Category Archives: Uncategorized

Bacon and its Discontents

Another guest post by Joe Eaton

The Bacon People have finally gone too far. And they’ve done it in a really strange and offensive way.

This is not about bacon per se, and I have not turned vegetarian. Bacon has always been one of life’s great consolations for me. There are times when you really need a BLT. Sometimes a BLAT (BALT?), with avocado. Yes, I know about the supposed intelligence of the domestic pig. A few years ago, Marin Sun Farms, a local meat purveyor, claimed on their web site that their pigs all enjoyed fulfilled lives before becoming pork products, and I have always wondered what the exit interviews were like. I know about the environmental impact of hog farming. In college my historical geology class did a field trip to a Cenozoic marine formation downwind of a pig farm in eastern North Carolina, near the small town of Tar Heel, deep in Jesse Helms country. The stench was impressive, and I wasn’t even thinking about the runoff at the time. I understand it’s become much worse since then. But this is not about that either.

What it’s about is bacon-flavored bourbon.

I’m not sure exactly when the bacon-flavored thing—part of a broader hipster/techie bacon-fetishization trend–took off. It may have started with chocolate. Tried a bacon chocolate bar once; tasty, but it didn’t change my life. I was dimly aware of a bakeshop in Portland that featured bacon-maple doughnuts. These probably inspired the Oregon-based Rogue brewery’s bacon-maple beer, which came in a lurid Pepto-Bismol-pink bottle. It didn’t look like anything I would want to drink. Later came bacon-maple potato chips, another line I have yet to cross, and bacon-flavored soda syrup (Italian) and soda (American.)

The bourbon was on the shelves of my neighborhood BevMo a few months ago, perpetrated by some people in Nashville and labeled “Ol’ Major.” (If that brand name rings a dim literary/political bell for you, as it did for me, see below.) I was not tempted to purchase a bottle. Bacon and bourbon should be separate realms, what the late Stephen Jay Gould, referring to science and religion, called nonoverlapping magisteria. Such a thing had been foreshadowed by another deplorable trend, the vending of maple- and honey- and peach- and cinnamon- and cayenne-flavored bourbon. None of those substances belong in bourbon any more than bacon—or whatever artificial bacon flavoring agent the Ol’ Major folks use—does.

It took me a while to seek out the manufacturers’ web site (google it yourself; I’m not sending them any more traffic). The first thing I encountered there was a screen that said “’murica:1…terrorists:0.” Huh? Another page offers bacon bourbon cocktail recipes, and there alongside the Bacon Sour, the Bacon Bloody Mary, and Babe’s Julep, is a drink called the Commie Crippler. Who says “commie” anymore? The drink, combining Ol’ Major with triple sec and licorice liqueur, might be fatal to a diabetic Marxist. Seems like an odd choice of nomenclature, though. But maybe this stuff is supposed to be a weapon in the Kulturkampf between militant Islam and the Christian West. Are these folks conflating communists and Islamists, and do they really think that patriot ‘muricans can strike back against ISIS by consuming their product? A drink for the Age of Trump? Whatever, I ain’t buying it.

So why did “Ol’ Major” sound familiar? Remember Animal Farm? Remember the porcine Karl Marx figure who lays the ideological foundation for the revolt of the animals, but dies before it comes to pass (and the other pigs display his skull on a pole as a sacred relic)? Old Major, with a terminal “d.”

There is nothing on the web site to suggest that bacon-flavored bourbon’s brand name was a conscious Orwell reference. (If anyone wants to organize a Society To Save George Orwell From His Friends, I’m in. Yes, I’m talking about you, Hitchens, and de mortuis nil nisi bonum my ass.) But maybe they thought they were posthumously recruiting the author of Homage to Catalonia, Animal Farm, and 1984 into their boozy crusade. I’m sure he’s been spinning in his grave for years, and a little more angular momentum won’t make that much of a difference.

Gators in the Cabinet

Guest post by Joe Eaton, and thanks again for the use of the hall

The headline in last Friday’s San Francisco Chronicle read: “Trump filling Cabinet with ‘swamp’ denizens.” And my first thought was “Albert the Alligator for Secretary of Defense!”

Yes, a Pogo reference. Walt Kelly’s “Pogo”—the daily syndicated strip more than the precursor comic books—was a landmark in American cartooning. There’s never been anything quite like it, although George Herrimann’s “Krazy Kat” bears comparison. Herrimann’s strip was more surreal/absurd, though, without “Pogo’s” vein of satire. Kelly used a cast of critters in the Okefenokee Swamp, a real wetland that slops from southeast Georgia into north Florida, to comment on human political and other foibles. (It was pretty much in the funny-animal genre, with occasional appearances by human or humanoid characters: a clan of Cajun satyrs, cave people, centaurs.) When I was growing up in Little Rock, where the strip appeared in the Arkansas Gazette—its editor, Harry Ashmore, was one of that now near-extinct breed of Southern white liberals—“Pogo” was my first exposure to satire. A lot of it went right past me, but what I got, I enjoyed.

Kelly, formerly a Disney animator (he worked on “Dumbo” and “Fantasia”), editorial cartoonist (for the short-lived leftist New York Star and later for the Herald Tribune), and comic-book artist (where Pogo Possum was originally second banana to an African-American boy named Bumbazine and the swamp dwellers spoke a cringeworthy minstrel-show patois), launched the comic strip in 1949. It had a good long run, eventually done in by the cartoonist’s failing health and the format constraints that cramped the crowded word balloons and elaborate swampscapes, counterparts to the buttes and mesas of “Krazy Kat”’s Coconino County. (Herriman drew from personal experience of the Southwest; Kelly hailed from Bridgeport, Connecticut, and first laid eyes on the Okefenokee in 1955.)

Kelly didn’t adapt well to the Sixties; his attempts to include hippie and feminist characters were unfortunate, although to his credit he never veered as far right as “Li’l Abner”’s Al Capp. And he was very much a Cold War liberal, with recurring characters like the Cowbirds, mostly semi-covert Communist Party members (but sometimes professional ex-Communists in the Whittaker Chambers mold.) All through, though, Kelly had no use for bigots or bullies. After his death in 1973, other cartoonists, a couple of decades later, tried to revive the strip. The resuscitation was unsuccessful.

The daily strips were repackaged in a series of trade paperbacks, all long out of print. Fortunately, Fantagraphics Books has been republishing the dailies (and Sundays, in full color) in classy hardcover editions, a couple of years’ worth at a time. They’ve gotten through the vintage years of 1953-54, but there had been a long hiatus and I was afraid the project had been abandoned. Not so: the Fantagraphics web site says 1955-56 will be out in February.

That Chronicle headline was, of course, a reference to President-elect Trump’s (my fingers almost refused to type that phrase) choice of Washington insiders for key administrative positions, despite his avowed intention of “draining the swamp.” Ohio Senator Sherrod Brown had commented: “This isn’t draining the swamp. It’s stocking it with alligators.”

Albert the Alligator was a fine exemplar of his species, a big green cigar-chomping crocodilian, not too bright but good-hearted, with an awkward habit of unintentionally swallowing smaller characters. Why Defense? Because he had a uniform, with a vaguely Masonic hat, and thought he looked great in it. And a cannon, in which he once got his leg stuck. (Graphically, Jeff Smith’s Smiley Bone is Albert without the tail.)

Other potential nominees come to mind. The eponymous Pogo, the strip’s Charlie Brown figure, was a peacemaker but too modest to accept the State Department portfolio. More than one character would be a good fit for Education: Barnstable Bear, who could write but not read, or Miss Sis Boombah, the Rhode Island Red hen, co-founder of Okefenokee University and coach of its intervarsity beanbag team. Howland Owl, a crackpot scientist forever trying to split the atom or shoot his friends into space, would be a natural for NASA. “Pogo” had a large cast, so hundreds of mice, birds, frogs, and bugs would be available for subcabinet appointments.

But who am I kidding? Trump would more likely draw from a pool of unsavory characters like the Mole (originally an avatar of the anti-immigration Senator Pat McCarran, a Nevada Democrat; xenophobia can be bipartisan) who wanted to police the travels of the migratory birds that cross our borders willy-nilly. Maybe Seminole Sam, the con-artist fox (Undersecretary of Poultry Housing?), or Sarcophagus MacAbre, the buzzard? The sanctimonious Deacon Mushrat, a member of the Jack Acid Society, would almost certainly be in the running.

I can’t help speculating what kind of “Pogo” character Trump himself would have been. Kelly included unflattering caricatures of many politicians, domestic and foreign: Joe McCarthy as a rifle-toting wildcat, Nixon as a badger (later a spider), LBJ as a Texas longhorn, Spiro Agnew as a hyena, J. Edgar Hoover as a bulldog, Fidel Castro as a goat. The cartoonist didn’t appear overly fond of pigs (although the Dixieland jazz musician Solid MacHogany was basically a good guy. )William Randolph Hearst, whose papers ran “Krazy Kat” but not “Pogo,” turned up in the strip as a shady pig, as did Nikita Khrushchev. A porcine Trump would be almost too easy.

Anyway, I miss Walt Kelly, just as I miss others—Molly Ivins, Hunter Thompson—whose willingness not just to speak truth to power, but to ridicule the living daylights out of it, would do us all a lot of good just now.

Joe Eaton calls “Fowl!” A Review

I know it’s a lost cause, but the sloppiness of the publishing industry continues to sadden me. Editing is a lost art, like scrimshaw. Likewise copyreading and factchecking. Latest case in point: Why Did the Chicken Cross the World? The Epic Saga of the Bird That Powers Civilization, by Andrew Lawler, from Atria Books. Lawler is a science journalist with impressive credentials, including contributing-writer status with Science. His acknowledgements mention an editor, Leslie Meredith, but I find it hard to believe he or she did any actual editing. This book, which, as an admirer of the domestic chicken, I opened with some degree of anticipation, is so riddled with major and minor errors that I refrained from throwing it across the room only because it was a library copy and I did not want to pay for its replacement.

Where do I start with this mess? What a squandered opportunity! Lawler refers in passing to the pecking order in domestic chickens but doesn’t mention Thorleif Schjelderup-Ebbe, the Norwegian biologist/psychologist who introduced the concept. Fascinating recent research on chicken cognition and behavior, much of it in Australia, is ignored. Having spent considerable time in the company of chickens in the last few years, I can tell you that their social life is more complex than you might think. Complex, hell: it’s a soap opera, with a strong tincture of Game of Thrones. I’ve witnessed chicken coups; it wasn’t pretty. You wouldn’t know that from this book, though.

The discussion of pre-Columbian chicken remains in South America and the Polynesian role in their introduction is confusingly written, and I suspect not just because the data is confusing. And there’s no mention of the wild chickens of the Kaua’i highlands, descendants of birds that came to Hawai’i in the great voyaging canoes and still close to the original red jungle fowl stock.

Chapter 8, “The Little King,” is a particular treasury of howlers. Lawler is talking about the shifting image of the rooster in medieval Europe: “Magical amulets displaying fierce creatures with snake legs and a cock’s head date back to Greco-Roman times, and were popular among ancient Jews and Persians as well as medieval Christians.” Snake legs? How can you write “snake legs” and not immediately think, “Wait a minute”? How could “snake legs” make it through any kind of editorial process? I don’t think he’s referring to the vestigial hind limbs of some boas and pythons, or the legs of ancestral snakes. Did he just mean “reptilian?” Or “scaly?” All bird legs are scaly, more or less.

But let’s move on. Then there’s this: “Scientists have been struggling since Aristotle to understand the mechanisms that determine whether an animal is male or female. The Greek philosopher believed that the hotter the sex a man had with a woman, then the greater likelihood that a resulting fetus would be male. This is not as absurd as it sounds, since temperatures can play a role in sex differentiation among some animals. The hotter the nest during incubation of alligator eggs, for example, the more likely than males will result.” Lawler may be right about what Aristotle believed, based on my recollection of Armand Marie Leroi’s recent (and excellent) book The Lagoon: How Aristotle Invented Science. And he’s right about nest temperature and the sex of hatchlings in alligators, an effect also documented in turtles and some lizards. But not in birds! Not even the megapodes, whose eggs are kept warm by rotting vegetation or geothermal heat. Besides, doesn’t he get the, um, metaphorical nature of “hot sex?” Ancient joke: “Do you smoke after intercourse?” “I don’t know; I’ve never looked.”

Still in Chapter 8, he mangles the names of a couple of dinosaur taxa and says Triceratops had feathers on its tail. Nope. That was Psittacosaurus, a basal relative of the giant horned dinosaurs, and the tail ornaments in question were bristles, not the true feathers of some theropod dinosaurs and their modern avian descendants.

Lawler recounts the rise of the American poultry industry in some detail, but inexplicably omits the saga of the Jewish chicken farmers of Petaluma. California enters the book obliquely, in a reference to how the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II deprived the industry of most of its skilled chick-sexers. If true, this is remarkable, and I’d love to know more about this professional specialization.

I was shaking my head and muttering as early as page 10, on which we learn that all but two of the world’s 49 pheasant species inhabit the jungles of South Asia. Leaving aside the Congo peacock, a biogeographical outlier, it’s true that all other living pheasant species are Asian. But from the range maps in the definitive Pheasants, Partridges & Grouse by Steve Madge and Phil McGowan, the distribution seems as much East Asian as South Asian. A couple of species are endemic to Japan, not a notably jungly country; others restricted to scrubland in the Himalayas. I’m not even sure Lawler got the number of species right.

I could go on, but that would be beating a dead chicken. All right, just one more, in the context of poultry-raising among slaves in the antebellum South: “Since black women often did the cooking in plantation kitchens, West African foods like okra and kale crept onto plantation menus.” Kale? This man doesn’t know the difference between kale and collards! (Collards, of course, are only West African by adoption, but that’s another story.)

Joe Eaton is a science and natural history writer based in Berkeley, California.

My Young Elder

Since the Berkeley Ecology Center has seen fit to disappear the archive of columns that Joe Eaton and I wrote for the late great magazine Terrain way back when, I’m taking the liberty of republishing some of them here.

I planted a blue elderberry in the back of the yard some years ago, up against the fence, and then ignored it. Fortunately that’s a good strategy. Now it’s producing lots of berries to atone for its rambling, floppy habits.

I give it a serious haircut most winters, shape it a little, but I have no illusions that it’s going to take a disciplined form. That’s OK; I love the species in the wild, where half the fun is seeing what changes it can ring on the theme of Loose Arching Tall Shrub.

Sometimes it actually becomes a tree. I know some with respectable trunks; it takes a second look to recognize them. The first time I did, I found a Pacific Slope flycatcher glaring back at me from a nest in a branch crook—someone else thought it was a good enough tree too.

One odd thing about elderberries is the contradictory data about them. I’ve heard that they’re toxic;
that just the red ones are toxic;
that they’re delicious and by the way, here are five recipes for them;
that either the red or the blue are toxic to everyone or toxic to only certain people, either always (especially the red ones) or only when raw;
that the unripe blue ones are toxic; that only the blue ones are traditional food;
that the red ones are traditional food too;
that the leaves, stems, and other plant parts are toxic and “children have been made ill by using the stems as peashooters”;
that indigenous Californians have traditionally used the stems for flutes;
that it’s poisonous and that it’s good for what ails you; that it’ll give you a bellyache and that it’ll cure a bellyache.

I speculate that what’s going on here is that some people are susceptible in various ways to a compound in the plant—apparently there are plenty of suspects, like some lectins. (Lectins are proteins; they’re various, ubiquitous, and often poorly understood. Hocus-pocus material, and also something to watch with interest as research proceeds.)

Whatever causes the problem, it can be neutralized by drying or cooking, so elderberry flowers for tea and elderberries for pie are often dried and then reconstituted before use. Those kids being poisoned by their peashooters would be better off if they dried the sticks before using them—which is what the Miwok do for their flutes.

These traditional flutes are made from elderberry twigs, which are already hollow, or pithy and easy to hollow out. They cut them green and let them dry; one writer says they burned out fingering holes with a hot coal at random, so no two flutes had the same scale. If so, that would make for some interesting compositions.

Californians traditionally make clappersticks out of elderberry branches too. With both the wind and the rhythm sections accounted for, some people call it the music tree. For all these and for arrow wood, elderberry plants were coppiced to produce straight stems, and so far my bush has been cheerful about such serious pruning.

There’s a Miwok legend that, back in the days before the sun shone everywhere, only the Valley people had fire, and the Mountain people wanted some too. Robin guarded fire in the Valley roundhouse, and Coyote went out searching but couldn’t find it.

White-footed Mouse figured out where it was, and sat down at a gathering in that roundhouse (either with just the Valley people or with the visiting Mountain people too, depending on who’s telling) and played his elder-twig flute till everyone was lulled to sleep. Then he hid some of the fire inside the flute, and after more adventures and a merry chase, brought it to the mountains, where it was tucked under some leaves.

When Coyote lifted the leaves to find the fire, most of it shot into the sky and became the sun. Some was left behind, and the people put that into the buckeye and the incense cedar, where now anyone can find it.

Elderberry does occupy that margin between wild and garden, forest and field. Donald Culross Peattie mentions it in his Natural History of Western Trees as “a ruderal little tree”; that is, a plant that grows on “waste ground.” That’s a loaded term, but it just means disturbed areas; you often see wild elders on road margins—their white flowerheads light up mile after mile of highway in Florida—and along trails, a sort of forest doorkeeper.

That’s appropriate for a garden, too; you’d want it between your beds and whatever boundary of big trees you have. Ask your elder relatives for pie, tea, and fritter recipes, or try Carolyn Niethammer’s American Indian Cooking. Share the berries with the birds, and you might even get a flock of waxwings to visit.

Polymorphic Polyandrous Perplexity (by Joe Eaton)


We’ve been spending a lot of time in the company of Swainson’s hawks lately, at an undisclosed location in San Joaquin County. They seem to be everywhere, even in semi-suburban areas. It’s been an education. I didn’t know Swainson’s hawks hovered; they’re quite good at it, even in a stiff wind. I’d never heard their scream, much like a redtail’s but somewhat thinner and more wavering. And I’d never seen a pair mating or building a nest. All this has been happening just around the corner, within an easy walk of where we’re visiting.

Swainson’s hawks, like many other buteos (including red-tailed, rough-legged, ferruginous, broad-winged, and short-tailed hawks), come in multiple plumage morphs. “Morph” is the preferred term, not “phase,” because it’s permanent.The extremes are the light morph (brown bib, white belly) and the dark morph (all dark below), with rufous and intermediate variants. Proportions of different morphs in a population vary geographically, with dark birds predominant in the Central Valley and light birds on the Great Plains. Mixed pairs are not unusual.

We were out for a constitutional last month and watched three Swainson’s hawks—two dark, one light—interacting in what you could probably call a walnut savanna. The two dark birds were acting like a pair, calling back and forth, eventually touching down on a gnarly old walnut and mating. So I thought I had this relationship figured out: the dark hawks are on territory, the light bird is an interloper. But then we saw the larger dark hawk, the presumed female (female buteos being larger than males in most species) flying in tandem with the smaller light hawk and briefly locking talons with him. Sure looked like courtship.

I consulted the trusty Cornell Birds of North America site, which is really worth the cost of the annual subscription, and found a reference to Swainson’s hawks in northeastern California forming stable polyandrous trios. A female and two (related? unclear) males defend a territory, build a nest, and jointly care for the young, sometimes for several years in succession. Was this what I was watching? The following morning, though, I caught the two dark hawks carrying sticks into an isolated live oak, where they had already constructed a sizable nest, deep and bulky, near the crown. No sign of the light male; might have just been passing through, looking for an extra-pair copulation. As it turns out, that was the last time we saw him.

Polyandry, it seems, is not that unusual in buteos and related hawks. It’s more or less standard for the Galapagos hawk, which genetic studies indicate is the Swainson’s closest relative. (The i’o or Hawai’ian hawk is also near kin. Swainson’s is typically a long-distance migrant, with most of the population traveling from the North American plains to the Argentine pampas every year. You can see how accidental colonization of remote islands might happen.) Polyandrous mating groups also occur in the more distantly related Harris’s hawk. The advantage? Male raptors often provide prey for their incubating mates and nestlings. A female with two male providers would have a better chance of successfully fledging her brood.

Central Valley Swainson’s hawks migrate, but not to Argentina. Migrants travel only as far as western Mexico and Central America; a few spend the winter in the Valley or Delta. This, along with the different morph proportions, led to speculation that they might be genetically distinct from the Great Plains population. And they are, kind of, according to recently published research by Joshua Hull and colleagues at UC Davis–but not genetically different enough to meet the criteria for federal protection as a Distinct Population Segment. There’s apparently enough gene flow between Valley and Great Basin hawks to keep the populations from diverging too far. That’s too bad, given the Valley hawks’ widespread loss of habitat and precipitous (90 percent in the last century) decline in numbers.