Word came to Americans some time in
the evening of the 18th that a hold-
out against replacement on the high
court had passed from the scene, al-
lowing speculation of whether, how,
when, by whom something definitive
would be done about this. This was
not the first intrusion on a wedding
anniversary of mine, when a highly
presentable plate of rognons de veau
was first served to me on the night
of my farewell to the East Coast. I
found myself back here eventually,
unmarried, and although cured of com-
memorating occasions with food, still
easily consoled by a determined defer-
ence to offal.
This latest bulletin in the struggle
for power in the United States found
me just as glad to be able to rely on
my friends already to be in earnest,
plotting various interventions. No
one had telephoned me, anguished to
be reminded, how to breathe, and I
found myself managing equally well,
once I'd recalled the virtues of
fresh coffee. Not for this house-
hold, then, will hands be wrung in
wonder of what will become of life
for another 40 terms of this court;
no swooning on the indignity of the
present power structure's swan song
of bottomless villainy. Possibly,
some frantic defections from that
cabal can be negotiated; possibly
a bolt of gastronomic clarity will
descend upon the illumination of
well-grazed kidneys, but in any
case, calving season will return,
in all its telling raucousness.
For more than 50 years, a tenuous
claim to a position in the general
population and an ill-bred fixation
on the mythology of judicial review
have left me with the conviction
set out above, that one's time can
much more securely be invested in
a study of the classics in cuisine
than in the tergiversations of a
casuist tradition under demagog-
ic appointment. Enough, please,
of heroes of magical powers. Win
games, breed good beasts, honor
reality.
Now. That's revenge.
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