August 5, 2026

“CAREFUL CARELESSNESS” (profanity alert):

August 5, 2026

The Lunacy of Gumbo (Padgett Powell, Kitchn)

A man, unless he is a Frenchman, has only a couple of foods that command his attention. That he will read about, track down, travel for, presume to criticize others for liking poor executions of, etc. And that he will learn to make. We all have these, often to egregious effect, but sometimes not. I found out what gumbo is and have made it for 35 years. I can make it better than any commercial instance of it I have had except at Cochon in New Orleans by that chef whose name eludes because he did not answer my message when I wanted to profile him. I hope he is still alive because many of the people I have wanted to profile and haven’t have died on me: in alphabetical order Bob Burns, original drummer for Lynyrd Skynrd, ran car into tree; Allen Collins, original guitarist with Lynyrd Skynyrd, complications from paralysis from running car into I know not what; Blackie Collins, knife designer, cf. Gerber LST, ran motorcycle into what I do not know; M.C. Davis, largest land conservator in the southeast United States, ran into Stage 4 lung cancer. I am not going any deeper into the alphabet and am not wanting to profile anyone at this point. I’ve killed enough as it is.

I made gumbo once to entertain at Peter Patout’s house on Bourbon Street, and Slim, his houseman, who at first refused to have any of the gumbo, did finally assent to have some and said, eating his second bowl, “I’m shocked, you being from Florida and all.” Another time at Peter’s I put tomato in a seafood gumbo against Peter’s counsel and ruined it. Gumbo is not a foolproof food. Care and very careful carelessness must be taken.

I am going to say here some things that might accelerate you into grasping gumbo. Do some reading: look at The Joy of course, then read Paul Prudhomme as your real primer. Look at his pictures of roux making. See the one where the roux looks like Hershey’s syrup. That is what you want. One is supposed to use a light roux with a dark meat, but I like to snort at this. There are not many dark meats anyway. Coon is a dark meat, but not many people are going to be making coon gumbo (they should). Withal, make the roux dark. Take time making it dark — not fast.

You may take 30 minutes or more toasting the roux. Do not feel that your life is wasting away, just wonder as you sweat over this stuff, constantly stirring it, what, say, Putin is doing at this very moment, if he has his shirt off on a horse and is cool. What became of Yeltsin?

Identitarianism

THEY ALL KNEW:

August 5, 2026

The Architecture of a Lie (DOMINIC WIGHTMAN, 8/04/26, Country Life)

The argument that Speer was ‘eaten away by guilt’ in private is a generous one, but perhaps too generous. There is a profound distinction between guilt and the fear of being caught, between conscience and the anxiety of exposure. In private, the struggle was less with a moral reckoning than with the constant, exhausting labour of maintaining the fiction. His daughter Hilde was a persistent challenger, demanding in a 1953 letter to her incarcerated father: ‘How can an intelligent person have any part in something like this?’ Speer’s response, at just over 300 words in a letter that would be posthumously published, was a masterpiece of evasion. He could not bring himself to tell his own child the truth. Even his closest biographers, like Sereny and Joachim Fest, fell for his mendacious charm, only for subsequent historians to take a wrecking ball to his carefully constructed self-image.

The deepest psychological truth, however, lies not in the public performance, but in the private torment that must follow such elaborate deception. Speer, for all his lies, was haunted. He admitted to feeling a ‘continuing and tormenting awareness of guilt’. Pastor Georges Casalis, who visited him in Spandau, believed his spiritual wrestling was genuine, though he would later abandon his quest upon release for the adulation of wealth and fame. Speer told a Playboy interviewer that he had made a one-way trip to hell from which he had not yet returned. This was a man who could not sleep without the company of his own evasions.

What makes Speer’s case so psychologically vertiginous is the manner in which he weaponised sincerity itself. He understood, with the cold intuition of a master architect, that the most convincing confession is the one that withholds just enough. By admitting to a diffuse, almost aestheticised guilt — the guilt of having been seduced, of having looked away, of having been too ambitious — he constructed a confessional fortress that could withstand any assault on its foundations. The more he appeared to bare his soul, the more he concealed it. His memoirs, Inside the Third Reich, read not as a reckoning but as an alibi rendered in prose so elegant that it deceived even its author.

Speer’s tragedy was not that he felt no guilt, but that he could never truly face the source of it.

August 5, 2026

“CAREFUL CARELESSNESS” (profanity alert):

THEY ALL KNEW:

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