You know, I was warned early on that there isn't any
money to be made in Revisionism. That didn't really bother
me, since I was hired on as a clerk, secretary, hired right-hand.
I was grateful for the job. But tonight, as our Constitution
is still under fire, our President-Elect is still being
ignored by the mainstream media, after reading a review
of a book which clearly exposes Roosevelt's foreknowledge
of Pearl Harbor and his willing sacrifice of American servicemen,
just having finished Other Losses and now reading
Ingrid Rimland's trilogy, well, I have a complaint. My meatballs
didn't turn out right.
Earlier in the week Bradley Smith informed me that donations
were down and suggested that I not waste a penny. I haven't
wasted a penny in four years, but I took his warning to
heart and prepared my family for a Christmas without a tree,
but with a few inexpensive presents. And then I was struck
this morning with a craving for Swedish meatballs. I went
through my recipe books and found one that called for stretching
the meat with mashed potatoes and bread crumbs. With a family
of five to feed, I've learned to stretch everything beyond
all limits and usually I fake them out quite well, so as
a special treat--and a break from Grandpa's chili beans
-- I went for it.
Instead of stretching the meat with the potatoes and
bread crumbs, I stretched the bread crumbs and mashed potatoes
with a little bit of meat. I left out the heavy cream and
opted for a cheap can of mushroom soup. I substituted the
butter for inexpensive pork fat. Forget the spices--I don't
think they've heard of nutmeg in Mexico.
I mixed and rolled and had a wonderful bunch of pretty
meatballs. Then I put them in the pan to fry them. They
completely fell apart. They turned to mush. As I saw our
Swedish meatballs rapidly disintegrating into fried mashed
potatoes with some other stuff thrown in I pondered my fate.
What if I had gone to work for a Zionist? He could have
paid me big bucks, I wouldn't have to stretch our meals,
we'd have an office copier that actually works, we'd go
to lunch in the corporate dining room instead of slurping
food down in front of our computer monitors, my kids would
have a Christmas tree this year and our futures would seem
bright.
I slopped the fried mashed potato gravy on everyone's
plates, apologized profusely and passed the salad. I made
some dry comments about our Swedish meatballs actually being
Revisionist meatballs and momentarily felt sorry for myself
and my family. Then my Dad took a big bite and growled at
me, "There's not a damn thing wrong with these meatballs!
They're just not round, that's all." (Being that we had
to eat "them" with spoons this was a slight understatement.)
My meatballs didn't turn out right, and that makes me
mad. But I realize wherein the problem lies. It isn't with
Revisionists. In this family, at least, Revisionists have
come to represent our soul food. The meatballs, I guess,
will just have to come later.
Bradley R. Smith, Publisher 