Poison Candy

Three years ago almost to the day, I wrote here about the Winston Churchill Effect – that odd mass hysteria that causes whole nations to believe they remember events that never happened. In the post I related as how, as a child, I read a newspaper article about a boy my age who'd been poisoned by Hallowe'en candy laced with heroin, ostensibly given him by a psychopathic neighbour.

I'd invented that memory, sceptics assured me, on the grounds that no such crime has ever been committed, and newspapers would never report such an unsubstantiated rumour.

Well, this week I learned from the Secretly Incredibly Fascinating podcast (Episode #62: "The Strange Origins [and Stranger Persistence] of the 'Razor Blades in Candy' Myth", presented by Alex Schmidt and guest Jason Pargin), that I did in fact read such a story.

In 1970, Detroit five-year-old Kevin Toston died after eating candy that was later found to be contaminated with heroin. This was first reported in national media as a stranger-danger poisoning, before further investigation revealed that Kevin had most probably died from ingesting heroin left in his reach during a visit to his uncle. His parents, according to police, had likely sprinkled more of the stash on Kevin's Hallowe'en candy to camouflage the uncle's guilt.

I couldn't verify whether this theory came out true in court, but what's certain is that as the less-sensationalistic story dropped, so did coverage, at least beyond greater Detroit.

So I did read a real article, though several supporting facts I either added freestyle or conflated with other stories. Kevin's name, for example, was obviously not Richard. And my distinct memory of a tiny hole found in a candy bar wrapper, with the unvoiced implication that it had been injected with heroin, is similarly invented, though I'm getting a dim recollection of a schoolmate including that detail in a drugged-candy tale (either this one or another).

And though I remember that both of us were about 12 at the time, I was significantly younger, and Kevin younger still. A press photo depicts him as a laughing kindergartner in glasses, wearing a sport coat. And most significantly: he was African-American. So my memory of the two of us being similar in appearance was wildly inaccurate.

But hold the phone: on that last count, an intriguing alternative arises. In 1974 – the year I was twelve – Timothy O'Bryan really did die from eating doctored Hallowe'en candy, which was also initially reported as a stranger poisoning. And the photo run with this article shows a smiling, Cold War-coiffed Caucasian kid in a checkered collared shirt very like I used to wear.

(Note that once again, the culprit was family – statistically, far and away the most common perpetrator of child abuse. Turns out Timothy's father poured cyanide into his candy to collect on a life insurance policy.)

So one more time, no evil neighbour, and no rational excuse to deprive kids of the wonderful Hallowe'ens we cherished. But two such articles were published, and I almost certainly read them both. Over the years the two melded in my mind, and as the media seems to have done that thing where it reports accusations on Page 1 and ignores or buries vindications, I never learned that both were completely bogus, at least from the perpective of stranger-danger.

(By the way, seeing as we're on the topic: in the podcast, Alex makes the cogent point that heroin is enormously expensive. As is cocaine, another narcotic frequently rumoured to be slipped to trick-or-treaters. One does not waste these things pranking random kids, any more than one bakes diamonds into cookies to break their teeth. And while we're up, drug addicts never give their fix away, regardless of what they're strung out on. They obsessively hoard it until every last grain is gone, then desperately scramble for more. Thus it's highly unlikely that anyone possessing these substances scatters them about for the dubious thrill of harming unseen children.)

So the personal experience I shared in my January 2020 post is not in fact an example of the Churchill Effect. Though I've experienced others as well, the candy thing was just a pedestrian matter of scrambled memory – an extremely common cognitive glitch.

But in the cases of Kevin Tosten and Timothy O'Bryan, I remember actual newspaper coverage (albeit of something that never happened).

First I believed I'd read it

then I believed I didn't

and now I believe it again.


(Photo courtesy of Evan Amos and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: All kinds of stars

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Hermitcraft: Hoppin' John

'Way back at university I decided I had to do something about New Year's Day. Here in Anglophonia, it's only a holiday in the most technical sense. Aside from disposing of the Christmas tree – and in my house, steaming the next year's Christmas pudding – nothing fun, special, or out of the ordinary is scheduled for this day.

So when the local newspaper ran a bit on a classic New Year's meal from the American South, I was all over that. The dish itself – which could be summed up as "rice and beans cranked up to 11" – is deceptively simple, but hearty and sustaining. And, if attentively developed, incredibly delicious.

Like most traditional foods, hoppin' john varies from region to region and even family to family, to the extent that recognising versions separated in space and time may be challenging. Over the years, with the benefit of experience and helpful Southerners, I've made mine memorable and worthwhile. So I'm sharing it here. (Note that vegan hacks are also included in the recipe below.)

Whatever your own recipe becomes, hoppin' john is earthy and flavourful and I look forward to it all year, full as much as the Christmas turkey. (The dark leftovers of which could be fortified with a few drops of liquid smoke and used here in lieu of bacon, now I think of it.) I like to serve it in the pot it was made in, for an extra nod to self-sufficient cheer.

As for the name, nobody seems to know for sure where that came from. But I rate this meal a fine note upon which to hop into the coming year.

Hoppin' John

To serve 4:

For the blackeyed peas:
4 cups soaked blackeyed peas (1 1/3 cup dry; other beans – red, black, white, pinto – can be substituted if necessary)
2 cups chicken stock (or substitute lentil stock)
2 cups tomato or vegetable juice
2 tablespoons chopped Italian parsley stems (reserve the leaves for the main recipe)
1 teaspoon powdered thyme
1 teaspoon powdered sage
1 teaspoon rosemary
1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/4 teaspoon celery seed
1 bay leaf

For the rest:
3 slices jowl bacon (if necessary, substitute Spam, another bacon, ham, or sausage; for vegan, leave out the meat and sprinkle smoked almonds on the finished dish instead)
1/2 medium red onion, chopped
1/2 medium yellow onion, chopped
1 clove garlic, minced
one each green, red, and yellow bell pepper, seeded and chopped
minced jalapeño to taste
4 cups cooked brown rice
1 teaspoon powdered thyme
leaves of 6 or 7 large stems Italian parsley (substitute celery leaves if necessary)
salt to taste

Simmer all blackeye ingredients in a covered pot till the beans are soft, about 40 minutes. If they end up soaking in the liquor for a while afterward, so much the better.

In a large skillet or pot, fry the bacon soft. Drain both bacon and pot well. (Too much jowl grease is too much.) Chop the bacon and lay aside for later.

In the residual grease in the bottom of the pan (or olive oil), sauté onions, garlic, and peppers. Add bacon and salt. (I seldom add salt to any dish, but this one tends to want some. Proceed mindfully.)

When the vegetables are bright and glistening, stir in the rice and thyme and toss assertively. You want a certain amount of crushing and bruising here, to integrate flavours and textures.

Add the beans and their liquor. Toss well again to mix completely.

Cover and steam over low heat for 15 minutes, until the rice is hot and liquid absorbed. Add water if necessary.

Remove from heat. Scatter parsley leaves on top, recover, and let rest for a minute or two before serving.


Best of 2023s to everyone, and may we meet again here 12 months hence.

Hermitcraft: Quick Christmas Tea Hacks

Here are a three easy tricks to spruce up your workaday winter tea for the season:

• Oranges are an ancient part of the holidays, owing to the fact that until recently they were rare and costly in northern countries. To put some of that tradition in your pot, add about half a teaspoon of minced peel to the leaves, either with or without a chunk of cinnamon stick and one or two whole cloves.
  
  
• Peppermint candy, whether in cane or other form, is likewise a timeless Christmas treat. Just bust off about an inch of cane – or unwrap an individual candy – and drop in your cup. If serving guests, hang one of those soprano candy canes on the rim of the mug with its tail dissolving in the hot liquid.
  
  
• To upgrade a pot of ordinary black tea with heady spices, substitute a storebought herbal chai mix for half the black. (If the teas are bagged, cut the leaves out, steep them as-is, strain out while pouring, and put them back in the pot.) Not perhaps as sublime as the real thing, but a quicker route to a worthwhile end.

My very best wishes to readers and fellow travellers, and may this holiday season bring peace and warmth to all.


(Photo courtesy of Robert Gombos and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Dinner time

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Street Level Zen: Equanimity

« Tout le malheur des hommes vient de ne savoir pas demeurer en repos, dans une chambre. »

Blaise Pascal

(English translation here.)

WW: Disciplinary petting

(I've been taking care of this kitty, and photographing her, for ten years. [First Rusty Ring appearance here.] She's always been headstrong, unwilling to follow rules, primary of which is to stay off the kitchen counter.

So from the beginning, each time she's turned up on the forbidden surface, I've imposed "disciplinary petting", that is, picking her up and cradling her upside down in my arms like a baby while petting and scolding her. Since there's nothing less acceptable to her than confinement, especially with her paws in the air and eyes turned toward the ceiling, being loved and caressed in this fashion amounts to a portable timeout that she instantly resents in the most strenuous terms.

Or she did. Now a decade later she's well into her golden years – so to speak – and as is often the case, has become notably more demonstrative in the affection and physical contact departments. To be precise, she's constantly after me to pick her up and hold her. All day, if she can get it.

If that were all, I could put it down to typical feline old age. Unfortunately, it often develops that simply being held does not in itself suffice. After several minutes in my arms she begins to twist her neck and lay her face flat against my sleeve, as if trying to roll over. This she couldn't actually do without falling, so I've learned to take the hint and turn her over myself.

Like a baby.

So it seems my brilliant disciplinary programme has backfired. In fact, I'm beginning to wonder if all these years the whole counter schtick wasn't just a scheme to get punished again.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.