In honor of Sinclair Lewis

 

Q. You know why the Iowa Hawkeyes don't have grass on the field at Kinnick Stadium?

A. Because the cheerleaders can't graze on astro turf.

That's a Minnesota joke. To many Minnesotans, their Iowa neighbors look like the joke Grant Wood made them out to be in American Gothic. I'm an Iowan. Maybe our neighbor's derision should make me dislike them. Sorry, I don't.

Yesterday, by the way, was the birthday of Sinclair Lewis. In his honor, I thought I'd show you an actual Sinclair Lewis 1/3 pound cheeseburger as served up by the Palmer House, downtown Sauk Center, an old hotel that's not changed its features for a half century, I'm sure, and fronts on Sinclair Lewis Street. I'm not kidding. Just down the way a few blocks, you can find the Sinclair Lewis home, in fact, and on the south side of town, the Sinclair Lewis Interpretive Center.

All of which is really ironic--and maybe a little sad. But then, there may well be nothing more "Sinclair Lewis" than a "Sinclair Lewis 1/3 pound cheeseburger." Sauk Center's faux-favorite son didn't much care for the codgers who peopled his hometown, or any Midwestern small towns, for that matter. The book that shot the moon for him, Main Street (1921), sold phenomenally and led, eventually, to Lewis's receiving the Nobel Prize (1930), the first American to win.

In high school, I was forcefed Main Street. Hated it. Not even sure I read it. Made no sense to me, largely because the book is acidic satire. What I remember best is how much "Red" Lewis despised the small town folks around me. Perhaps he had reason: small towns can be death on individuals who are individuals. Lewis was tall, gangly, unathletic, and not much to look at. It is said that his father, the town doctor, never quite understood him. All of which is not a recipe for success.

For years, Garrison Keillor celebrated his own Minnesota boyhood, not to mention verifiable Minnesota culture with weekly visits to a place more real than not, Lake Woebegone. For years, he invited the public to dial in, and they did, belovedly. His 30th anniversary show was held in some little towns, to which he invited a crowd to bring their picnic baskets and lawn chairs. Sweet.

The very idea of lawn chairs and picnic baskets would be anathema, I think, to Minnesota's only Nobel Prize winner, Sinclair Lewis. He'd rip and tear at the souls of those who show up. He made a literary life by making fun of Lake Woebegone and Sauk Center.

Garrison Keillor is not above taking shots at Lake Woebegone's silly cast, but he's nothing like Lewis. Some fine Minnesota critics have already parsed out the differences between them, I'm sure, but it seems to me that both have made a decent living by way of Minnesota bumpkins, with this appreciable difference: when push comes to shove, Garrison Keillor likes 'em; Red Lewis didn't.

Today, or so it seems to this Iowan, Minnesota can laugh at itself and love itself, and that's why I admire the place. Look, anyone who can be at home with the tag "Gopher State" can't lack for a sense of humor. Minnesotans buy truly Minnesota gear--caps, jackets, vests--at Bemidji Woolen Mills and wear them with pride, just like some ancient, dorky Sven or Olie. In Fargo, the Coen brothers, themselves Minnesotans, worked the archetype beautifully with their unforgettable small-town cop, Marge Gunderson, who, like a good stout cap with earmuffs, is just corny enough to be loveable when it's minus-twenty. One gets the sense--at least "up north"--that Minnesota's self-image is in fine shape, despite their Nobel Prize winner's hearty disdain.

This is no food review, but let me tell you that cheeseburger wasn't bad at all, believe me, served on a hard roll. What's more, there's some poetic justice in the fact that Sauk Prairie honors its famous Nobel Prize winning son/writer with a big cheeseburger.

Sort of sweet Minnesotan.