Lettuce vs Cabbage

Lettuce thinks it’s so great.

Lettuce thinks it deserves an invitation to every table and a throne on every dish.

Lettuce thinks it out-ranks all other leafy greens, and believes itself manifestly superior to those humble, but hard-working, species of produce that dangle, or flower, or burrow in the earth, or recline on the vine.

Salad plates? That was lettuce’s idea.

That grossly inflated self-image is distasteful, certainly, but understandable. Lettuce is, after all, the most vain of vegetables, and recieves constant, unhealthy re-enforcement from large, entrenched and unreasoning culinary factions more interested in form than function. And never was a sterling reputation so utterly without foundation.

The Emperor has no clothes.

Wrong

Were the truth known, lettuce has for too long been standing in the warm light of admiration more rightly occupied by a valiant victual of impressive attainments, proven character and unquestioned merit, and that’s an injustice I mean to correct. I’m talking about that hardy herbaceous biennial of the Family Brassicaceae; that compact cluster derived from the wild mustard plant and beloved of the ancient Celts; that noble crop that Cato the Elder in his wisdom praised as “the first of all the vegetables.”

In the realm of edible foliage, Cabbage wears the crown.

I don’t hate lettuce. Oh, it’s fine as a bed for something battered and deep-fried, or piled on a slice of rye with bacon, tomato and mayonnaise. But it’s no cabbage. It’s a fop, a popinjay, a proud face on a craven heart. It’s all trailer and no feature presentation.

Lettuce has no flavor, unless apathy is a flavor. The leaves of aspen, birch, or People Magazine would make a more favorable first impression. Lettuce is the only substance bland enough to make raspberry vinaigrette seem interesting.

Cabbage introduces itself with a firm handshake and even gaze. A little sweet, a little nutty, and with just a hint of menace, cabbage greets the tongue without flinching and won’t be intimidated by garlic and oregano. 

Lettuce has the French knack for folding when the going gets tough. Put lettuce anywhere near a knife and it immediately turns coward-brown and begins losing its composure. It has a Pheonix sunbird’s delicate internal thermostat, only with the dial reversed. Just watch it as it turns limp and listless and whiny at the slightest breath of temperate atmosphere. An hour at room temperature transforms even the crispest of that class into an unappetizing sludge the most famished and least critical gerbil can’t abide.

Not so cabbage.

Cabbage is a matador – brash, resolute, self-assured, and fearless in its purpose. It gives respect to the diner, and demands it in return. Slice it, dice it, chop it fine or shred it into confetti, cabbage will hold its ground, stay the course, keep the faith. A week in the refrigerator soaking in a zesty cream dressing won’t break cabbage’s will, nor dull its satisfying crunch. If cabbage could talk it would say please-sir-may-I-have-another.

Besides lackluster service as that most uninspired of sides, the dinner salad, or lending unnecessary bulk to pedestrian hand-foods – taking up valuable taco real estate better occupied by smoked and seasoned pollo, for instance – lettuce is good for exactly nothing. It’s a two-trick pony, and neither of them are fun or surprising.

Cabbage is the most versatile of viands. It makes a better, livelier salad than lettuce could ever hope to, and that’s just the tip of the, er, iceberg. Steamed and bathed in butter it’s a party in your mouth. Coarsely-chopped cabbage adds gumption to soups and stews, and when finely-chopped supplies nutritious heft to any sauce or casserole. Shredded and pickled it’s matchless on a brat or other wurst. Shredded and fried it’s the soul of pork fried rice and egg rolls. Speaking of rolls, try wrapping rice and ground lamb up in tidy shroud of lettuce sometime.

You won’t try it twice.

Determined lettuce-boosters will hope to dazzle you with a description of their favorite leaf’s nutritional attributes. True, lettuce contains many ingredients compatible with a healthy diet. Just not as many as – anyone?… anyone? – no, sorry; the correct answer was “cabbage.”

Not only does cabbage contain more essential calories and protein – the precious fuels of life – it’s got nearly twice the fiber of lettuce and less than half the unsaturated fats. In addition, cabbage is an excellent source of vitamin C, and a single cup supplies about two-thirds the recommended daily allowance of Nature’s unsung hero, vitamin K. Add to that a generous periodic-table’s-worth of vigor-inducing minerals like iron, calcium and potassium, and a body might well sustain on little but cabbage and water.

And how sweet would that be?

But maybe you’re not into awesome nutrition. Maybe you’re the kind of Narcissistic mule who cares only for food’s superficial qualities. Lettuce, if you’d like to know, comes in unimaginative varieties like “Romaine”, “Looseleaf”, “Red”, and – God help us – “Arugula”. Cabbage, on the other hand, strides boldly onto the menu under proud and historic banners such as “Late Flat Dutch”, “Early Jersey Wakefield”, “Danish Ballhead” and “Savory.” What’s in a name? Good eating, that’s what.

Incredibly, even in this age of dwindling energy resources there will be unrepentant lettuce lovers who discountenance and malign cabbage’s remarkable ability to fabricate combustible gold within our very bowels. On the contrary, besides its potential to power a brighter future for all races and peoples, I consider that rare and wonderful capacity to be cabbage’s most cherished gift.

The gift of music.

Right

Don’t be blue, Pumpkin. Lettuce had a good run, but it’s time for iceberg to slip back under the waves and surrender the succulent seas to one far more scrumptious. Cabbage is the new sovereign of the supper table, the fresh and feisty prince of the popular palate.

The King is dead.

Long live the King.

What a Dumas

‘Twas after noon when young d’Artagnan called in a possible shooting. Although he hadn’t personally witnessed the horror, he had it on the best authority that Athos and Porthos had resolved to confront Aramis at a public location near Coal Mine Avenue and South Pierce. Words were exchanged, epithets hurled, weapons drawn, and Athos shot Aramis down like a dog, wounding him grievously.

Officers rushed to the scene, but all seemed keen and serene. They contacted local hospitals, but none had admitted a mutilated Mousquetaire. Puzzled, deputies asked d’Artagnan how he came by his knowledge of the furtive felony. Simple, d’Artagnan said; it’s all over Facebook.

Sure enough, the whole bloody business was detailed on page after cyber-page, everything from Athos’s lion-hearted declaration that “when all else fails, pull out your gun,” to Aramis’s valiant postings from the emergency room assuring supporters that he’d only suffered a “flesh wound” and would live to fight another day. Turns out the savage encounter was nothing more than a crude work of romantic teen-fiction cooked up by the classical trio – “a joke”, Athos told officers, meekly; a harmless entertainment, and purely “metaphorical”.

An especially critical deputy countered that he perceived “no literary or poetic value to a post stating he was ‘dodging gunfire from a homey’” and gave the three authors a harsh review of why such online tomfoolery is “a bad idea”. The contrite cavaliers promised to keep their metaphorical swords sheathed from now on.

Getting Back to Nature

Stereotypes are easy.

Funny? Or nefarious?

That’s why we like them. Easy is, um, easier.

And yet, we are endlessly reminded, stereotypes are unfair. Inaccurate. Harmful. Because everybody’s different; unique; special; insert-your-own- stereotype-defying adjective-here.

That’s true enough, so far as it goes. For every drunken Irishman of my acquaintance, there’s a Mick who won’t touch the stuff. For every arrogant German, a Teuton of more temperate attitude. I’ve known many a Greek who lives out loud on Ouzo and bouzouki music, and I’ve know many another to be bookish and retiring.

Yet stereotypes persist. Despite all assurances to the contrary, the weight of observational evidence would seem to indicate the existence of general personality trends among persons of similar ethnic background. A lot of Frenchman really are rude, for example, and the Danish tend to diffidence.

A dispassionate observer might conclude that good reasons underlie bad reputations. For myself, I always assumed that, over a reach of centuries, individual societies evolve in direct response to prevailing circumstances, naturally emphasizing those social and behavioral patterns best suited to survival in specific climatic, social, economic and political conditions. The Swedish, for instance, are taciturn because it’s dark all the time, and the Irish like to drink because the English used to pick on them so much.

I didn’t invent the idea – that’s pretty much Cultural Adaptation 101 – but I’m a bit abashed in hindsight that I was for so long willing to blithely toe a straight “nurture” line on cultural development when common sense suggests a strong “nature” component. In my defense, I wasn’t alone in that deficiency. For more than 50 years it’s been an article of faith among sociologists, educators, and those ardent levelers for whom “social justice” seems an attainable goal, that we all emerge from the womb a “blank slate” upon which individual experience inscribes our personality. In view of what we know now – and, more to the point, knew then – about genetics, such an unyielding stance seems naïve at best, and at worst intellectually dishonest.

Hard-line Nurturers seem happy to ignore the contradictions underlying their own assumptions. They insist, for example, that a child’s success in school is informed solely by the quality of instruction and encouragement they receive, yet have no problem demanding increased funding to chemically treat and medicinally mitigate presumed biological barriers to learning like attention deficit disorder and dislexia. Nurturers see no disconnect between their belief that boys who are nurtured in feminine environments don’t grow up to be violent and their dearly-held conviction that all men are naturally violent. They can as easily argue a purely environmental foundation for infidelity as a purely genetic basis for homosexuality. Fact is, I don’t think you can have it both ways.

Dyed-in-the-wool Naturers, on the other hand, are as quick to attribute virtually all behaviors to the manner and quality of our physical construction, in blind defiance of the obvious and singularly human ability to adapt our mental and personal conduct at will. Not one of us, between sunup to lights-out, doesn’t modify our thinking or actions at least once, and in direct odds with our natural inclination.

I don’t pretend to know all the answers. I’m not a scientist, although I once sat next to one on a plane ride from Tucson to Denver. Astrology is a science, right? Turns out copper is my lucky metal. Anyway, I may not know where Nature ends and Nuture begins, but I suspect it’s somewhere in the middle. About a year ago, I was somewhat surprised to be supported in that contention by National Geographic, a stubbornly Nurture-centric and unabashedly relativistic publication on all matters cultural.

Separated at birth

‘Twas in January of the year 2012, and the article was “A Thing or Two About Twins.” As it happens, diverse teams of researchers from universities and agencies across the country have for 20 years been waging a campaign officially titled Twins Reared Apart, but usually just referred to as the Minnesota Study. In brief, their method is to locate identical twins who were separated in youngest childhood and reunited as adults, then minutely (and figuratively, of course) dissect their lives and characters. The study’s purpose is to learn how the separately-nurtured pairs are alike, and discern whether Nature or Nurture might best explain their similarities. To date, 137 pairs of reunited twins have come under the microscope, and the findings are astonishing.

“For people raised in the same culture with the same opportunities,” the article reads, “differences in IQ reflected largely differences in inheritance rather than in training or education.”

For revealing that little piece of hard, cold, statistical data, one researcher, a college professor, was targeted by far-left campus groups for immediate dismissal. And the figures grow more compelling, and more interesting, with the reading. For instance, if one identical twin has a criminal record, there’s a 50-percent greater likelihood their identical counterpart has also run afoul of the law “suggesting that genetic factors somehow set the stage for criminal behavior.”

Further, the Minnesota Study indicates a strong genetic influence on the strength of a person’s religious commitment, though not on choice of faith, and strong statistical evidence for genetically ordained aggressiveness, aesthetic sensibilities and romantic tendencies. Curiously enough, the article’s author, and the researchers themselves, seemed a bit crestfallen by those discoveries, but soldiered on anyway, in the name of science, and because there’s plenty of evidence for other factors that can, and do, mitigate genetic imperatives.

For one thing, a new field of study called “epigenetics” makes clear that genes are only as good as the strength to which they are “expressed” in the organism. Imagine that Mozart and Yoko Ono are identical twins, each with an identical gene potentially conferring great musical ability. Now imagine that gene is an amplifier, and Yoko’s dial is stuck on 2, while Mozart’s is cranked up to 11. Same gene, different expression, vastly divergent results. You get the picture.

For another, a genetically increased probability of criminal behavior isn’t the same thing as knocking off a liquor store or producing the criminally bad “Double Fantasy” album. The very fact that a percentage is applied speaks to the many way in which environmental factors can influence genetic predilections. Unless your delinquent gene is turned up to 11 all the time, a strong law-abiding environment could well suffice to keep you on the righteous path, and running with a pack of no-count hoodlums could land you in jail however clean your DNA.

The thing is, as fascinating and scientifically valid as the Minnesota Study may be, those are all truths that reasonable people of average intelligence should be able to deduce without resort to twins, scientists, or math of any kind.

Virtually everyone will agree that our physical characteristics – from height to freckles to genetic disorders like cystic fibrosis – are direct manifestations of the blueprint contained in our specific DNA. Why would anyone assume our psychological characteristics are somehow exempt from that relationship? If DNA can make Peter a faster runner than Paul, can’t it as easily make Paul a better thinker than Peter? The brain is, after all, a physical organ that functions and is sustained by the same processes as a lung or a liver, and the operating efficiency of individual lungs and livers is no more uniform than their owners’ ability to bluff at poker. In terms of mental acuity, the same genetic variations that make one person a track star and another asthmatic must necessarily result in varied mental landscapes, each in no small part the product of genetic inheritance.

To remove the argument from the speculative and into the empirical, consider that when the union of two Caucasians result in a Caucasian offspring, nobody ascribes that outcome to environmental factors. When two tall people give birth to four tall children, most accept the childrens’ tallness as an inherited condition. And when the children of two smart people excel at their studies, most are comfortable asserting that intelligence “runs in the family.”

The most common argument against a genetic component to human mentality is at once historical and largely emotional. To wit ~ allowing the possibility that intelligence and behavior are hereditary would be to somehow legitimize the various politically-driven eugenics programs attempted by, among others, Adoph Hitler. Put another way, because a scientific principle has been – or could be – put to evil purpose, it can only be wrong and must be expunged from the catalogue of human learning. It’s a bit like saying that because atom bombs are terrible weapons, the atom can’t really be split. Sorry to break it to you, but that genie’s out of the bottle. And if the field of nuclear physics has resulted in great suffering, it has also yielded great benefits, and a greater understanding of it is no less essential to human advancement than the study of medicine.

Secrets revealed!

Likewise, the fact that a more comprehensive knowledge of genetics could potentially be put to malicious use doesn’t diminish its potential for good, its importance to the body of human knowledge, or its essential truth. To maintain that our psychological proclivities are somehow insulated from our genetic legacy is to deny both science and the testimony of one’s own eyes, and to bury one’s head in sand no less deeply than the Christian fundamentalist who insists the Earth is 6,000 years old because the Bible says so.

If, at this point, you haven’t found more rewarding diversion watching funny animal YouTubes, you’re probably wondering

“What’s his point?”

I’m glad you asked because, believe it or not, I have one.

Although awake only intermittently during Introduction to Physical Anthropology, I came-to often enough to know this much: The longer a population remains relatively static, the more concentrated certain genetic traits become within that population. On a vast stage, that’s why Africans have dark skin, Chinese have shoveled teeth, and Caucasian males can’t jump. On a more intimate scale, it’s why Inuits tend to be short, the Swedish tend to be blond, and the English tend to have bad teeth. The operative word here is “tend.”

Anybody who’s ever spent time among the Swedes and didn’t take their own life as a result knows that not all of them are blond. Far less than half, in fact. As it happens, blond hair is a relatively rare human trait, but long genetic isolation has concentrated the genetic formula for blond hair within the Swedish population, increasing the relative  incidence of blond hair within the Swedish population. All Swedes may not be blond, but enough of them are to make it a justifiably distinguishing characteristic of Swedishness.

Now, if we assume that mentally determinant genes distill in the same way that physically affective ones do – and I think we just decided they do – then specific populations must necessarily display a greater incidence of certain characteristic behaviors, aptitudes and attitudes.

This is where I step in it.

Maybe, just maybe, a statistically large percentage of Chinese students excel at mathematics because their brains are built for it. And perhaps the Germans are known for making really good cars because a mental machinery conducive to engineering has been concentrating in their gene pool for a hundred generations. And what if the Italians are traditionally adept at organized crime because whatever gene is reponsible for thumbing one’s nose at the cops and courts is more frequently represented in Italian DNA?

Makes you think, doesn’t it?

What it makes me think is that maybe stereotypes are not really unfair generalizations so much as the intuitive application of sound scientific principle. And that by such meticulous and logical method we may reasonably conclude that – as a function of statistically relevant frequency, of course – the Irish really are shiftless louts. And Bulgarians really are thuggish hoods. And the French really are insufferably snooty. And Arabs really do hold grudges. And Poles are mule-headed, and Russians are paranoid, and Greeks are as reliable as a pack of feral cats, and the Chinese really are inscrutable.

It’s liberating.

Even better, since America has never had a static population we may freely and accurately stereotype each other based solely on our respective last names.

Think of the time it will save.

Best of all, now that we have established a solid and unassailable foundation for them, ethnic jokes can once again be plied without reservation.

Did you hear the one about the Indian couple that didn’t know the difference between Vaseline and window putty?

Go ahead – it’s not insensitive.

It’s science!

Just say ‘no’ to everything

Just as the clock midnight, an HCSO deputy observed a maroon Subaru zoomed past Independence Trail and into downtown Idledale. When the officer fell in behind to clock the speeding vehicle, the motorist put pedal to medal and blew through a red light onto County Road 73. Now fully engaged, the officer stayed in the Subaru’s wake and activated his emergency lights, at which point his bold quarry turned off the headlights, cruising blind into a handy parking lot and slipped darkly into an anonymous parking space. The deputy wasn’t fooled. “Sorry,” said the disheveled young woman behind the wheel. She was apologizing for running a red light and trying to elude her pursuer, not for driving without license, registration or insurance information, or for the several liquor bottles rolling around in her back seat, or even for her 90-proof breath. Refusing to concede defeat, she proposed that the deputy let her go free on the strength of her pledge not to drive “anymore.” The officer countered by offering to let her perform roadside sobriety maneuvers, which she refused. She complained of the cold, at which the officer placed her in his vehicle to warm up and suggested that, while she was there, she might just as well take a breathalyzer test, which she refused. He then asked her to step out of the patrol car so he could arrest her properly, and she refused so successfully that it took two deputies to put her in custody. Once under formal arrest, she (naturally) refused to get back in the patrol car for the trip down to Golden. Confined but not conquered, she spent most of the 45-minute trip hurling insults at her long-suffering captor.


Neighborhood pest revealed as obsessive movie idol

About two weeks ago, when she first heard something rooting through her garbage cans after dark, Evergreen resident Brie Kammhem-Behr was annoyed. Sunday night, after she staked out her driveway and caught the culprit in a flashlight’s accusing beam, she became truly frightened.

“At first all I could see was a dark shape hunched over a pile of trash and tearing at a half-eaten Hot-Pocket with its teeth,” she said on Monday morning, still clutching an aluminum baseball bat and clearly shaken. “Then he looked up and snarled at me and his eyes reflected the light like a pair of golden globes. It was Johnny Depp.”

 

Pesky media star Johnny Depp

 

As unlikely as that sounds, Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office investigators believe that Kammhem-Behr’s terrifying discovery may go far toward explaining the sudden rash of over-turned trash cans, frightened household pets and soaring Cutty Sark sales that have plagued central Evergreen during the last three weeks.

“It’s starting to add up,” explains deputy Gilbert Grape, carefully dusting a deeply-chewed, silver-tipped ebony cigarette holder for fingerprints. “A jogger found this in a porta-potty at Evergreen Lake that we think Depp may be using for shelter.”

For one Main Street business owner who wishes to remain anonymous until she’s heard back from her agent, the J.D. sighting provides the missing piece of a messy puzzle.

“Every morning when I come in, the delivery porch is littered with stale croissant ends and Galois butts,” she says. “Now that I know Johnny might be crashing in there, I should be able to get a fortune for them on e-Bay.”

Reached by telephone at his Los Angeles office, film-agent Morey Amsterdam declined to give Depp’s present location, or even say when he and his most illustrious client last spoke. He did confirm, however, that Depp walked off the set of his latest picture, “Pirates of the Caribbean: Planks a Million,” nearly a month ago, putting the project on indefinite hiatus

Still, one must ask what personal demons could drive a celebrity of Depp’s stature to such wretched depths. According to the megastar’s therapist, celebrity headshrinker Dr. Royce Carruthers, the answer is tragically simple.

“Basically, he began to feel snubbed by your community and it sent him around the bend,” Carruthers explains. “He fell in love with your town, last year, and did his best to embrace it with his whole heart. He went house-hunting among your beautiful hills, shopped in your quaint groceries, noshed at your local bagelries, even took to walking around your lovely lake early each morning. Yet everybody acted like he wasn’t even there and, for a man who’s adored by millions, that was intolerable. Medically speaking, he went Froot Loops.”

While the thought of an unhinged Hollywood icon skulking around Evergreen’s quiet neighborhoods is certainly disturbing, it’s not without ample precedent. In late 2002, cinema tough-guy Al Pacino terrorized the quiet township of Cactus Creek, Nev., for nearly a month after the local Bijou closed his latest picture, “The Sense of a Wombat,” after only two weeks. And just last year, Hollywood heavyweight Susan Sarandon, esteemed in industries circles as an actress of great seriousness, spent several days wandering the tiny hamlet of Quaker Oaks, N.H., sleeping in the park, eating from birdfeeders and frightening household pets. According to Amsterdam, the episode began when Sarandon learned that the popular half-pound “Susan Saran-Ton” garden burger at Mimi’s Silver Screen Diner in downtown Quaker Oaks had been renamed the “Adam Sandler-wich” after the prominent ham stopped to disburden himself on a dwarf chestnut tree on nearby Rural Route 86.

Even now, county personnel are bending their efforts to catching the troubled superstar. Authorities hope that deftly camouflaged snares laid in Dedisse Park and baited with plastic Oscar trophy replicas will snare the two-time nominee so that he can be safely darted and relocated to a less natural environment.

“We don’t want to hurt him,” Grape says. “We just want to end the fear and loathing in Evergreen.”

Used by permission of Evergreen Newspapers