A Search for Science (Towards the End)

Of all the activities and endeavors made available to us humans, we have to start making those difficult decisions as to which ones might present the best possibilities, which ones might offer those routes to travel into our futures.

For instance: I lost my interest in breeding quarter horses when I found out there were few, if any, people willing to pay enough for any given foal to cover my expenses. It was a cruel reality that I managed to repeat in several other high-risk ventures.

I hearken back to my early childhood venture of filling my red wagon with discarded bottles that I could redeem for cold hard cash. In the 1950s, a handful of pennies could gain one access to Wrigley Field. As a seven-year-old, that was the pinnacle of success.

Besides the Cubs, my interests became opportunities for what some would call mere folly. That pretty much summed up the way parents thought when I announced I was going to be a musician. They held a “told-you-so” attitude when I decided to leave music. That same attitude was one I could detect in their posture when I said I was going pursue writing.

“Can’t you just go into sales?” my father asked, the distress heard deep in his pleading tone of voice.

I had tried my hand at sales after tiring of driving a cab in Cleveland. The room in which I worked was what would become known as a boiler room. There were no fewer than fifteen of us cold-calling area businesses asking them for donations to send needy children to the circus. If one made a sale, you simply held up your hand and a runner would grab the ticket to run to get the money.

In the elevator I was taking to the main floor to get a sandwich for lunch, I asked my supervisor when and where the circus was to be held. “There ain’t no fuckin’ circus,” he replied.

I rushed back to reclaim my taxi at the Yellow Cab Company. It was somehow tragic to have given up a career in sales after only four hours on the job.

This was all to infuse cash into my music career which, at the time, could only be described as “occasional.” But my rent in a hayloft apartment was offset by my willingness to clean up after the horses who lived in the stalls below me. I lived on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, occasionally adding a can of tuna to the mix of elbows, powdered cheese (?) and butter. I dutifully saved whatever cash I might have earned to dine on middle eastern food at—where else? —the Middle East Restaurant on a street sacrificed to become basically the first base line at the Progressive Field, home of the Cleveland Indians. The ball field is colloquially known as the Jake and the team is now idiotically known as the Guardians. During the off season, the team acts as an escrow company.

At some point, I was made cruelly aware that I’d better find some kind of career that would make the best use of my talents. I became a jazz critic, writing about the music I love and the musicians who could barely pull down as much income as I could by writing about them. Are you following me?

Anyway, I took an oath of unwanted poverty and began pursuing avenues of interest in earnest.

It started with music. Okay, that’s been covered.

I followed with literature, a subject that merely echoed my interest in reading. I didn’t plan to discover any themes of deviant behavior in Norman Mailer novels. I just wanted to keep reading.

Science deserves our closest attention. I have no scientific skills, other than learning about how ink flows from a ballpoint pen from a college class I took called “Physics for Poets.” I am both bemused and amused by science, especially when explained by Neil diGrasse Tyson.

Carl Sagan was equally entertaining. I don’t know, but might also be Bill Nye the Science Guy?

I watch their shows from time to time. I’m usually quite entertained while being completely in the dark about whatever it is they’re talking about.

At a recent doctor’s appointment, the doc told me about how a certain medicine I’m taking communicates with the brain which then is transmitted to a specific target that either responds to the medical condition or not. He lost me at the pill and the brain, the image of which led me to quietly chuckle over the vision of a tablet talking to a brain.

I remember, if however so vaguely, that the ink in a ballpoint pen flows out due to friction and gravity. It’s on my bucket list to visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa—the very place gravity was discovered.

Then I’ll tackle friction.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Fettuccini ala Toscana

This is a wonderful, hearty dish that works well as a weeknight dinner.

1 lb. fettuccini
2 oz. prosciutto, thinly sliced and diced
15 oz. ricotta, whole milk, drained
¼ cup grated parmesan cheese
1 cup heavy cream
3 Tbs. olive oil
¼ cup onion, finely chopped
fresh nutmeg
1 lb. fresh asparagus – trimmed, thinly sliced diagonally
fresh basil, torn
salt and black pepper

Cook pasta according to package instructions and drain. Do not rinse. Reserve a cup of cooking liquid.
In a large bowl, whisk together the ricotta, cream, 2 tbsp. parmesan, salt, pepper, and a few scrapings of fresh nutmeg. Set aside.
In a large skillet, over medium heat, heat oil. Add the asparagus, onions, and prosciutto.
Cook while stirring often for about 5 minutes or until the asparagus is tender-crisp.
Add the hot pasta and the parmesan cheese to the pot. Toss well and top with ricotta sauce and sprinkle with torn basil.