As noted in the final Farm and Food File column, Catherine and I (and our daughter’s family: Gracie, Andrew, and 6-year-old Nora) spent the middle two weeks in August exploring middle Europe: Brussels, Vienna, Salzburg, and Munich. It was a planes, trains, and automobiles trip made lighter by not toting a laptop, files, or deadlines on vacation.

Good thing, too because it was hot: 93 most afternoons in Brussels, 94 in Vienna our entire stay there, and shirt-soaking 90 in sprawling Munich. Unlike most European homes, our hotels were air-conditioned, so we could retreat to them in the heat of the day.

And it was bone dry. We saw brown grass, yellowed trees, and rapidly drying corn–silage corn?–everywhere while on train rides through Belgium, Austria, and Germany. Only in hilly, slightly cooler Salzburg did a slow, day-long rain finally cool us and the Old Continent.

Salzburg is where I also learned the German word for weather: “wetter.” Those practical Germans.

Another fact: Wiener Schnitzel–two words, please–means “Austrian cutlet.” It’s always veal unless you ask for its two lesser alternatives, pork or chicken, and it’s a skinny 3/16 in. thick, fried in a crunchy batter, and larger than the dinner plate it is served on.

And it’s everywhere in Vienna. Friday night street food? Schnitzel. Friday night beer garden fare? Schnitzel. Friday night linen-tablecloth restaurant feature? Ya, ya, schnitzel.

So, of course, I went local and ate Wiener Schnitzel four times in Vienna and once (where it was schwein-or pork-schnitzel) in a leafy outdoor beer garden in Munich. Moreover, as is often the case in Europe, this rib-sticking, locally-produced food was not expensive: none of the meals topped 25 euros.

Getting into Europe, however, wasn’t nearly so pleasant. After a long, Saturday night flight from Chicago, we joined a groggy throng moseying toward customs in Brussels on what we hoped would be a quick Sunday morning piece of cake. No chance; it was a 90-minute slog caused by too few customs agents, too many tired foreigners, and no explanation for the delays.

Getting out of Europe wasn’t much easier. The cab ride to the airport was a hefty 120 euros, we walked two miles in the poorly marked Munich airport to find the correct check-in desk, and we were fingerprinted twice–once isn’t enough for the fastidious Germans–before arriving at a departure gate that seemed closer to Berlin than Munich.

Unsurprisingly, you didn’t need to speak either French or Flemish in Brussels or German in Austria and Germany to stay on top of world news. Every front page of every local language newspaper featured the word “Trump” in five, six, and seven headlines. For once while traveling it was a delight to not know the native language.

Of course, our European friends were much too polite to comment on our president or even ask why he appeared so militantly against decades-long American allies. They made it plain, however, that they were shaken just as much by the nation that elected him as by the fact he was re-elected. Was Donald Trump’s return a sign that America was unraveling and now untrustworthy, they wondered?

It’s a worrisome question here. Are we unraveling? Are we as untrustworthy in global politics as we are in global markets and global decency?

Within days of our return, we got the public, full Trumpian answer. In short order came:

–Another trade war; this time with Canada, U.S. ag’s second largest export market.

–A presidential order to import 300 million metric tons of ground beef. Unsurprisingly, Ag Secretary Brooke (”It’s All Joe Biden’s Fault”) Rollins made it plain she wasn’t in the room when that presidential brainstorm took flight.

–And a promise to investigate the Big Four meatpackers. Sure, 30 years late and billions of dollars short–if it even occurs. (Hint: It won’t.)

So, welcome home to the new red, white, and blue: bombast, baloney, and bull.

Sept. 1, 2026

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Forty-five years is a very good run. Better yet, and as I noted in that last column, I was a freelance journalist for more than 35 of those years. Simply put, I worked for myself, not the magazine editors who hired me to fill their pages and not for the newspapers that published the column. If I saw a story, I could—and often did—pursue it.

That will continue in this exciting new world of Substack. I am not walking away from the Farm and Food File. I am, however, hoping to walk more deliberately. I’ve set no deadlines, weekly or otherwise, for my writing. Likewise, I have set no new boundaries for what I might post. I will, however, attempt to keep my posts honest, fact-supported, direct, and no more than 700 words long.

After all, an editorial—and to me that means opinion column, too—noted famed New York editor Horace Greeley, “Should be no longer than your pencil.” Agreed.

And, yes, along for the ride will be the gang from “the big, southern Illinois dairy farm of my youth”: Uncle Honey, herdsman Howard, his never-fast brothers Jackie and Orlie, and many more memorable people and moments that went into the making of the Farm and Food File and, in the end, me.

Also, thanks to all the many, many newspaper column readers who sent their generous compliments, good wishes, and love to me and the lovely Catherine in the past week or so. Wow, such kindness is a wonderful gift. Thank you, again.

There’s an old saying in literary circles that suggests poets write because they seek immortality. I’m not a poet so I don’t know. As a journalist, however, I will say that I write because of readers. That’s exciting, this new partnership, and I look forward to exploring what that means for both of us.

Until next time.

July 31, 2026

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