To a certain sort of mind, society is an accumulation of dials and levers and little toggle switches, which can be fiddled with at will, adjusting a bit from here, a bit from there, until the output ends up at a place that resembles perfection. Whether the subject is economics, the law, or international relations, the solution comes from just the right tweaks—in the belief that righteous hands can reconfigure the world into an optimal state. A policymaker selects a recipe, grabs the ingredients from the shelf, and then begins to mix: the right economic decisions are blended with what is surely flawless legislation and then some indisputable cultural changes are sprinkled atop the dish, until, finally, we’ve reached that everlasting ideal.
Among the many flaws in this peculiar belief is the amount of chefs in our political kitchen. Anybody who adds something new to the stew must bypass a gauntlet of other chefs: one chef turns off the fire, another turns it higher, one pours vegetables into the stew, another, for some reason, adds fruit. This is our chaotic, boisterous, contradictory political kitchen, where all decisions are contested and every action invites both its amplification and its reaction, where every meal has both too much and not enough salt, where food can be both overcooked and underdone, and where the only certainty is that everyone, absolutely everyone, who eats the gruel will end up sick.
Perhaps because there are no finales in politics—the other side always does regain power, every push invites a shove—the most commonplace political lie involves resolution. The promise of an ending. The promise of a lasting win. The promise of a last meal. In just one policy, by just one act, after a little more struggle, there will be a conclusion. You hear it on the lips of Presidents, Prime Ministers, Mayors, from activists, even the occasional dictator slips up and speaks about finality—a promise that will, alas, always be broken.
Yet every society does have its political kitchen, one with sticky floors and grease-covered walls, where the food is, however haphazardly, prepared for consumption. You might not manage to alter the recipe—this isn’t a kitchen that lets you order off the menu—but you can, however, examine your plate, much like a chef who secretly eats at a trendy restaurant and tries to steal new recipes. You can look at society and work backwards—uncovering exactly how our contemporary dish was made, and perhaps discover whether it is truly digestible.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Desk Notes by Charles Schifano to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.