Nov 222018
 

On this date in 1963, president John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, and the world took notice. His death overshadowed the deaths of Aldous Huxley and C.S. Lewis on the same day, and it feels now as if their deaths went unnoticed. Obviously, close friends and family paid attention to their passing, but few others did. Why was the death of one U.S. politician more important around the world than the deaths of two English writers? The unfortunate coincidence of Huxley and Lewis dying right around the time JFK was shot did not escape some people’s attention and is the subject of Peter Kreeft’s book Between Heaven and Hell: A Dialog Somewhere Beyond Death with John F. Kennedy, C. S. Lewis, & Aldous Huxley.  Did JFK’s death merit more attention than the other two? I’d like to tease that question apart.

People of my generation, especially in the US, can recall the details of what they were doing when they heard the news of Kennedy’s assassination. It was as game changing in its day as the events of 9/11 were to a later generation. I was 12 and living in South Australia at the time. I heard the news on the morning of Saturday, November 23rd on the way to play cricket, but because of the time difference between Dallas and Adelaide (16 hours), the news was only a few hours old, and very little was known about the precise events in the immediate aftermath of the shooting. Then events seemed to happen in lightning succession. Lee Harvey Oswald was arrested, then when he was being transported, he was shot by Jack Ruby in front of television news cameras. Then there was the funeral, and the investigation which brought to light some grainy photos and amateur movies. It was all a hailstorm of incomplete information that added little to what we already knew, but fueled endless conspiracy theories. Was this retaliation by Cuba or Russia? Was there more than one shooter? Were shots fired from the grassy knoll? Etc. etc. Some of these conspiracy theories won’t die, but it is unlikely that any new information will ever come to light at this stage to change the conclusions of the Warren Commission that Oswald acted alone, even though doubts linger.

In some ways, the prominence of JFK’s assassination in the news cycle, more or less to the exclusion of other news, is no great mystery. The US was certainly no stranger to the assassination, and attempted assassination, of presidents, but there were few people alive in 1963 who could remember the assassination of William McKinley in 1901 – the last successful attempt, although virtually every president thereafter had been the subject of at least one attempt. It still came as a profound shock because Kennedy represented something new. He was a new kind of president for a new decade – bringing a sense of youth and vitality to the White House which many called Camelot. Perhaps he was the best that the US had to offer in the way of royalty – a blue blood, war hero (young and energetic: not a seasoned veteran general like Eisenhower, but a decorated naval lieutenant PT boat commander who was in the thick of fighting in the Pacific theater with tales of bravery surrounding him). Jack and Jackie presided over a glittering spectacle at the White House brimming with artists, musicians, and actors for their courtiers.

Kennedy was also a knight in shining armor in the Cold War. He had faced down Russia during the Cuban Missile Crisis, and when Sputnik showed the Russians up to be the leaders in the Space Race, he vowed that the US would have a man on the moon by the end of the decade. Of course, there was a downside: the Bay of Pigs, and the full throated approach in Vietnam being the most salient.

All in all, Kennedy’s era was one of renewed hope, with the post-war Baby Boom coming of age and expecting great things to emerge. A bullet from Oswald’s rifle ended that hope, and replaced it with a brutal reality. There is no need to wonder why Kennedy’s death pushed Huxley and Lewis off center stage. They were not world leaders, and they had died in their beds. Admittedly Huxley died tripping on two doses of LSD administered by his wife as he lay dying, but this fact was not made public until some time afterwards. It was certainly a fitting end for the man who had blazed a trail in the realm of the psychedelic. Lewis seemed to be improving from kidney problems that had plagued him for a few years, but then suddenly collapsed and died in his bedroom in his home in Oxford. In that sense the deaths of Huxley and Lewis, although tragic, were not unexpected, and they had left a stack of completed work. Kennedy, on the other hand, was in the prime of life – a father of young children, with much left to be accomplished. He was cut short with a great deal of unfinished business.

So, yes, there is a reason that Kennedy’s death overshadowed the other two. But should we remain in the same pose we were in back in 1963, 55 years on? I think not. We have had time to let the dust settle and assess the three men dispassionately. What did they leave behind that is lasting?  We have to be fair to Kennedy in arguing that he might have accomplished great things if he had lived. He may not have ratcheted up the Vietnam War in the way that Johnson did, and he might have presided over Civil Rights and the landing on the moon. We cannot know now. However, we can say that his legacy has not endured to the same extent that those of Huxley and Lewis have.

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We cannot lay the whole of fantasy fiction at Lewis’ door, but he was a giant in its creation, and the many tales of Narnia are still big sellers as books and on the big screen. His popular apologetics for Christianity should probably be consigned to the trash can of history. I suppose it’s all right for people who don’t think too much about religion, and want easy answers, but it’s amateur stuff at best – “God can’t make beautiful sculptures of us without chiseling bits off which hurt” – that sort of thing. All lame thoughts of someone who has not read theology deeply, nor knows anything about world religions.

Aldous Huxley

Huxley explored pain from a somewhat different, yet related, angle. Brave New World describes a world without pain. I don’t know if it is read much any more. It does not have the insight of Orwell’s work, partly because it envisages a world that cannot exist because he has his facts all wrong about the possibilities of eugenics and psycho-social conditioning. But he does raise the key theological question: “What is the point of life if it is mechanical?” Pain and suffering are what inspire artists and poets to great heights. If you give up the one, you forfeit the other. Is it worth it? Very good question. The Doors of Perception not only gave us Jim Morrison and The Doors (in more than name only). It gave us Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, and a generation intent on exploring the limits of perception and consciousness.

While I would not say that Kennedy’s legacy in the political sphere has endured well, his and Jackie’s tastes did change White House kitchens. Previous White House meals were a rather dull affair. None of the recent occupants had been what could be considered gourmets. Calvin Coolidge inexplicably referred to any and all meals as “supper,” even if it were breakfast time; the Roosevelts famously served hot dogs to the king and queen of England; and a menu for the state dinner for the crowned heads of Greece given by the Eisenhower administration is depressing: “toasted Triscuits, fish in cheese sauce, sliced lemmon [sic].”

Not long after the inauguration, Jackie Kennedy hired a French chef, René Verdon. Quickly, the White House menus changed from featuring saltines and beef stew to more sophisticated fare, such as sole Veronique and strawberries Romanoff. Verdon’s influence was felt throughout the country, as magazine and newspaper articles went crazy for all things Kennedy. Julia Child’s celebrated public television program The French Chef began about this time, too.

Perhaps the most celebrated White House dinner of the Kennedy years was held at president Washington’s grand house, Mount Vernon, in honor of the president of Pakistan. Guests were transported down the Potomac on yachts, with dance music played and champagne freely poured. The French meal was prepared in the White House kitchen, and trucked the 15 miles to Mount Vernon in specially modified military vehicles. Guests were treated to a crabmeat and avocado mimosa, poulet chasseur and fresh local raspberries with whipped cream. You can find my recipe for poulet chasseur here http://www.bookofdaystales.com/orient-express/  Fresh raspberries and whipped cream scarcely need a recipe. Here is crabmeat and avocado mimosa:

Crabmeat and Avocado Mimosa

Ingredients

2 ripe avocados
1 scallion, minced
2 tsp lemon juice, divided
¼ tsp salt (or, to taste)
hot pepper sauce
3 tbsp mayonnaise
2 tbsp chili sauce
1 tbsp prepared horseradish
½ tsp Worcestershire sauce
white pepper
8 oz cooked fresh crabmeat
2 cups watercress
2 hard cooked egg yolks
1 tbsp chopped fresh parsley

Instructions

Peel half of one avocado. In a small bowl, mash avocado half. Add scallion, 1 teaspoon of lemon juice, ¼ teaspoon of salt, and hot pepper sauce to taste. Stir until well combined. Reserve.

In separate bowl, stir together the mayonnaise, chili sauce, horseradish, Worcestershire sauce, and remaining teaspoon lemon juice. Season to taste with salt and white pepper. Reserve.

Peel the remaining 1 ½ avocados, cut into half-inch cubes, and place them in a large bowl. Squeeze the excess moisture from crabmeat. Add to cubed avocado and gently combine. Fold in the mayonnaise.

Line the bottoms of 6 chilled open champagne glasses or small glass serving dishes with watercress. Divide crab mixture evenly among glasses. Top each with a dollop of mashed avocado mixture.

Press the egg yolks through a fine mesh sieve and combine with the parsley in a small bowl. Sprinkle the yolk/parsley mixture evenly over each portion. Mimosas can be covered and refrigerated for up to 3 hours.

Serve chilled.

 

Nov 292013
 

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Today is the birthday (1898) of Clive Staples Lewis – commonly called C. S. Lewis and known to his friends and family as “Jack” – novelist, poet, academic, medievalist, literary critic, essayist, lay theologian, and Christian apologist. He was born in Belfast and held academic positions at both Oxford University (Magdalen College), 1925–1954, and Cambridge University (Magdalene College), 1954–1963. He is best known both for his fictional work, especially The Chronicles of Narnia, and for his non-fiction Christian apologetics, such as Mere Christianity, Miracles, and The Problem of Pain.

According to his memoir Surprised by Joy, Lewis had been baptized in the Church of Ireland (part of the Anglican Communion) at birth, but fell away from his faith during his adolescence. Owing to the influence of Tolkien and other friends, at the age of 32 Lewis returned to the Anglican Communion, becoming “a very ordinary layman of the Church of England.” His faith had a profound effect on his work, and his wartime radio broadcasts on the subject of Christianity during WW II brought him wide acclaim.

At the age of four, shortly after his dog Jacksie was killed by a car, he announced that his name was now Jacksie. At first, he would answer to no other name, but later accepted Jack, the name by which he was known to friends and family for the rest of his life. When he was seven, his family moved into “Little Lea,” the family home of his childhood, in the Strandtown area of East Belfast.

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As a boy, Lewis had a fascination with anthropomorphic animals, falling in love with Beatrix Potter’s stories and often writing and illustrating his own animal stories. He and his brother Warnie together created the world of Boxen, inhabited and run by animals. Lewis loved to read; and, as his father’s house was filled with books, he felt that finding a book to read was as easy as “walking into a field and finding a new blade of grass.”

As a teenager, he was fascinated by the songs and legends of what he called Northernness, the ancient literature of Scandinavia preserved in the Icelandic sagas. These legends intensified an inner longing he later called “joy.” He also grew to love nature; its beauty reminded him of the stories of the North. His teenage writings moved away from the tales of Boxen, and he began using different art forms (epic poetry and opera) to try to capture his new-found interest in Norse mythology and the natural world. Through boyhood study of Classics he also developed love of Greek literature including works in rhetoric and logic, as well as the familiar legends and mythology. In 1916, Lewis was awarded a scholarship at University College, Oxford to study Classics. Before he was allowed to attend Oxford, however, Lewis was conscripted into the First World War. His experience of the horror of war confirmed his atheism.

On 15 April 1918, Lewis was wounded and two of his colleagues were killed by a British shell falling short of its target. While being trained for the army, Lewis shared a room with another cadet, Edward Courtnay Francis “Paddy” Moore (1898–1918). Maureen Moore, Paddy’s sister, said that the two made a mutual pact that if either died during the war, the survivor would take care of both their families. Paddy was killed in action in 1918 and Lewis kept his promise. Paddy had earlier introduced Lewis to his mother, Jane King Moore, and a friendship quickly sprang up between Lewis, who was eighteen when they met, and Jane who was forty-five. The friendship with Moore was particularly important to Lewis while he was recovering from his wounds in hospital, as his father did not visit him.

Lewis lived with and cared for Jane Moore until she was hospitalized in the late 1940s. He routinely introduced her as his “mother,” and referred to her as such in letters. Lewis, whose own mother had died when he was a child and whose father was distant, demanding and eccentric, developed a deeply affectionate friendship with Moore.

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In 1930, Lewis and his brother Warnie moved, with Jane Moore and her daughter Maureen, into “The Kilns,” a house in Headington Quarry on the outskirts of Oxford, now part of the suburb of Risinghurst. They all contributed financially to the purchase of the house, which passed to Maureen, who by then was Dame Maureen Dunbar, when Warnie died in 1973.

Lewis experienced a degree of culture shock on first arriving in England.  In Surprised by Joy he wrote, “No Englishman will be able to understand my first impressions of England. The strange English accents with which I was surrounded seemed like the voices of demons. But what was worst was the English landscape. I have made up the quarrel since; but at that moment I conceived a hatred for England which took many years to heal.”

He slowly re-embraced Christianity, influenced by arguments with his Oxford colleague and friend J. R. R. Tolkien, whom he seems to have met for the first time on 11 May 1926, and by the book The Everlasting Man by G. K. Chesterton. He fought greatly up to the moment of his conversion, noting that he was brought into Christianity like a prodigal, “kicking, struggling, resentful, and darting his eyes in every direction for a chance to escape.” He described his last struggle in Surprised by Joy:

You must picture me alone in that room in Magdalen, night after night, feeling, whenever my mind lifted even for a second from my work, the steady, unrelenting approach of Him whom I so earnestly desired not to meet. That which I greatly feared had at last come upon me. In the Trinity Term of 1929 I gave in, and admitted that God was God, and knelt and prayed: perhaps, that night, the most dejected and reluctant convert in all England.

After his conversion to theism in 1929, Lewis converted to Christianity in 1931, following a long discussion and late-night walk with his close friends Tolkien and Hugo Dyson. He records making a specific commitment to Christian belief while on his way to the zoo with his brother. He became a member of the Church of England – somewhat to the disappointment of Tolkien, who had hoped that he would join the Catholic Church.

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Lewis was a committed Anglican who upheld a largely orthodox Anglican theology, though in his apologetic writings, he made an effort to avoid embracing any one denomination. In his later writings, he espoused ideas such as purification of venial sins after death in purgatory (The Great Divorce and Letters to Malcolm) and mortal sin (The Screwtape Letters), which are generally considered to be Roman Catholic teachings, although they are also widely held in Anglicanism (particularly in high church Anglo-Catholic circles). Regardless, Lewis considered himself an entirely orthodox Anglican to the end of his life, reflecting that he had initially attended church only to receive communion and had been repelled by the hymns and the poor quality of the sermons.

In Lewis’s later life, he corresponded with and later met Joy Davidman Gresham, a U.S. writer of Jewish background, a former Communist, and a convert from atheism to Christianity. She was separated from her alcoholic and abusive husband, the novelist William L. Gresham, and went to England with her two sons, David and Douglas. Lewis at first regarded her as an agreeable intellectual companion and personal friend, and it was at least overtly on this level that he agreed to enter into a civil marriage contract with her so that she could continue to live in the U.K. His brother wrote, “For Jack the attraction was at first undoubtedly intellectual. Joy was the only woman whom he had met who had a brain which matched his own in suppleness, in width of interest, and in analytical grasp, and above all in humour and a sense of fun.” However, after complaining of a painful hip, she was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer, and the relationship developed to the point that they sought a Christian marriage. Since she was divorced, this was not straightforward in the Church of England at the time, but a friend, the Rev. Peter Bide, performed the ceremony at her bed in the Churchill Hospital on 21 March 1957.

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Joy’s cancer soon went into a brief remission, and the couple lived as a family (together with Warnie) until her eventual relapse and death in 1960. The year she died, the couple took a brief holiday in Greece and the Aegean; Lewis was fond of walking but not of travel, and this marked his only crossing of the English Channel after 1918. Lewis’s book A Grief Observed describes his experience of bereavement in such a raw and personal fashion that Lewis originally released it under the pseudonym N.W. Clerk to keep readers from associating the book with him. Ironically, many friends recommended the book to him as a method for dealing with his own grief. After his death, his authorship was made public by Faber’s, with the permission of the executors.

Lewis continued to raise Gresham’s two sons after her death. While Douglas Gresham is, like Lewis and his mother, a Christian, David Gresham turned to the faith into which his mother had been born and became an Orthodox Jew. His mother’s writings had featured the Jews, particularly one “shohet” (ritual slaughterer), in an unsympathetic manner. David informed Lewis that he was going to become a ritual slaughterer in order to present this type of Jewish religious functionary to the world in a more favorable light.

In early June 1961, Lewis began experiencing medical problems and was diagnosed with inflammation of the kidneys which resulted in blood poisoning. His illness caused him to miss the Michaelmas term at Cambridge, though his health gradually began improving in 1962 and he returned that April. Lewis’s health continued to improve, and according to his friend George Sayer, Lewis was fully himself by early 1963. On 15 July 1963 he fell ill and was admitted to hospital. The next day at 5:00 pm, Lewis suffered a heart attack and lapsed into a coma, unexpectedly awaking the following day at 2:00 pm. After he was discharged from the hospital, Lewis returned to The Kilns, though he was too ill to return to work. As a result, he resigned from his post at Cambridge in August. Lewis’s condition continued to decline, and in mid-November he was diagnosed with end-stage renal failure. On 22 November 1963, exactly one week before his 65th birthday, Lewis collapsed in his bedroom at 5:30 pm and died a few minutes later. He is buried in the churchyard of Holy Trinity Church, Headington, Oxford

I am not a great fan of Lewis’s fiction. I find The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, heavy handed in its thinly disguised Christian symbolism and moralizing, and never could get far in any of the other books in the Chronicles of Narnia.  Nor do I find his overall reasoning within his Christian apologetics compelling. Despite claiming to be ecumenical in his Christian writing, seeking common ground among all denominations, his work is dominated by high church Anglican theology which I find repellant for the most part (I was raised and ordained in the Scots Presbyterian tradition).  His justification for believing in a loving God despite the existence of pain and evil in the world strikes me as hopelessly naïve, and his thoughts on universal morality show a complete ignorance of cultures outside of the West.  Yet I have read all of his Christian apologetic works, some many times, because he has the knack of summing up profound problems in a pithy phrase. No end of times I will be reading his work, and just stop and muse for a long time on one sentence.  Here is a sampling chosen more or less at random:

“I sometimes wonder if all pleasures are not substitutes for joy.”

“No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good.”

“It is not out of compliment that lovers keep on telling one another how beautiful they are; the delight is incomplete till it is expressed.”

“If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”

“Of all the bad men, religious bad men are the worst.”

“We’re not doubting that God will do the best for us; we’re wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

“If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don’t recommend Christianity.”

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

It is no surprise to me that C. S. Lewis quotes are among the most popular on social media.

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C. S. Lewis by his own admission was extremely fond of traditional British cooking — ham and eggs being his favorite, but also steak and kidney pie, fish and chips, fried sausages, bread and cheese, roast mutton. So once again I get to extol the virtue of this cuisine, much maligned by the ignorant.  To celebrate C.S. Lewis I give you veal, ham, and egg pie which I always used to make around Christmas.  It uses what is known as “slack pastry,” unusual in that it is made with a mix of boiling water and lard.  The pastry is flaky on the outside, but sturdy enough that pies made of it can stand alone without a container.

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©Veal, Ham, and Egg Pie

Ingredients:

1lb/450 g ground veal
4ozs/110 ground boiled ham
2 tbsps fresh parsley, chopped
1 tsp powdered mace
¼ tsp powdered bay leaves
shaved zest of 1 lemon
2 Medium Onions, finely chopped
3 hard boiled eggs, peeled

Slack pastry

4 ozs/110 g lard, plus extra for greasing the tin
7 fl oz/ 200 ml Water
12 ozs/350 g all purpose flour
pinch of salt

Aspic

2 tsps gelatin
½ pint /300 ml light stock

Method

Pre-heat oven to 350 °F/ 180 °C

Grease a 2 ½ pint/1.4 litre loaf tin well with lard.

Put the veal, ham, parsley, mace, bay leaves, and lemon zest in a bowl and mix thoroughly.

Sift the flour and salt into a mixing bowl.

Put the lard and water in a saucepan and gently heat until the lard has melted. Bring to the boil, remove from the heat and tip quickly into the flour.

First with a wooden spoon, then with your hands as soon as it is cool enough to work, mix the ingredients until you have a soft pliable dough.

Take two-thirds of the dough while it is still warm and roll it flat.  Place it in the greased tin and work it up the sides with your fingers, making sure it is evenly distributed and over laps the rim.

Press in half the meat mixture and place the eggs in a line down the centre. Fill with the remaining meat mixture.

Roll out the remaining pastry for the lid. Cover the pie with the pastry and seal the edges.

Use the pastry trimmings to decorate the top, then make one large hole in the center of the pie.

Bake for 1 ½ hours. If necessary, cover the pastry with foil towards the end of the cooking time to prevent over-browning.

Leave to cool for 1 hour.

Make up an aspic jelly by dissolving the gelatin in boiling stock. Cool for about 10 minutes.

Using a funnel pour the liquid aspic through the hole in the top of the pie. You need to take your time with this step because the pie will appear to be filled, but then the aspic will seep down slowly through the meat filling.

Chill the pie for at least 3 hours or overnight (preferable).

To turn out leave the pie to stand at room temperature for about 1 hour, then immerse the tin in very hot water, making sure not to dampen the pastry top, for several minutes.

Cut into thick slices, and serve on a bed of watercress or lettuce, with hot English mustard(cook gets the end pieces as a bedtime snack).

Yield: 8-10 slices.