All You Can Eat Fascism
Dubious Bonus: The Roosevelt White House's recipe for Shrimp Wiggle.
ON A RELATED NOTE
Henrietta Nesbitt, a White House housekeeper during FDR's administration, had no formal training in cooking or large-scale household management. Eleanor Roosevelt hired her because she was a friend in need; they’d met in the League of Women Voters, and her husband was out of work.
Under Nesbitt’s watch, the executive dining experience went from haute cuisine to infamously inedible creations. Her strict adherence to wartime rationing, even when it wasn't necessary, was partly to blame for Nesbitt’s often unappetizing dishes, including the "Shrimp Wiggle" and various gelatin-based concoctions.
All You Can Eat Fascism
As we careen towards yet another election, the specter of a second Trump administration looms like a kraken over our democracy. The air is thick with the stench of authoritarianism—and from the mists of history, FDR's ghost whispers a warning from nearby (to me) Hyde Park.
As I tweeted in February (an admission only slightly less embarrassing than "I have a podcast”), he had the perfect word for isolationists: Shrimps. All nerve, no brain.
In the Venn diagram of isolationists and fascists, the circles have long played footsie under the graph. Today, they’ve morphed into a near-perfect overlap, a symbiosis of ignorance and authoritarianism.
I had hoped Governor Walz's effective rhetoric signaled a return to the days when leaders could skewer their opponents with wit about as sharp as a cocktail pick—but it took a grizzled general to truly break the seal. Milley's blunt assessment of Trump as "fascist to the core" has finally granted permission for the pearl-clutchers of the Democratic Party to utter the F-word.
Our modern-day shrimps are a different breed from FDR's day. They're not content to merely ignore the world beyond our shores; they actively cheer for the barbarians at the gate. These invertebrates, with their MAGA-red shells and antennae perpetually tuned to Fox News, scuttle about in the shallows of their own ignorance, mistaking the flotsam of conspiracy theories for pearls of wisdom.
In my own village, Trump-Vance lawn signs have sprouted like bizarre coral, the territorial markings of this new species: the fascism enthusiast. Will their school of witless crustaceans, reacting with nervous energy to every dog whistle but lacking the intellectual capacity to see beyond the next wave, be happy with their choice? As the news parades allegedly undecided voters—a species rarer than the giant squid—I wonder how they can wade in the ocean with such abandon, as if the rising fascist tide won't eventually sweep us all away.
I like shrimp as much as the next coastal elite, but truth be told, they're bottom feeders. And in the grand aquarium of democracy, today's shrimp might just find themselves the main course at tomorrow's fascist feast.
See you soonish! In the meantime, you can find me on Twitter and Instagram and my books on Bookshop, Amazon, and your local bookstore or library. If you’d like me to sign or personalize my books, purchase copies from Oblong.
I thought you were going to say the shrimp wiggle was good. I'm definitely not trying that.