Bien Cuit?

We like our politics cuit — or medium-well, if you must. Well-grilled—not rare at all—but still moist and tender. Tissue too loose or too tight is just not cooking with gas. And well apart from the sycophants, it seems there are many both sides of the middle who have the bitter aftertaste of eight years of commander-in-chef number 44. But there are just as many, seemingly, who dislike 45, well before he’s had his chance to fry.

The media hoopla and social buzz around 45, both good and bad, is typical of most human fare. We are either moribund to what’s going on before us or we are melodramatic at the slightest. With 44, most were stupefied at the flesh on offer. To 45, most are wont to histrionics at the sinew that may be served. Each of these responses—stupor on the one hand, histrionics on the other—is as distasteful as the other, to my palate.

Merrily rolling to the wistful delights at the hands of 44 was soft-serve on the tongue for those on the left. It kept them with a post-prandial ecstatic disregard for the waste, to his anachronistic wheeze, and the wanton recklessness. Reactionary hyperbole to the fizz of 45 is itself wasteful — in motivation, in purpose, and in energy. Better it is to let the new cook stir the pot before we take our taste of the broth. For all intents and purposes, and given our predilection for an even heat to our meals, we should embrace 45—and all his ingredients quaint—and bid 44 adieu, with obligatory compliments.

We are equally mindful, however, that 44, much like a dish of undercooked pork, has shown a penchant before to bob up when least expected and certainly when not wanted. Despite the inauguration of 45, and along with the seeming reluctant transfer of power, we here doubt that 44 will go silently into the culinary night. Rather he will come and go adorned with toque and brandishing ladle, perhaps to even surprise as Chef de Cuisine. But with each iteration, the hapless patron wonders after the soup du jour.

Taking none away from the new chef de partie and his kitchen-hands, we expect to collectively perseverate still from the incantations of 44—his appetiser (four laborious years) and his “main” (four more laborious years)—chewing a sarcomere trop cuit. Well may his number be up, but he has yet to serve dessert. And who has the stomach for it?


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