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Send a letter to the editor to P.O. Box 1600, Dawsonville, GA 30534; fax (706) 265-3276; or email to editor@dawsonnews.com.
DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 14,2022
This is a page of opinion — ours, yours and
others. Signed columns and cartoons are the
opinions of the writers and artists, and they
may not reflect our views.
What would
life be without
a cheeseburger?
I suggest you
read this in a
hurry because I
am writing it in a
hurry and hoping
you and I can get
to the finish at the
same time before
one of us kicks
the bucket. It seems life is short and getting
shorter.
I recently read a piece in the New York
Times (Yes, I do occasionally sneak a peek
to see what they are up to. But I don’t
inhale.) that says Americans aren’t living as
long as we used to. Compared to other
wealthy countries, the report says 1 in 2
deaths under age 65 years would have been
avoided if the U.S. had the mortality rates
of other wealthy nations.
In comparison to the other countries, the
report says that not only has the life expec
tancy in the U.S. been dropping since 1980,
and has declined to the lowest level since
1996. You see why I want us to hurry
through this column? Time’s a-wastin’!
The 18 wealthy nations to which we are
compared are your usual suspects. They
include, among others: Canada, France,
Germany, Japan, Sweden, Switzerland, the
United Kingdom and Iceland. Iceland? I
didn’t know they were a wealthy nation
because I didn’t know anybody lived there,
let alone rich people, I need to get out more
often.
Anyway, I was hoping to dig deeper into
the Times’ report on why you and I are not
living as long as the good folks of
Kopavogur and Mosfellsbaer but it contains
a lot of big words and a lot of numbers and
a bunch of footnotes. I felt like I couldn’t
spare the time to try and decipher the
results because I think what it is saying is
there is no time to spare.
Just as I was about to give up on the idea
of why we are not living longer and instead
write about how to properly organize a sock
drawer, what to my wondering eyes should
appear: The answer! And it didn’t come
from the New York Times, either. It came
from a group called DrugGenius.com, who
says they are a provider of “reliable, evi
dence-based information about prescription
medications.”
I’m not sure what all of that means,
either, but at least their report didn’t have a
lot of big words and footnotes. But what it
did have was an answer so obvious I won
der how I could have missed it. It’s our cui
sine. Fast foods. And we are willing to die
for it.
DmgGenius.com said they surveyed
3,222 Americans and asked the respondents
hypothetically how many years of their
lives they would be willing to forgo if it
meant they could continue to eat unhealthi
ly. The answer was - a bunch, as long as
they can keep eating burritos.
When asked what kind of fast food they
believe has the greatest health benefits,
45% of those surveyed said a foot-long
sandwich had the most health benefits
(probably because of the lettuce); 20%
thought it was tacos or burritos. Eleven per
cent said cheesy, meat-topped pizza. Eight
percent thought a bucket of fried chicken
wings and the same number believed it to
be burgers and fries. I’m hungry already.
The survey also revealed that we
Georgians would give up 5 years of our life
in order to be able to continue eating fast
food. Why is that a surprise? Would you
want to add years to your life eating broc
coli and asparagus?
By the way, 51 % of Georgians said they
totally ignore all those studies that warn of
the health risks of eating too much fast-
food. Take that, New York Times and pass
the fried pies.
The DmgGenius.com survey indicates
that a majority of respondents (60%) said if
they had to choose between quitting alcohol
or giving up fast foods for the rest of their
life, they would rather give up alcohol.
What we won’t do for a hot dog.
Despite the dire prediction from the New
York Times report on longevity (or lack
thereof), the good news is that I made it all
the way to the bottom of the column and I
am still here. I presume you are, as well.
As for giving up 5 years of our lives for a
double cheeseburger with fries and a choc
olate shake, let’s keep it in perspective. We
may not live as long as Icelanders, but at
least we don’t have to sit down to a meal of
singed sheep heads, black pudding and
broiled Puffin.
God Bless the USA.
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dick-
yarbrough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta,
GA 31139; online at dickyarbrough.com or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/dickyarb.
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
The Light
of Liberty Still
Shines Bright...
NEVER FORGET
09.11.2001
© 2022 CREATORS.COM
WWW.TOMSTIGLICH.COM
The kitchen confidential
Like most Southern cooks.
Granny took great pride in
what came out of her kitchen.
There were certain unspo
ken mles that pertained to
what happened in the biggest
room of the house.
For one, if she was cook
ing, you stayed clear unless
she invited you to help. Her idea of help
ing was usually limited to washing dishes
and that was it - the old gal hated to wash
dishes.
The other mle was, when she called you
to come eat, you better get to the table
with lightning speed and proceed to tell
her how amazing everything was.
Growing up, we all knew the mles and
we all upheld them with respect and
honor. Well, Mama wasn’t big on eating
much back then, sustaining on Virginia
Slims, coffee, and Diet Coke for the most
part. But even she knew to stay clear of
Granny’s imminent domain.
I was invited to stand in a chair and help
when I was small, something that made
me feel extra special as Granny taught me
how to sift flour, which ingredients to
measure, and which ones to eyeball or go
by taste. Biscuits and cakes were my
favorites to help with, and nothing seemed
to make the Redhead Prime happier than
to be in the kitchen, showcasing her trade
secrets and skills.
Granny would often brag about how I
was able to make up the dough, telling her
friends and anyone who’d listen about
how I was a natural.
“She gets that from me,” she’d say
whenever someone would compliment my
abilities. Being humble was not one of her
finer qualities.
Wherever Granny giveth, she always
taketh away, too.
Just as easy as she could heap the praise
and collect accolades, she was the first one
to be critical of any culinary sin she found.
Like the time she, Mama, and Bobby
came to spend the night with me when the
Ex was out of town on a work trip. The
minute they came in, Bobby headed for
the living room where a TV with cable
awaited him. He’d happily stay there with
Pepper, the evil beagle, tucked in beside
him until time to eat.
Mama went outside to
smoke and have herself a
Diet Coke.
Granny immediately start
ed looking around my kitch
en.
Not just looking, but rather
performing some sort of culi
nary forensic investigation
into everything I had in the pantry, cabi
nets. and refrigerator.
“Where’s your buttermilk?” she asked,
poking around the shelves of the fridge,
“I don’t have any.”
“You what?”
“I don’t have any.” “Then how did you
make anything that needed buttermilk?
You ain’t cooking like I taught you.”
“You can add vinegar to regular milk to
make buttermilk.”
She retreated from the fridge long
enough to give me a glare that would stop
a buffalo in its tracks.
“That ain’t buttermilk,” she declared.
“It’s a good substitute.” I stated.
“It ain’t no such of a thing.”
She surveyed the pots and pans on top
of the stove, lifting the lids, taking a spoon
out of the drawer to sample a few.
“Where’s your salt?”
“It’s got plenty,” I said.
She looked at me. “If you like bland, it
does.”
Her eyes came to rest on the cake plate
on the counter, with the cake - a lovely
homemade strawberry cake with cream
cheese frosting - waiting to be cut.
The cake was a masterpiece, one that I
found in a Southern Living cookbook and
have never found again.
Granny eyed it as she started opening
cabinets. “You made that from scratch?”
“Of course,” I said, feeling slightly
offended at her question.
“Where’s your cake flour?”
“The recipe didn’t call for cake flour,” I
answered.
“What?” she slammed the cabinet door
shut. “If you are making a cake, you use
cake flour.”
Mama came in from the patio, wanting
to know what she’d missed.
“I’ll tell you what you missed,” Granny
said. “I evidently didn’t teach your youn-
gin’ a cussed thing.”
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
As we sat down to dinner. Granny pro
ceeded to warn Bobby the meal would
probably need salt and she was pretty sure
my cake wouldn’t be fit to eat.
“It sure looks good,” my uncle said,
always looking for the positives.
“She didn’t use cake flour. It’s probably
as hard as a dang brick.”
“It tastes good,” he said, as took another
bite. “Tastes real good.”
Granny shook her head. “He’s just
being nice.”
The next morning, I made biscuits - the
same way Granny taught me all those
decades before - only I made mine a bit
bigger. A cathead biscuit, they call them.
Granny was not happy, not one bit.
“Why did you make them so dang big?
This is twice the size of my sausage.”
“You can have some biscuit left over,” I
said. “And you can always just eat the sau
sage separately, you know.”
“I don’t want to. I want my dang sau
sage in my dang biscuit, and I don’t want
a mile of biscuit left over.”
I sighed.
Mama said they were big, but she didn’t
care. She wasn’t in a sausage mood.
Granny, looking for an ally, steeled her
gaze on her son. “She don’t make her bis
cuits like I do, does she, Bobby?”
Bobby sipped his coffee slowly before
he answered. “No, Mama, she doesn't.
She doesn’t bum hers.”
The old gal was so incensed her jaw
could’ve carved granite. “I’m getting my
things and waiting in the car until you’ens
are ready to go.”
She did, too. She waited about fifteen
minutes while Mama and Bobby finished
their breakfast and collected their things.
On the way out, Bobby paused in the
kitchen. I thought for sure he was going to
apologize and say how that was just
Granny’s way and for me to get my feel
ings hurt.
Instead, he looked at the cake plate on
the counter and turned to me.
“You think I can get some of that to go
with me?”
“Of course,” I said, smiling broadly.
He nodded as he took it from me. “We
just won’t tell Granny.”
Sudie Crouch is an award winning humor
columnist and author of "The Dahlman
Files: ATony Dahlman Paranormal
Mystery."
DR. ANDERSON
Get your flu
By Dr. Larry Anderson
Anderson Family Medicine
We can start with some
good news. The 2021-22
Flu season is over. We only
had 28 deaths across the
state and metro Atlanta had
about 550 hospitalizations.
By using the knowledge
that we have of how virus
are spread, we can keep the
Flu numbers for 2022-23
season at an even lower
rate. Get your flu shots
now. Do not wait for what
you think is the optimum
time to get the vaccine
shots now
unless your calendar shows
1955. We see flu year
round. You can always get a
second shot if you feel the
need.
Polio is back in the news.
Rotary International and
your local Rotary club have
helped to almost eliminate
Polio in the world. There
are always folks who will
not get the vaccine and
those are the ones who get
Polio and help put the rest
of us at risk. Fortunately
our children are immu
nized. If you are not sure
about their immunizations,
then you can get your pedi
atrician or family doc to
check with GRITS. No, not
“girls raised in the south”
but the Georgia Registry of
Immunizations and
Transaction Services. The
lookup is free. Not sure
about you as an adult?
Check in the same place. If
in doubt then start over or
get caught up.
If you think you may be
at high risk you can always
get a once in a lifetime
booster. Call the Health
Department.
Where did all this come
from? There was one case
in New York that started all
this. An unvaccinated per
son contracted Polio. This
led to searching for a
source. The sewer system
helped provide the answer.
Long Island was a source.
Polio is spread by the oral-
fecal route. That is how you
get it. That is how you
spread it. Not pretty but
viruses never are.
Ukraine seems to be
fighting back and recaptur
ing some of their cities.
They need and deserve our
support. Welcome those
who had to flee, and help
those who stayed. I end all
my prayers with the phrase,
“give peace to Ukraine and
send the Russians home”.
Thanks for reading.
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