And then came November: Our nation of (officially) 8 percent unemployment is mourning a quarter-million COVID-19 deaths from a virus infecting well more than 100,000 new Americans every…single…day. With trepidatious anxiety, “blue” America decided to lay blame for this latest new hyper-driven upswing of “Rona” squarely upon our Oracle L’Orange’s now quacking, blustery-lame shoulders. No presidential candidate in American history ever received more votes than “Sleepy Joe” Biden, who’ll turn 78 come Nov. 20. (Useless factoid: Of our 45 prior presidents, only 11 of them ever lived past the age where Biden begins his own presidency.)

Four out of five Americans now believe our country (subsequent to L’Orange’s petulant reign of tyrannical bombast) is headed in the wrong direction. Yeah, I know: How only four out of five? Of the sole presidents (Harding and Trump) who ever ran and won on isolationism, Harding at least had the good sense to die in office before the exposure of his cronyism saw the voltage of daylight.
2020 was a referendum on the triage measures needed for an electrocuted democracy’s very survival. To quote a frazzled gentleman in my building’s elevator, shaking his head somberly on Election Day, “I had no idea our sacred institutions were so vulnerable.” Sighing, his mask ruffled, “America either lives or dies today. I don’t recognize my country anymore — I went to the cemetery, but it was closed.”

This reminds me, kids: Next month, we’ll have cycled full-circle since America’s Patient Zero became diagnosed with COVID-19 (upon Rona’s stealthy escape from Wuhan’s sieve-tight borders) to make her debut on freedom’s shores last January in … where was it now? Portland? Spokane? How fitting a hippie-commune region of our nation played host to that slatternly bitch disease so sunnily monikered as “Coronavirus:” Sounds pretty, doesn’t she?

Global pandemics, of course, have ravaged our world continuously, quite hysteria-free, ever since primates first appeared on Earth sporting thumbs and vocalizing larynxes more than 1,000 centuries ago. Mumps, measles, smallpox, pneumonia, hepatitis, chicken pox, polio — all are now relegated to the biohazard bins of toxic history thanks to vaccines, stunning medical advancements to the point that within a span of just 100 years, even hideous forms of STIs up to HIV are now either perfectly curable or easily treatable via a pill popped just once per day!

From the first disease ever “cured” (diphtheria, in the 1890s) to fantastical advances in the 1920s that turned into a rocket-ascent of cures following the discovery of our final missing element, francium — the last naturally-occurring element to be discovered. Subsequently, science has reaped a bonanza of medical breakthroughs: Pandemic nightmares of 20th century (polio, AIDS) catapulted within a matter of only a couple decades from being murderous to manageable; hence, enter the 21st century, where it’s a given that an inoculation against COVID-19 will be widely available to the public within a few months — not decades, not years … months! Compare this light-speed advance to the arduous slog it took just to stamp down tuberculosis, with TB still vanquishing even those famous amongst us (Vivien Leigh, for instance) as late as 1967!
Thus, on this gone-with-the-wind note, let’s just get right to it.

Dear Howard: At 31, I feel I’m past the age of soliciting private-life advice from strangers, but I think I could use some Howard wisdom. I snooped and read my boyfriend’s texts, thinking maybe he’d be sorry for telling me to move out and trying to figure out how to win me back. Instead, a mutual friend is already trying to find him a rebound, surprised that he was even still with me, that I was terrible “marriage material,” yadda, yadda.

It just really hurts, and makes me livid at the same time. I could use a comforting, Howard ego-booster. — K.E. Van

Dear Kevan: I don’t consider myself a cook, but I do enjoy baking, especially desserts — cakes and pies. It gives me pleasure giving them away to friends, all of whom are brutally honest with their truthful opinion(s) regarding my gift’s palatability. Everyone has his/her own personal favorites, but my palliative pumpkin pies of November always seem to hit a sweet spot. The recipe’s easy, too; however, I insist upon one caveat regarding its main ingredient: One cannot shortcut it by opting for canned pumpkin. (If you’re gonna go Libby’s, don’t bother at all.) Real, fresh pumpkin is the Thanksgiving difference between those who give a damn about authenticity vs. those whose wattles should be wrung at sunrise with the turkey’s.

Should you be brave enough to attempt a scratch pie crust, then, by all means, please give it your whole Martha (Stewart); otherwise, just do as I and buy a deep-dish frozen crust. It’s the only fudging allowed.
Ready? First, you’ll need a real pumpkin. You’ve seen those pretty “sugar” pumpkins festooning the grocery entrance; they’re about the size of a toddler’s head. They’ll keep forever — or until you decide it’s time to impress the natives. Take a large, gleaming knife to the thing, splitting it down the center from the stalk. Claw out all the seeds and place both domes on a cookie sheet, cut-side down. Bake for an hour at 350. Remove, then dial your oven up to 425.

Now for the fun part! Peel away the puckered, crispy skin from its steaming flesh, and trash this whole sticky mess along with the woody stem. Quickly dump your pile of orangish flesh into a large mixing bowl and then root through the cabinets until you find that hand mixer your ex left behind (or, should you be one of the fortunates, a food processor). Shove both beaters in and whip that warm punkin’ meat ’til it screams, i.e., morphs into a smooth, glossy puree.

To your slurry add the following (it matters not the order): three eggs, one can of evaporated milk (12 oz.), one large handful each of white sugar and brown sugar, a big pinch of salt, a good slurp of vanilla extract (the real Madagascar bourbon shit, not imitation) and a piquant spoonful each of the following ground spices: cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, allspice and cloves (actually, make it two spoonfuls each of both cinnamon and ginger).

Blend it all together into an evenly-colored, butterscotch-ish bisque, pour into a cold pie shell and just pop into the oven — easy as pie! Keep in the 425 oven for 15 minutes, then reduce it to 350 for another 45 minutes.

Voila! Remove your bronzed beauty, cool it down long enough so that it’ll slice rather than run (mine simply migrate directly to the fridge straight from the oven). Oh, and don’t forget to dollop each serving with your favorite cream topping!

Also, here’s a little helpful hint regarding punkin’ pie, courtesy that culinary bible, The Joy of Cooking: “Custard and cream pies, unless eaten almost at once, must be kept well chilled. The lightly cooked eggs are especially subject to adverse bacterial activity, even though they may give no evidence of spoilage.”

Girl, wha? Did Rona herself coin this custards’ commentary? Ultimately, on the subject of pumpkin pies, The J of C concludes, “It is Hobson’s choice here: eat within three hours if the pie is left unrefrigerated or risk wateriness under refrigeration.” Hobson’s choice? Who the hell is Hobson? I say just risk the “wateriness.” At worst, your pie from the fridge the following day will prettily look like it’s collected a few sparkling dew drops. God knows, too, nobody has ever turned down a little dewy sparkle.

Oh, wait! My sincerest apologies, Kev: You didn’t ask me at all how to bake this sparkling dessert for your man, did you?
Listen up, girlfriend: I know how irresistible it is to sneak just a tiny, quick peek into someone else’s mail/phone/texts/life; hence, as I also learned long ago, if your name ain’t on it, sweetheart, don’t open it. Don’t touch it. Don’t go near it. Ever!

There’s an old Arabian adage: “The dogs may bark, but the caravan rolls on.” Just keep on a rollin’ onward. Don’t let the petty confetti of others’ gossipy backstabbing bring you down to their level. Toxicity does not the path of transcendency take. In good pilgrim spirit, just leave a freshly baked pumpkin pie for him on your way out his door … and try to resist pullin’ any kind of The Help tomfoolery. Dontcha even give me that furrowed brow, either. You know exactly what I mean. Take the high road.

Finally bois, lemme give a shoutout here to my little brother, Command Sergeant Major Russell, who retires this month, following a long and distinguished Army career: Two stints in Iraq and surviving a crashed Blackhawk — You rock, Wiley! A grateful nation is thankful for your service. Also, a happy birthday to you, President-elect Biden; we’re rootin’ for you, sir!
This month has been the emotional equivalent of lancing, in the nick of time, a gangrenous pustule; suddenly, near-miraculously, all the putrid rot of these past four years in a lunatic asylum is over: We went to the cemetery, but it was closed.

Happy, happy Thanksgiving, bois and girlz!

— Howard Lewis Russell

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