easy for the reader to make the characters’ voices sound different.

Here’s our list of hearty recommendations for kids ages 5 to adult. We especially like funny books with some adventure, and are not necessarily aiming to directly elevate anyone’s intellect.

***

1. The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien. Obviously, right? Last time I sat down to read this aloud, I remembered what a great story it was, and how much I loved the characters, but I was blown away by how musical and evocative the writing itself is. Read this out loud:

Bilbo never forgot the way they slithered and slipped in the dust down the steep zig-zag path into the secret valley of Rivendell.

Oh, to write like that! I slither with you, Bilbo.

2.The Pirates! series by Gideon Defoe (Titles include: The Pirates! In an Adventure with Communists and The Pirates! In an Adventure with Napoleon) We loved The Pirates! Band of Misfits movie so much (made by the same folks who make the excellent Wallace and Gromit and Shaun the Sheep), and recently discovered that it was based on a series of books that are even odder and nuttier than the movie. These books do include some bawdy jokes and some violent details, but I feel that the most inapwo-pwo stuff goes over the little kids’ heads, and it’s just edgy enough to give the older kids a little thrill, without crossing any lines.

3.Beowulf: A New Telling by Robert Nye Life is too short to be a Beowulf purist. This is edge-of-your-set reading. Just ignore the goofy cover illustration.

4.The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster. Great story, funnier than you probably remember, and lots of great voices to try out. Even though I had to explain almost everything that was being allegorized (?) to the kids — who says “I’m in the doldrums” anymore? — they still loved it. It doesn’t hurt that we more or less own Tock now, too.

5.The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. I’ve heard the new movie is quite good, but I’m glad we read the story. Do you like Kipling? Well, how can you be sure, if you’ve never Kippled? I’m serious, try it. It’s not very Disney:

For three months after that night Mowgli hardly ever left the village gate, he was so busy learning the ways and customs of men. First he had to wear a cloth round him, which annoyed him horribly; and then he had to learn about money, which he did not in the least understand, and about plowing, of which he did not see the use. Then the little children in the village made him very angry. Luckily, the Law of the Jungle had taught him to keep his temper, for in the jungle life and food depend on keeping your temper; but when they made fun of him because he would not play games or fly kites, or because he mispronounced some word, only the knowledge that it was unsportsmanlike to kill little naked cubs kept him from picking them up and breaking them in two.

6.Jack Tales collected by Richard Chase. These are weird little folk stories from the Appalachians, written in dialect, more or less transcribed directly from the region’s storytellers. The kids love them because the hero, Jack, is lazy and kind of a jerk, but he always comes out on top anyway, through trickery or charm, or because someone feels sorry for him and helps him with magic. Lots of heads get hacked off, and there’s plenty of childish magic and satisfying comeuppance. Some of the stories are familiar (Jack and the Beanstalk), and some sound like they were made up by a lunatic.

7.Zlateh the Goat by Isaac Bashevis Singer. A collection of stories based on Jewish folktales. A few of them are a little alarming, some are nutty, and most of them are sweet. Try “The Mixed-Up Feet and the Silly Bridegroom.”  The pictures by Maurice Sendak are also exquisite. Here’s an excerpt from the title story, describing how a child survived a storm by nestling into a haystack with his beloved goat, whom he had set out to sell:

The snow fell for three days, though after the first day it was not as thick and the wind quieted down. Sometimes Aaron felt that there could never have been a summer, that the snow had always fallen, ever since he could remember. He, Aaron, never had a father or mother or sisters. He was a snow child, born of the snow, and so was Zlateh. It was so quiet in the hay that his ears rang in the stillness. Aaron and Zlateh slept all night and a good part of the day. As for Aaron’s dreams, they were all about warm weather. He dreamed of green fields, trees covered with blossoms, clear brooks, and singing birds. By the third night the snow had stopped, but Aaron did not dare to find his way home in the darkness. The sky became clear and the moon shone, casting silvery nets on the snow. Aaron dug his way out and looked at the world. It was all white, quiet, dreaming dreams of heavenly splendor. The stars were large and close. The moon swam in the sky as in a sea.

8.My Life and Hard Times by James Thurber. Try “The Dog that Bit People” or “Nine Needles.” Neurotic people and improbable events told deadpan, with no wasted words. Anyone who wants to learn to write should read Thurber and take him to heart, as soon as you catch your breath from laughing. (Warning: he’s not not the most racially sensitive writer known to mankind.)

9.James Herriot books You guys know I’m not a huge fan of heartwarming, life-affirming stuff, but I’ll make an exception for James Herriot, the country vet, who not only makes you feel better about humanity but is top notch at setting up a hilarious story.  These are good for reading aloud because they are very anecdotal, and must chapters stand alone pretty well.

10.P. G. Wodehouse stories. If you want quotable quotes, Wodehouse is your man. So funny, so somehow restorative. For kids, try “Goodbye to All Cats” which can be found in the large collection The Most of P. G. Wodehouse.

And now for books that I ordered just today, after people recommended them for years:

The Mysterious Benedict Society by Trenton Lee Stewart

Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace

The Westmark Trilogy by Lloyd Alexander

I’ll let you know how they go!

***

Photo “Reading to the Armstrong Kids” by Paul via Flickr (license)

If we want to argue that men and women are interchangeable, then there is no reason not to subject women to the draft. It’s just logical.

Even more logical? Abolish the draft.

Read the rest at the Register.

***
Image via All Hands Magazine

You want to know real tragedy? Real tragedy is that, not too long ago, we had a used bathtub in our possession, and we brought it to the dump. We did not save it and make one of those spectacularly awful Mary on the Half-Shell shrines for our front yard.

Happily, my parents happened to have an old washing machine drum just hanging around unappreciated. Whenever I say, “Want to hear my stupid idea?” my husband says, “Yes,” almost like he means it. This time, here’s what it won him:

[img attachment=”108797″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”mary shrine” /]

Behold, my relentlessly Marian rock garden washer tub shrine thingy.

It . . . might need an upgrade. There are actually plenty of flowers in the back yard, and I could have found a nice spot for the statue there; but I really wanted our front yard to scream, “WARNING: HERE BE CATHOLICS.” So front yard it is. The two sad marigolds are the only flowers I happen to have; and the sticks behind, propping the statue up, I’m going to call a trellis. Please don’t argue. I’m feeling very fragile right now. Go fund me, why don’t you?

The drum has two giant rocks and a bunch of soil inside, and the statue is wedged inside a flower pot which is filled with soil; and there are more rocks holding it down, as you can see. And the, the, the trellis.

Between the overall classiness of the statue itself, the careful placement of the finest rocks, and the overall blinginess of the galvanized steel, I think I’ve achieved my first goal of grabbing eyeballs in a relentlessly Catholic way. Anyone who chooses to continue and enter our house will get exactly what they should certainly expect.

Now I need tips for how to achieve my second goal, to wit: making it look less like I hired a devout chimpanzee to put it together. What would you do? Roses? Sparklers? Dead doves?

My other issue is that this is the whitest indigenous Our Lady of Guadalupe I ever saw.

[img attachment=”108795″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”mary face” /]

Our Lady of Duxbury, Vt, reporting for duty, as soon as she finds some sunblock.

But when I was looking at statues (I had a credit to spend), I thought, “If we’re going to have a statue of Mary in the front of our house, I want people to notice it. I want the kids to remember it. And I want to remember, ‘Am I not your mother?'” So we went for gaudily evocative, if relentlessly Caucasian.

[img attachment=”108796″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”angel face” /]

Also, I await my trophy for not saying anything offensive to our Italian or Hispanic or French Canadian friends in regards to their lawn-decorating habits, because that would be wrong.

Am I not your blogger? Am I not?

Oh, you’re relentless! I’m sorry I asked.

What’s worse than being dreadfully confused? Being dreadfully confused, and not even knowing it.

I ran across this audio clip (followed by a second video with part 2) of an LP my sister and I used to listen to over and over again when we were little. It’s Danny Kaye performing a collection of familiar and obscure fairy tales, complete with sound effects and brilliantly crazy voices, and it’s one of those rare childhood favorites that really holds up.

The first one is Clever Gretel. I can still recite it from memory: “She liked nothing better than to eat. So? She worked as a cook . . . One day Gretel’s master came to the kitchen and said, ‘Gretel! For dinner we are having tonight a guest. And you will be so kind as to cook for us two chickens as niiiice as you can.'”

Only, with the ridiculous, corny accent he uses, “chickens” is “shick’ns.” My oldest sister Devra apparently heard this record a million times, too. When she first travelled to Liechtenstein for graduate school, she had already been on the go for many, many, many hours, and was completely exhausted and loopy, and didn’t really know German yet. She found herself alone on a train at dinnertime, way too far from home, and the menu was full of impenetrable German. Then she saw Schinken listed, and  . . . her Danny Kaye training came back to her. Yes, she would like a little Schinken! Just the thing! A few slices of white meat, maybe a little salad on the side.

Of course, Schinken doesn’t mean “chicken.” It means “ham” — specifically, a vast, shimmering slab of greasy, rosy ham staring up at her with unmistakable menace. Welcome to your new life! Poor Devra. False cognates can be so cruel, especially when mixed with ideas formed in childhood.

My mother grew up with Yiddish-speaking relatives, and she says that when she heard the verse, “You anoint my head with oil; my cup runneth over,” she heard “cup” as “kop” — which, of course, means “head.” Makes sense. Drip, drip, drip.

This next one isn’t really a false cognate, but just a kid trying to make sense out of a confusing world. We used to listen to the soundtrack of Fiddler on the Roof all the time, too. When the daughter who’s travelling to Siberia is waiting for the train, she says in an anguished voice, “Papa, God alone knows when we shall see each other again.” I puzzled over this for a long time, and finally decided she was saying, “Got a long nose when we shall see each other again.” I figured she would be very old when they saw each other again, and the oldest person I knew was my grandmother — and she did, indeed, have a very long nose.

Two last stories of language confusion, which I love because they demonstrate how kids are so ready to believe that they alone are intelligent, and the rest of the world is just nuts. These are from the website “I Used to Believe”:

Not knowing the word “yield” as a child, I initially thought this was how one spelled “y’all”. I figured the signs on the road were put there by the city to be welcoming to tourists, though it seemed like a poor strategy to me personally.

And finally:

When I was about 7 or 8, we had to look up lists of words for homework. One of my words was ‘infiltrate’ and the definition I found was ‘To enter secretly with an unfriendly purpose.’ Somehow I misread it as ‘To enter secretly with an unfriendly porpoise’ and I wondered why somebody had made a word for that, as it couldn’t be that common.

Silly adults.

Now you tell one!

***
Ham hock photo via Wikimedia Commons

[img attachment=”98244″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”whats for supper aleteia” /]

Okay, so remember my pathetic lamentations about how horrible I felt the other week? This past week, you could ratchet that aspect down about 20%, but then ratchet up the big events about 50%. I discovered that, digestionwise, I got the same systemic response if I ate two saltines and a sip of electrolyte water, or miso soup and raw octopus with pickled ginger, so what the hell.

That being said, I didn’t do a lot of cooking this week. So if you’re looking for inspirational recipes, then look away, look away.

FRIDAY
Graduation!

We have a high school graduate! A high school graduate with honors in Mandarin.

[img attachment=”108172″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”lena graduation honors” /]

This is where the octopus and such came in. Behold:

[img attachment=”108171″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”sushi boat” /]

SATURDAY
Chicken cutlets with basil and provolone

Birthday!  Every year, my second oldest daughter requested Tuna Noodle Casserole with Pink Stuff (mayo, ketchup, and vinegar dressing) as her special, ask-for-anything birthday meal. That’s what her heart desired. Except for last year, when she asked for meatloaf. I did put candles in the meatloaf, because we are a birthday people and meatloaf is our song.

This year, she turned 17, and hallelujah, she asked for chicken cutlets with fresh basil and provolone and homemade sauce. Double hallelujah, this dish is my husband’s specialty. So all I had to do was go shopping, then convalesce as the house filled with marvelous smells.

[img attachment=”108168″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”sauce cooking” /]

This is one of those insano recipes where you have to whack the meat with a mallet. Then you bread it and fry it, lay a large basil leaf and a slice of provolone on top of it, and then ladle a ladle of hot sauce over all, which melts the cheese and rocks your world.

[img attachment=”108178″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”chicken basil provolone” /]
Magnificent. See the little basil leaf sticking out?

SUNDAY
Chicken burgers, chips, salad

On Sunday, we survived Mass, and then my husband took ALL TEN KIDS TO THE MOVIES while I just slept and slept and slept.

MONDAY
Hot dogs; Potato salad

Daughter made supper, using this basic potato salad recipe from Fannie Farmer.

TUESDAY
Tacos, chips

Another graduation! This time it was for the eighth grader. With an eye to manageable precedents, we established a tradition of feting the eighth grade graduate with some gas station flowers and a cheeseburger. This was our first male 8th grade graduate, so he opted for two burgers and no flowers.

I can’t seem to find a decent picture of my son, so please enjoy this photo of a giant goober instead. No particular reason.

[img attachment=”108174″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”Giant_peanut_in_Plains,_Georgia” /]

The kids at home made the tacos.

WEDNESDAY
Spaghetti with meat sauce

Wednesday was finally finally the last day of school for the last of the kids. It was a half day, so we went to the beach in the afternoon. When we got home, I fried up two pounds of loose sausage meat, added two jars of sauce, and glugged in a bunch of cheap red wine. Good, hearty, after-swim meal.

THURSDAY
Pulled pork sandwiches with red onions; Cole slaw

Pork cooked at 185 with salt, pepper, and a can of Naragansett Beer. Hi, neighbor!
Oldest kid made the coleslaw. She suggested it on the way home from work, but then scoffed at her pie-in-the-sky fantasies of just happening to find a cabbage casually lying around. But we did have such a cabbage. Also some radishes, for some reason, which she added to the coleslaw. They turned the dressing pink!

She’s very proud of her recipe, so here it is:

1 cup Mayo
1 cup White vinegar
Half cup Lemon juice
Half cup Sugar

1 head cabbage
5-6 Baby Carrots
4-5 Radishes

FRIDAY
Tuna noodle

Guess who asked for tuna noodle?

Oh, I forgot! 
In the week that I was very confused because everyone was sick, we had Cobb Salad at some point, but it got left off the list somehow. I’ve never had a Cobb Salad before, so I just followed the most basic recipe I could find, and made tons of it.

[img attachment=”108176″ align=”aligncenter” size=”medium” alt=”cobb salad” /]

Bacon, lettuce, avocados, grilled chicken, tomatoes, hard boiled eggs, and chives (which grow wild in our yard), and bleu cheese dressing, I think. I feel like there was cheese in there somewhere, but I don’t see it in the picture.

Huge hit, very pretty. This is definitely going on the rotation.

You know that guy who is so amazing and so accomplished and so intimidating that you absolutely, without fail, are going to say something completely moronic in front of him? The Dalai Lama is that guy. Here’s the latest edition, from Bret Baier of Fox:

h/t Gawker 

Okay, that was dumb. BUT IT GETS DUMBER. Check out this clip from 2011, when an Australian interviewer, apparently under the thrall of some irresistible urge, tells a joke that has zero percent chance of landing:

The poor man just wants to escape the neverending cycle of clueless news anchors so he can go back to his hotel room and order a little Nirvana in peace.

***

Image by Christopher Michel via Flickr (license)

There are fifty people dead. There is lots to be angry about.

One thing doesn’t belong on this list, though, and that’s the rules about gay men donating blood. In several places on social media, folks are outraged at the FDA, because the FDA says that men who have had sex with other men within the last year cannot donate blood. “It’s just bigotry!” they say. “It’s just another way of making gay men be ‘the other.’ Gay men have as much right to donate blood as anyone else.”

Let’s untangle these objections. . .

Read the rest at the Register.

***

image by By Staff Sgt. Stephanie Rubi, U.S. Air Force [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Fifty years ago today, Pope Paul VI abandoned the notorious Index of Prohibited Books — or, rather, he issued a notification that it “no longer had the force of ecclesiastical positive law with the associated penalties.”

The Index was established to warn the faithful against books that could harm their faith or morals. Catholics were forbidden to read these books without permission, under pain of mortal sin. Twenty different versions of the Index were promulgated, the first in 1559 and the last in 1948, and they included works of science, philosophy, and mathematics, as well as fiction and certain translations of the Bible that were considered unreliable. A good many of the books that appeared on the Index are now considered foundational scholarly works, and are taught in Catholic schools.

When Pope Paul VI made the Index into a guide, rather than a prohibitive law, the titles on it were not suddenly declared blameless and worthy of reading. The Church simply told the laity that it was now their responsibility to figure out which books they should and should not read. Pope Paul VI said that the Index “remains morally binding, in light of the demands of natural law, in so far as it admonishes the conscience of Christians to be on guard for those writings that can endanger faith and morals.”

A few things you might not know about the Index:

–The Divine Mercy diaries of Sister Faustina were, at one point, placed on the Index (at least in part because there were some unreliable translations circulating), but were later taken off.

–Catholic authors were given the chance to correct, edit, or defend their works if they didn’t want their books to be on the list.

—The Church was not the only entity to maintain a list of forbidden books:

In France it was French officials who decided what books were banned^[48] and the Church’s Index was not recognized.^[49] Spain had its own Index Librorum Prohibitorum, which corresponded largely to the Church’s,^[50] but also included a list of books that were allowed once the forbidden part (sometimes a single sentence) was removed or “expurgated.”^[51]

…

In the Holy Roman Empire book censorship, which preceded publication of the Index, came under control of the Jesuits at the end of the 16th century, but had little effect, since the German princes within the empire set up their own systems.^[48]

Retroactive outrage over the Index is similar to when modern progressives are shocked, shocked at the brutality of the Israelites in the Old Testament — as if the Babylonians or Assyrians were tolerant and peaceable, and it was only those awful Ten Commandment types who got hung up on sex and religion and war. Maintaining an index of forbidden books was a fairly terrible idea, but it wasn’t nearly as shocking to contemporaneous people as it sounds to 21st-century readers.

One final thought: We love to guffaw at the cowering sheeple of the Church, so oppressed and fearful that they would let their intellects be hobbled with such brutal censorship. Imagine, letting someone tell you what you can and cannot read! Imagine, being so fearful of words on the page that you’d refuse to even lift the cover, for fear that what was written inside would taint or warp your moral standards and your intellect.

Imagine being too prejudiced and intellectually blinded to read Huckleberry Finn, Heart of Darkness, or even something called I Dared to Call Him Father. Imagine passionately arguing that an entire class of writers should be rejected.

Nah, that would never happen. Nowadays, we think for ourselves! We’re open minded! We’re not afraid of books anymore.

[img attachment=”107768″ size=”thumbnail” alt=”Benny skeptical” align=”aligncenter”]