Journal

In just two weeks, the 2022 World Cup final match will be played in the Lusail Iconic Stadium in Lusail, Qatar. At its final moment, all of those whose DNA does not include the soccer chromosome (xyxvy) will cast our collective last “Huh?”

Watching soccer on television is basically all I have done since The Beautiful Game began its quadrennial tournament on November 21. While I’ve enjoyed it, I’m left wondering why. This, after watching about 218 hours of competition, not counting stoppage. In all that time, it’s clear to me that I know about as much about soccer now as I did when I was made an assistant coach of my son’s youth soccer team.

“It’ll be fun,” head coach Jay said to me as he thrust a clipboard and whistle into my chest.

Since we ended every match—win or lose—at Baskin-Robbins, it was fun.

I grew up in the era of assuming that soccer was a Commie sport. I don’t know why. And I don’t know why we never played the game, which is kind of a cross between keep-away and kick ball in which you can’t touch the ball with your hands. The goalie, however, can touch the ball as much as he wants and is allowed to wear gloves the size of catcher’s mitts. He is also required to wear clothes that don’t match any of the other players. Another mystery.

In the meantime, in yet another soccer fashion statement, a goodly number of any team’s players wear smocks that might indicate that they are finger painting between halves or auditioning to become caddies in the PGA. What is with the smocks?

A French man who lived in my neighborhood when I was a kid drove a truck that delivered candy, nuts and packaged cupcakes to various places. His name was Bob, though he was generally called “Frenchy” by the adults in the neighborhood, which was the giveaway to his national origin. The neighborhood kids were always welcome at his corner house to eat day-old product. We’d gather in his basement where, in a corner, was a black-and-white television about the size of a breadbox. It had rabbit-ear antennae with a strip of aluminum foil bridging the span between their ends. Its grainy image was that of Mexican soccer captured through UHF broadcasts from, I’m guessing here, Mexico.

The cupcakes were more important than the games, and so an entire neighborhood of six-year-old Chicago boys remained ignorant of just about every aspect of soccer and slightly under-nourished by the copious amounts of sugar intake.

That all changed when we grew up and had kids of our own. That was when we wouldn’t let our kids know of the pleasure of Hostess products and we made them play soccer because it was slightly less dangerous than football. Soccer took hold of our nation’s psyche as a part of a worldly education, right up there with math, sub-particle physics and other Yuppie concerns; the earliest soccer moms drove Volvos, switching to Dodge Caravans when the need for more gear was noticed. Youth soccer was as PC as one could get in the 1980s.

Next to cricket, soccer is the least understood sport since the Egyptians created badminton. Injuries are a constant, making the whole game seem to be a ballet in which most of the lead dancers fall down. The players are all graduates of Lee Strasberg’s School of Method Acting so it makes it difficult to determine if any injury might be real. Those that seem real is enough to have two trainers come running onto the pitch to render assuring words and Powerade or, in the case of the team from France, assuring words and a choice of three wines—a richly tannic Bordeaux, a fruity Pinot Noir and an elegantly fragrant Viognier.

The referee, who seems as friendly as can be with the players, is equipped with an ear bud and a microphone headset. Offsides is an infraction of soccer rules, but there’s nobody who can give a definition. What happens is that as soon as one of the announcers says somebody is offsides, the referee calls the foul. Or not.

The referee is also able to call a variety of infractions, from tripping, pushing, shoving and various other things that cause a player to crash to the earth. He, although it might be a she, has a little yellow card that looks like a paint chip from Sherwin-Williams. If a player happens to crush an opponent’s knee, that player is shown the yellow card, with a stern warning to stop that kind of behavior. If he crushes the other knee, he is shown the yellow card, followed quickly by a red card. That means the offending player must spend the off-season watching slo-mo replays of the guy getting his knee crushed.

The other players get to spend the off season getting tattooed in Marseilles.

My devotion to The Beautiful Game seems something of a mystery. I love the speed, the tactics, the wanton disregard for rules or safety. I love the fact that each team, recognized by nationality, only needs one native from each country to compete. That means that the rest of the Argentinian team, for instance, can be from Greenland, Laos and the far reaches of Siberia.

Soccer is soon to be over, and I intend to spend the winter studying cricket. Might as well enjoy two sports I don’t understand.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Wine Braised Short Ribs

This is some serious comfort food. Serve with torn pieces of baguettes.

5-6 pounds bone-in beef short ribs, cut crosswise into 2-inch pieces
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 Tbs. vegetable oil
3 medium onions, chopped
3 medium carrots, peeled, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
3 Tbs. all-purpose flour
1 Tbs.tomato paste
1750 ml bottle dry red wine (preferably Cabernet Sauvignon)
10 sprigs flat-leaf parsley
8 sprigs thyme
4 sprigs oregano
2 sprigs rosemary
2 bay leaves
1 head of garlic, halved crosswise
4 cups beef stock

Heat oven to 350°. Season short ribs with salt and pepper. Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high. Working in batches, brown short ribs on all sides, about 8 minutes per batch. Transfer short ribs to a plate. Pour off all but 3 Tbsp. drippings from pot.

Add onions, carrots, and celery to pot and cook over medium-high heat, stirring often, until onions are browned, about 5 minutes. Add flour and tomato paste; cook, stirring constantly, until well combined and deep red, 2-3 minutes. Stir in wine, then add short ribs with any accumulated juices. Bring to a boil; lower heat to medium and simmer until wine is reduced by half, about 25 minutes. Add all herbs to pot along with garlic. Stir in stock. Bring to a boil, cover, and transfer to oven.

Cook until short ribs are tender, 2–2½ hours. Transfer short ribs to a platter. Strain sauce from pot into a measuring cup. Spoon fat from surface of sauce and discard; season sauce to taste with salt and pepper. Serve in shallow bowls over mashed potatoes with sauce.

With more than 600 mass shootings under our collective belt so far this year, it is likely that the powers-that-be won’t recognize that the inherent problem of gun violence is, well, guns.

Misinterpreted readings of the Second Amendment have led to stubborn demands that no law or regulation be enacted that might keep an AR-15 style assault weapon out of the grubby hands of camo-clothed Bubbas playing soldier at Trump-inspired gatherings. They, of course, are the jack-booted players in a game of impotency—their images ludicrous, albeit discomforting, in their posturing before Confederate flags and swastikas.

The real gun violence comes generally in the hands of disturbed, young white males with easy access to weaponry—usually their fathers. Inadvertent patterns have emerged, each tied to a particular setting which shows its participants vulnerable and defenseless.

If Congress, that once passed an assault weapon ban in 1994 under President Clinton and that lapsed under the Bush-Cheney administration ten years later, won’t do anything about legislating gun control, there are other controls that would protect both life and the liberty to arm oneself to the teeth.

From Sandy Hook to Parkland to Uvalde, schools are the frequent targets of mass murderers. Nobody knows why, though it’s likely that the shooter might have had a bad experience in fourth-grade social studies. What’s needed, of course, is to get rid of those places where children once gained an education and suffered only the indignity of crouching beneath their desks in acts of self-preservation in the event of a nuclear attack from any one of our many enemies. Fortunately, most of our enemies don’t have nuclear weapons or, in the case of India, an air force to transport said weapons to any specific target.

The nationwide closure of schools would mean that children weren’t gathered in any single place, which would, of course, not be an attraction to those hoping to deprive others of life and liberty. Unencumbered by any lessons in math or reading, the kids would be free to gather in small clusters that would not attract the attention of mentally ill shooters.

This would make Republicans deliriously happy.

Number one, the under-educated have recently been willing to support the party that promises everything not considered to be socialistic and delivers tax breaks and deferments only to the 1-percent, which is, of course, socialistic in and of itself. Secondly, gun manufacturers would be free to profit without regard to any kind of regulation, including background checks and waiting periods. No longer would gun retailers have to distribute questionnaires to potential buyers that have as a true/false answer to: “Do you wish you could have killed your father before he killed your mother?”

Not all gun shops are inherently evil. The ones where I live cater to hunters. Those on the south side of Chicago or the east side of Cleveland? Not so much.

Owners and sellers of assault weapons represent cowardice and weakness stirring within their damaged hearts.

But enough about schools. Clearly, Walmart and other such outlets offering cheap goods from China have been frequent targets of the armed and deranged. Perhaps it is a reaction to the fashion statements made by some Walmart shoppers. But that shouldn’t matter. If we mandate the closure of such retail outlets, we might save scores of lives of innocent shoppers no longer exposed to gunfire.

Churches and synagogues have become something more than convenient places to assassinate those who believe in something different than a shooter. What more could that be? About fifty percent of the faithful are vulnerable to attack. The rest of us are vulnerable in other locations. Places of worship have to go; they must be closed.

Outdoor concert venues have drawn the ire of a handful of violent murderers worried that the music in a Las Vegas parking lot might not be the preferred choice. Kill the crowd, but don’t shoot the piano player.

There were nearly a half-million of us at Max Yasgur’s farm in the summer of 1969. Nobody died. There were no injuries. At least one woman brought a new life onto a troubled planet.

Peace. Love.

And it seems like we should close down all the bars and clubs and discos—places were people go to have a couple of drinks and dance the night away. Too often, the dance is interrupted by gun shots from those who believe the LGBTQ+ community shouldn’t enjoy the rights of the rest of us. Imagine seeking solace in a place where it’s safe to hold hands with a lover and then be assaulted by a gun-wielding, homophobic maniac.

And there is little assurance of safety in the grocery stores, public parks and dog parks, and the summertime farmer’s markets.

There’s only one element that has changed everything about the lives being lived in today’s America: guns.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ham in Cider (Jambon braisé au cidre)

4 thick slices of smoked cooked ham
3 shallots, chopped and blanched
1 cup apple cider
1/2 cup fresh cream
4 Tbs. unsalted butter
Pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a sauté pan. Add the blanched shallots and cook for 2-3 minutes.
Add the ham slices and slightly brown them on both sides.
Pour in the cider and leave to reduce slightly.
Add the cream and simmer for 10 minutes.
Serve ham with sauce, boiled potatoes with parsley, peas and some crusty bread.

By the time you’re reading this, the world, literally, will be immersed in the first World Cup game of a nearly one-month long series of competitions to determine the best soccer team of 2022. Thirty-two countries are represented in a tournament contested with eight round-robin groups followed by a knockout round for 16 teams.

This morning’s match has Ecuador playing Qatar, the “impossibly wealthy” Persian Gulf peninsula that, until 1971 when gas was discovered under the sand, was a last bastion of poverty among the Arab states. Today, the tiny state is one of the wealthiest nations in the world.

FIFA (Fédération Internationale de Football Association) is the governing body of international soccer and is one of the most corrupt organizations known to mankind, barely keeping up to that found in the Trump Administration.

Qatar, which does not have a strong tradition of futbol, wanted to host the World Cup for one obvious reason: money. Despite the country’s wealth, there can never be enough.

Qatar lobbied hard to win the competition. Although the Cup is usually held in summer, Qatar features 100-degree daytime temperatures during that season. No problem. To show its commitment, the tiny country built an outdoor, air-conditioned stadium, more than besting the five-acre tract Liberace kept cool at this Palm Springs estate.

Although impressed, FIFA decided, in its awarding the games to the state, to move the game dates to late fall.

But summertime heat notwithstanding, there were other concerns with awarding the Cup to Qatar. It needed to build seven stadiums and refurbish another. It also needed an entire network of roads and rails to transport fans between the arenas and dozens upon dozens of hotels to house them.

The promise of a $220 billion nation-building project impressed FIFA. So did the under-the-table transfer of unknown millions of dollars to its directors and executives. FIFA leadership has been suspected of corruption, bribery, and vote-rigging related to the election of FIFA president Sepp Blatter. These allegations led to the indictments of nine high-ranking FIFA officials and five corporate executives by the U.S. Department of Justice on charges including racketeering, wire fraud, and money laundering.

What was still missing, of course, was that pesky notion that Qatar had no soccer culture.

To address that issue, Qatar bought the French team, Paris St.-Germain, and started pouring money into a Qatari-owned sports television network by buying up broadcasting rights to European soccer.

Back to the World Cup. Apparently, the powers-that-be failed to recognize the revenue stream that beer sales could create from the millions of beer-loving soccer fans, not to mention the electronic signage that dashes around each arena. So, without owning any of it, they banned the sale of alcohol except in small, designated areas that remind me of the old smoking lounges at American airports.

There are several other restrictions that Islam offers, none better than its ban on homosexual activity. Followers of the faith believe that the entire LBGTQ- community suffers from brain defects. At least one two teams—England and Wales–will a be wearing a “One Love” armband at the Qatar World Cup and are willing to suffer the consequences.

For the record, Qatar’s treatment of women is hardly stellar. And it is rumored that immigrants building the stadiums and hotels were treated like slave labor. There is no record of how many might have died in the process.

Speaking of politics… We’re about 102 weeks away from the next general election and at least once candidate has thrown his red MAGA hat into the ring. This excites all of his followers, with the possible exception of those January 6 insurrectionists who are currently in prison.

By starting this early, the Orange Menace is purposely keeping his name in front of American voters with the help of media that can’t resist reporting his each and every move. Thank God the media at least doesn’t have access to the room with the gold toilet. Left, right and center will keep Trump in the news at every turn, thereby contributing to his rising popularity among voters.

We can be thankful that his kids seem to have faded away, except for occasional news of possible indictments. And half of everybody is pleased that he was re-instated by Twitter.

Though we’re all eager to jump to 2024, we must pay attention to what just happened in the 2022 mid-term elections. Both sides promised the American people the moon, addressing the important challenges that face us as a nation. Now that the Republicans have taken the House by a margin of six, they are eagerly demanding to know, to the penny, how much we spent trying to help Ukraine forces with supplying MREs.

And, lest I forget, the Republicans, first and foremost, need to—finally—find Hunter Biden’s laptop.

If they think he’s that brilliant of a criminal, how can they not think he could figure out a way to dump the laptop into an incinerator that would melt both content and hardware? And how many murderers have failed to notice that the murder weapon could be tossed in a river?

Clearly, the Republican-controlled House needs to start a new search for Hillary’s emails.

Hint: I think they might be on Hunter’s laptop.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Greek Lemon Potatoes

2.5 pound medium-sized potatoes
6 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1-1/2 tsp. dried oregano
4 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
1 tsp. honey
¼ tsp. mustard powder
¼ tsp. garlic powder

Heat oven to 350°.
Peel the potatoes and cut them into wedges about 1.5-inches thick.
Add them to a 11 x 7-inch baking dish.
Drizzle the olive oil on top. Sprinkle the potatoes with the oregano and season them with salt and pepper.
In a small bowl or cup add the mustard powder, garlic powder, honey, and lemon juice. Mix well and pour over the potatoes.
Rub the mixture all over the potatoes. Then pour 1 cup of water into the pan from the side (so you don’t rinse the potatoes).
Cover the pan with aluminum foil. Bake for about 1 hour and 15 minutes..
Remove the aluminum foil and raise the oven’s temperature to 400°.
Bake for another 15-20 minutes until the potatoes get deep golden on the edges.
Remove the potatoes from the oven, cover the pan again and let stand for 30 minutes before serving.

Mssr. S–

Thank you so very much for your recent inquiry about my well being, as well as a cautious reminder that my subscription to your fine journal has expired. The two are intertwined in such a way that demands explanation and I will offer such in a way I hope will explain the intersection of such seemingly unrelated things.

I remembered that when my last volume of the journal arrived, it had a coverlet, which I know is a piece of bedding but still sufficed to tell me that the issue would be the last. I made note of this, entering it into my calendar on the day following what was to be a needed surgery. One never knows what to expect in the wake of a surgery, but the worst-case scenario would have me facing death in spite of whatever chemical concoctions could be offered to delay the inevitable.

In recognition of my advanced years and my effort to be thrifty with whatever limited funds I have at my disposal, I have long ago stopped buying large jars of mayonnaise. The same would apply to any subscriptions I might have. Currently, your journal and The New Yorker are the only two. I have tried to subscribe to a local paper but alas, the 800 number doesn’t work. Such is the way of modernity, I guess.

Anyway, I didn’t hear the results of the surgery until this past Friday, which I found to be an unnecessary inconvenience, not to mention the edge-of-my-seat stress over the matter for that long. To that end, I decided to forgo making any remittance to your publication’s office on the off chance that I might expire before the next issue arrives.

The intervening twelve days between surgery and diagnosis gave me time to become enlightened about stress, something I’ve already mentioned. Somebody whose name I didn’t recognize said “the truth is that stress doesn’t come from your boss, your kids, your spouse, traffic jams, health challenges, or other circumstances. It comes from your thoughts about your circumstances.”

There are a lot of opportunities for dialog in that statement, most of which I disagree with. I have no boss, my kids are grown, my spouse is just fine in spite of a pelvis with multiple fractures, and I no longer drive due to an infirmity of my feet that does not allow me to feel the pedals of an automobile. My health challenges, despite that ridiculous naming, are the only circumstances that are currently driving me to a level of stress perhaps unknown to the universe. They do, however, stem from my thoughts about my circumstances.

To that end, I must admit that my days seem filled with a certain melancholy, heightened, as it were, by my rather arduous schedule of study I’ve undertaken. As you may remember (although why would you remember such an odd fact of my intellectual pursuits?) I’m now in my twenty-third year of my daily dissection of Plato’s Protagoras. It is a painstaking slog I’ve faced that makes me wish I had a formal understanding of the Greek language. Few words seem to be repeated by the twenty-one attendees, despite their shared views about the teachability of virtue. I have come to the conclusion that virtue can be taught, although only by a tenured Hasidic rabbi. However, I’ve still a long way to go and Plato (were there so few people then that a single name was enough?) just might have a surprise ending in store.

Why I chose French to study at the Academy instead of Greek (or Latin, for that matter) remains something of a mystery. It was quite useful in my discovery of Gustave Flaubert’s L’éducation sentimentale (Sentimental Education) and La Tentation de St. Antoine (The Temptation of Saint Anthony). You must admit that Gus really nailed the irony and pessimism stuff that came with the French Revolution of 1848.

And when I decided to cook for myself (good kitchen help is difficult to find, making it impossible to develop the hierarchical brigade de cuisine system) it was the language of France that allowed me to breeze through Escoffier’s Le Guide Culinaire. I can now create souffles and sole meunière with satisfying aplomb (provided I can find sole).

But during the darkness which characterized much of my own existence, there was utter despondency, that sense of loss and little courage to move in the direction of gaining any knowledge of human nature.

And, at last, my doctor gave me a clean bill of health for the tiny part of my body to which he tends.

I asked one of my staff—none of whom possess the skills needed to join my well-imagined brigade de cuisine—to issue a cheque to pay for your journal. On second thought, I will immerse myself into the world of electronics and use my MasterCard to guarantee another two years of delightful reading.

In, the meantime, let’s not forget the words of Fydor Dostoevsy: “Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.”

Whatever.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Sole meunière

Adapted from The Way to Cook by Julia Child.

2 skinless and boneless sole fillets, or other thin white fish fillet (I’ve made this with cod, as well)
Salt and pepper
1/4 cup flour on a plate
3 Tbs. clarified unsalted butter
Small glass of dry white wine (2-3 oz.)
4 Tbs. unsalted butter
1 Tbs. flat-leaf parsley, minced
1 tsp. lemon zest
3 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
One lemon, quartered for garnish

Place the flour in a large shallow plate. Pat the sole fillets dry with paper towels and season with salt and pepper.

Heat a sauté pan over medium-high heat. Dredge the fillets in the flour. When the pan is hot, add the clarified butter and place the floured fillets into the pan. Lower the heat to medium and cook on each for 2 minutes. Remove the fillets and keep them warm. Add the wine to deglaze the pan. Add the butter to the pan. After it melts, add lemon zest and juice. Pour the juice over the fillets and sprinkle with parsley. Serve immediately, with steamed potatoes with butter and parsley.

It’s long been acknowledged that Americans tend to vote their pocketbooks. Ideologies aside, we worry that our wages can’t keep pace with the ever-increasing prices at the gas pump and in the grocery aisles. Therefore, many of our votes go to those whose campaigns promise to keep the cost-of-living increases to a bare minimum and housing starts booming.

Now that we’ve been enlightened by random Google searches, our worries transcend the mere costs of things and offer a view of a larger, more comprehensive picture. Last week, there were respectable polls suggesting that 51 percent of (presumably) eligible voters have as their first political concern, The Economy.

It seems doubtful that The Economy, along with Inflation, at least as viewed in this midterm election cycle, encompasses much more than concern over the cost of a gallon of gasoline or a gallon of milk. While The Economy at once sounds more erudite than lower-case the economy, it just sounds that way. What it represents is, in all reality, very little knowledge of a very complex subject.

I studied economics at the University of Illinois in what seems a lifetime ago. The department wasn’t located in the Political Science Department, but in a separate building across campus, sharing quarters with the College of Capitalism. The Department of Advertising and Marketing were, oddly enough, in the Poly Sci building. My hours in the lecture hall and the handful of papers I wrote earned me the equivalent of a minor in the subject. I was hoping to land a job as an economics reporter at a Pulitzer-winning newspaper. That didn’t happen. I’m glad, in a way, because what I would have brought to such a gig would have been as questionable as my covering the Fairy Dust beat.

In the early ‘70s, the textbook I studied was Economics, an introductory textbook by the American economist Paul Samuelson. The textbook was first published in 1948, and has appeared in nineteen subsequent editions, the most recent in 2009. It was the best-selling economics textbook and still is, despite the number of Nobel Prizes in Economics that have been awarded that must reflect at least some advances in thinking in economics.

What this has to do with Fairy Dust is that an enlightened tract on basic Keynesian economics has maintained its stature despite the award-winning challenges to its very tenets. In other words, there are volumes of information that prove we don’t know squat.

And that’s just among academics. The rest of us don’t stand a chance in hell.

While many of the issues facing us in Tuesday’s election seem simple, black-and-white ballot measures, others require examination of vast gray areas of little concern or consequence. Yet, there they are on the ballots. Each demands our attention and clearly effects The Economy.

For instance, just this morning we had all of our electronic timepieces changed magically by Jeff Bezos. This is a twice-a-year ritual that has us alternately losing an hour of sleep or gaining one. Nobody knows why we do this. This past March, the Senate passed a bill to make daylight savings time permanent—this, despite the increase in potential health risks like obesity and depression. The House chose not to act on the Senate bill because the House can’t even agree on whether indoor plumbing is a good idea.

I’d like this matter to be settled before Spring, so I don’t lose another hour of sleep.

Crime is always an issue, mostly in densely populated cities with rat-infestation problems. Even those of us out here in the boonies are against crime. But which crimes are the politicians talking about? And why do some gun-toting lunatics seem to think that crimes committed while armed should be met with the citizen good guys shooting the bad guys. This is why we have cops.

Speaking of narcotics, both of the Dakotas are considering if recreational pot use should be legalized. I’ve traveled through both of the Dakotas countless times. Legalizing pot could only help.

Congress seems to be pushing items off of its legislative agenda and onto the local ballot boxes.

Can’t some elected official in Washington decide what music should be played at State dinners?

And why is it up to us to decide if saucers filled with a lethal mixture of Mountain Dew and arsenic are an acceptable way to kill cockroaches? Is it because they don’t want to be blamed for the inadvertent deaths of house cats?

What about flies? Show me one politician who would address the issue of Fall flies—those tiny little buzzing bastards—and I’ll show you a politician we’d all want elected.

I realize that what I am proposing might be seen as an effort to weaken the First Amendment, but can’t we figure out some way to make racism and antisemitism illegal? Maybe if we’re not allowed to be a racist, in a generation or two it might have faded away. Currently, it seems the biggest cost of being a bigot is to be suspended temporarily from your job and losing your Twitter account and a few endorsement deals.

And I can’t think there’s a Jew alive who would care be part of a community outreach with Kyrie Irving. I believe that no amount financial loss or in-service hours can erase the fact that Mr. Irving has already shown us his true colors.

Finally, on the issue of abortion, most Americans want Roe v. Wade to be upheld. Not most Democrats, Republicans, or Independents; most Americans. Period. That reflects a political stance of not listening to one’s constituents, and not believing that women are fully capable of making their own decisions about their reproductive health.

Like the whole LGBTQ thing: It’s none of the government’s damn business.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ribollita

In Italian, ribollita means re-boiled. This is a hearty soup that seems perfect for the cold night about to return.

2 cans cannellini beans
Extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup parsley
1 bunch kale, chopped
3 medium carrots, chopped
3 celery stalks, chopped
1 large potato, chopped
½ small head Savoy cabbage, chopped
1 bunch Swiss chard, chopped
28 oz. can diced tomatoes
5 thick slices of stale bread

Heat oil in stock pot. Add onions and cook for 8-10 minutes. Add garlic and parsley; cook for a minute or two. Add kale, carrots, celery, potato, cabbage, and chard and stir well to coat. Add tomatoes and beans. Add enough water to cover vegetable by about 2 inches. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer for about 45 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in the bread and add a little olive oil. Cool to room temperature and refrigerate overnight. Re-heat and serve.

There are two realities that are unwelcome in my wheelhouse.

The first is to learn that European cars are now generously equipped with cup holders. The second is to be referred to a urologist for further investigation of trace amounts of blood in one’s urine.

A third, though not promised in this essay’s lede, is to learn that Kanye West, now known as Ye, is in your outer office waiting to talk about his branded Yeezy shoes. An outspoken antisemite, Ye has tweeted that he was “going death con 3 On JEWISH PEOPLE.” This was an apparent reference to the U.S. military’s DEFCON 3—an increase in force readiness. Where do these people come from?

Okay, so the third didn’t happen to any of us, except the Skechers folks in Los Angeles. The first two, however, happened to me.

As a longtime partisan against cup holders I would play the defiant role in suggesting that Europeans were considerably more elegant and civilized in their consumption of liquids. While Americans were wildly celebrating a plethora of such conveniences by up to 17 such cup holders in a single vehicle that could host ten more holders than passengers, Europeans were insistent on stopping a road trip multitude times to sip as espresso and ingest a light snack while standing at a tall-boy table in the shadow of the gas pumps.

“How long will it take to get to Normandy?” I asked my son’s mother-in-law in her suburban Paris home.

“It depends on how many times we stop,” she said, somewhat incredulously.

If memory serves, we stopped four times, thereby doubling the travel time to our destination. We weren’t after all, in any kind of hurry. I enjoyed the refreshments and noticed that there were no Big Gulps in sight.

My son and his wife spent the month of September in France, dividing their time between family homes in Paris and Picardy. I was jealous, recalling my own times there that were nothing short of wonderful. I remembered during my time there—as well as in Italy—that none of the compact vehicles in which we traveled had cup holders.

“That’s not true anymore,” my son informed me, as he drove me to my appointment at the Perioperative Services Clinic.

I was crestfallen. Maybe even more than when I discovered an American-inspired supermarket in Mers les Bain. It’s where the six of us stopped on our way to Normandy to buy bottled water, which had to hold in hand because there were no cup holders. Near the front of the store was like a store within a store. Meats, cheeses, bread, and wine were displayed where older French people shopped for what I assume were their daily meals.

It’s how Geri and I dined when we spent a week in Paris 45 years ago, staying in a fifth-floor walk-up in the Latin Quarter. I would rise each morning to roam the streets of the West Bank in search of open markets to buy the wine, sausage, cheese and a fresh baguette for our own moveable feast. We’d spend the day going to museums and galleries before trudging up the stairs in late evening to have our dinner sitting on the rickety brass bed and laughing about the four different wallpaper designs that passed as décor.

I’m glad I have that memory of romance in the City of Light.

The visit to the Clinic followed an earlier procedure called a cystoscopy–a test that allows the urologist to look inside the bladder using a teeny camera called a cystoscope. Think of Clark Gable peering into the periscope of the submarine in Run Silent, Run Deep.

The results of that test proved inconclusive. It was determined by the doctor that I have a procedure called a TURBT, which suggests to me a model of an early 60s Plymouth. Actually, it stands for Transurethral Resection of Bladder Tumor. From what I can ascertain, it’s more elaborate than a cystoscopy. It also must hurt like hell because I will be knocked out—an epidural to keep me from kicking anybody while prostrate on the operating table, and something else to keep my top half from twitching uncontrollably. Or caring, for that matter.

When I awake, I will have a new friend called a catheter. It will be draining into a colostomy bag that will collect, well…you get the point. Apparently, this inconvenience will be for a mere ten days until I see the urologist again.

During that time, I’m to live a leisurely life. I do that already without having to tend to the two bags—one of which will sit upon my lower leg like a shin guard; the other hanging from my bed.

When you first hear the word “tumor,” the mind begins playing tricks. I think a different sort of mind game is played when you hear the word “cancer.” I’d like not to know.

In the meantime, I’m reminded of an old joke about a woman’s hesitancy to wear a colostomy bag because she couldn’t find shoes to match.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Rillettes

A delightful addition to any charcuterie board, rillettes is easy to make and wonderful spread on small toasts.

1 pound lard
3 onions, chopped
One 4 to 5 pound boneless Boston butt pork roast
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
5 cloves garlic, chopped
1 celery stalk, halved
1 quart chicken stock
1 cup white wine
2 sprigs fresh thyme
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

Melt the lard in a large enameled cast-iron pot with a lid over moderate heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are very soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. While the onions are cooking, cut the pork into large pieces and season with salt and pepper.

Add the pork to the pot along with the garlic, celery, chicken stock, wine, thyme, bay leaves, and pepper flakes. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and slowly simmer for 3 hours.

Remove the pork from the pot and place in the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, and mix on low speed.

Remove and discard the celery, thyme sprigs, and bay leaves from the pot. Slowly add the remaining broth from the pot to the meat in the mixing bowl, continue mixing on low speed until all the broth has been incorporated back into the meat. Season with salt and pepper. Pack the cooled pork in a terrine or in small, sterilized jars. Cover well and refrigerate. Jarred rillettes will keep for 6 months.

For many Americans, life in these United States is pretty good. Though I might fancy living in Italy or France, both of which offer far superior coffee and food than we can get here, I feel somewhat blessed that my parents chose to have me stateside.

Though about as far from wealthy as one in the upper echelons of the lower classes can be, I’ve not wanted for much. I have a wonderful family for whose well-being I’ve worked hard to contribute, and my chosen career took me wide and far. I’ve met hundreds of influential and interesting people, and I even took nearly twelve years off to pursue a career as a chef/owner of a restaurant in my adopted hometown.

I’ve not traveled as much as I would have liked, but I’ve seen more exotic and wonderful places than many. Alaska is the only state I’ve yet to visit and as soon as Sarah Palin leaves, I’m booking my flight.

At 71, I have a limited number of goals yet to achieve; my bucket list, such as it were, is short.

First of all, I’d like to see all of the various news outlets honor a year-long moratorium on mentioning a certain former President by name unless it’s to report that his ass is finally in a smallish room on Cellblock C. That, we might all agree, would be newsworthy.

I’m realistic about that ever coming to pass. It won’t. The reason is that the left wing of the media has way too much fun vilifying the Orange Menace while the right wing gets its kicks by spreading the nefarious lies of his party’s supporting factions. The center just seems to go along for the ride. Intelligent discourse seems limited to the editorial pages of the Times, the Washington Post and Oregon’s Clatskanie Chief.

What’s clearly missing from today’s political climes is a sense of theater. To that end, I suggest that we all contribute to Marjorie Taylor Greene’s political war chest. Because she was stripped of any chances to sit on any committee, the University of Georgia’s dumbest graduate has only a single vote on any issue. She is, if nothing else, a sideshow of her own creation and I’d like to keep her around just for her entertainment value. From Jewish lasers to her seditious praising of Vladimir Putin, her marginal stances are (as the MasterCard commercial goes) priceless.

Speaking of Georgia… How about that Herschel Walker? With his Cracker Jack police badge, an abortion controversy, and an intellect on par with that of a brain-damaged reptile, he represents the chance to give the Republicans a much-desired (by them) Senate majority. Even the many-times-married Republican from Georgia, Newt Gingrich, couldn’t get his tongue out of his cheek when endorsing the former NFL running back. It is Gingrich who, when House minority whip, gave birth to the voter-fraud movement. Don’t forget that.

Next up is that kid from Illinois who traveled to Wisconsin to kill Black Lives Matter protesters. He showed all the chutzpah of the child who kills his parents and then asks for the court’s leniency because he is now an orphan. We need to follow his career path of selling T-shirts to extremist groups who believe that white is right.

There is no shortage of extremist organizations that need exposure by the investigative press: the Elks, the Rotary, the American Kennel Club, and the PGA. And why, I want to know, do the houses of worship of the Jehovah Witnesses have no windows? Inquiring minds want to know.

Everybody remember Jeffrey Epstein? The former hedge fund manager who was convicted of sex trafficking in 2008 and was found dead in his jail cell a couple years later was a member of the Trilateral Commission, a non-governmental international organization aimed at fostering closer cooperation between Japan, Western Europe and North America. Founded in July 1973, it lists among its members luminaries in the fields of economics, diplomacy, education, and banking. Some conspiracy theorists believe the organization to be a central plotter of a world government or synarchy. Still others believe the Commission orchestrated the 9/11 attacks to initiate the new world order, and increased overdraft fees banks can charge up to $37.

Why Epstein would belong to such an august group of governmental scholars escapes me. Maybe he was in charge of entertainment.

Another membership sought after by the rich and famous is to the Bohemian Club. Based in San Francisco, it has a 2,700-acre virgin redwood grove in Sonoma County, California. Called the Bohemian Grove, it is host to a summer camp each July when its members, in conjunction with the Shriners, plot to overthrow the government. William Randolph Hearst was a member, as was Richard M. Nixon, the latter of whom was rumored to enjoy peeing in the woods.

I can’t think of a single reason to re-elect Senator Tommy Tuberville (R-AL), who suggested that Black Americans are criminals who “want to take over what you got,” other than the fact is that his name is the most humorous in all of Congress. It’s like the last train to potato land.

And finally, who can forget Arizona? Gubernatorial candidate Kari Lake, a 2020 election denier, said that she would respect the election results as long as they were “fair, honest and transparent.”

Unless she loses.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Bohemian Sausage and Cabbage

This is a common dish throughout Eastern Europe. It is Old World comfort food that is easy to make and absolutely delicious.

1/2 pound smoked kielbasa or smoked Polish sausage, cut into 1/2-inch slices
2 tablespoons butter, divided
1/2 large head cabbage (2 pounds), coarsely chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
2 cans (8 ounces each) tomato sauce
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon paprika
2 large potatoes, peeled and cubed

In a large enameled cast-iron or ovenproof skillet, brown the sausage in 1 tablespoon butter; remove and set aside. In the same pan, sauté cabbage and onions in remaining butter until onions are tender.

In a small bowl, combine the tomato sauce, sugar and paprika; pour over cabbage mixture. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the potatoes and reserved sausage. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes or until potatoes are tender.

Although it’s perfectly fine with me to blame Trump for everything from our diminished stature on the world stage to the clogged sink we had the other day in our kitchen, it does seem that he has contributed greatly to the decline of simple decency in our interactions with each other.

There is no argument that the former president was (is) an ill-mannered boorish lout who demonstrated his frustrations with yelling matches and food fights he engaged with the walls of his private dining room. His lack of civility was matched by an ill-fitting wardrobe. Although I’ve never seen him dine, I can only imagine that his dietary choices might befit a man unsure of which fork to use at a formal dinner.

The golf course, in spite of all odds perhaps, is one of the last vestiges of gentlemanly behavior. “Etiquette,” a former golf pro answered when I asked him what I might teach about the sport to my young son. Etiquette, from all I’ve heard, eluded the former president as he routinely cheated his way around the links. The game of golf would demand an opponent to report a score, a lie, an infraction. These things the Donald did not do.

In a sense, Trump encouraged the bad behavior of his base and created for a segment of our society whose members felt comfortable in their expressions of racism and hatred.

Preceding him in this growing erosion of common decency was much of the world of sports television. Gone were the days of simple reportage and interviews, replaced by panels of loud-mouthed men whose reporting consisted of leveling criticism in uncomfortably loud voices. Halftime shows became scream fests.

Screaming and boorish behavior became the stock-in-trade of radio hosts like Rush Limbaugh and the recently disgraced Alex Jones. Both promoted far-right conspiracy theories in voices loud enough to convince their under-educated audiences of their veracity. Gentlemen, I should note, do not create sprays of spittle in common discourse.

Etiquette is defined as the “customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group.” It is a code that is gradually refined as societies change. When Emily Post wrote her landmark book, Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home in 1922, she could not have anticipated a culture that would one day bring telephones to the dining room table.

The Emily Post Institute has for 100 years monitored behavior among civilized people, offering new guidelines and changes in behavior—most notably in dining.

Table manners have evolved over centuries to make the practice of eating with others pleasant and sociable. With so many table manners to keep track, keep these basic, but oh-so-important, table manners in mind as you eat:
1. Chew with your mouth closed.
2. Keep your smartphone off the table and set to silent or vibrate. Wait to check calls and texts until you are finished with the meal and away from the table.
3. Hold utensils correctly. Don’t use your fork or spoon like a shovel or stab your food.
4. Wash up and come to the table clean. Don’t groom or attend to hygiene at the table.
5. Remember to use your napkin.
6. Wait until you’re done chewing to sip or swallow a drink.
7. Pace yourself with fellow diners. Cut only one piece of food at a time.
8. Avoid slouching and don’t place your elbows on the table while eating (though it is okay to prop your elbows on the table while conversing between courses, and always has been, even in Emily’s day).
9. Instead of reaching across the table for something, ask for it to be passed to you.
10. Bring your best self to the meal. Take part in the dinner conversation.

Geri and I enforced dining rules as our children were growing up. There’s nothing in this brief list from the institution bearing Mrs. Post’s name with which we would find any objection. Geri’s admonishments were frequently prefaced by the possibility of sharing a meal with the queen. It would be tantamount to sin to break one of the cardinal rules of dining in the presence of the queen.

Some things backfire.

When our 14-year-old grandson was reminded to remove his elbows from the table and put down his fork between bites, he countered that the chances of the queen dropping in for tea were pretty slim since she was dead.

This did not go over well. Although it was pretty damn funny, it was clearly a violation of rule #10.

Expressions of civility reflect our respect for others and reactions to situations.

It’s odd that in men’s fashion there is a growing sense of what one shirt designer calls “business casual.” I once worked for a marketing company. I rarely saw any clients and I mostly sat in a private office writing marketing things. It was rare that I even had any contact with my fellow workers. One day, instead of wearing a suit, I wore a blue blazer with chinos and a club tie. The president of the company passed me in the hallway and offered this comment: “Going sailing, are we?”

I wore suits for the rest of my tenure.

My parents insisted that my sister and I follow the standard rules of etiquette. My father became an officer and a gentleman during his 11-year stint in the U.S. Army. Some of the rules came under attack during the feminist movement when some women believed that any act of cordiality was an afront to their independence.

I disagree. I will continue to open doors for women (and men). I believe that dinner service should start with the hostess and then the dishes be passed to the right. I will hold a chair for anybody who might need assistance. And I hate seeing condiments in their packaging on the table.

What we need now is some advice about eating in one’s car.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Joel Robuchon’s Mashed Potatoes

One of the most celebrated French chefs, Joel Robuchon’s attention to detail is witnessed in this recipe for mashed potatoes. This is the way I like them.

2-1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes
250 G chilled butter, cut into small cubes
250 ml Milk
Salt and Pepper as needed

1: Boil the potatoes in salty water for 25 minutes – keep the skins on and stop when tender.
2: Leave potatoes to cool before peeling the skins.
3: Rinse a saucepan but leave a small amount of water in the bottom. Add milk and slowly warm.
4: Run the peeled potatoes through a food mill on the smallest setting into a pan.
5: Heat the potatoes on a medium heat for around five minutes to remove excess moisture. You want to dry them out.
6: Turn the potatoes to a low heat and slowly start to add small cubes of the chilled butter as you stir. You have to stir the potatoes a lot and fast to give them a perfectly creamy consistency.
7: Once the butter is mixed well, add the warm milk and whip quickly and energetically to make them smooth.
8: Taste and season.

Early one morning. There’s only the morning gloaming, sunrise scheduled for 7:30. It doesn’t matter what time it is, or even what day. I’m retired and one day is just like the other, with no reason to get up much before whatever doctor’s appointment I may have scheduled for the afternoon.

7:30. The dog, Romeo, has been happy to sleep against my thigh as I contemplate why I’ve never had a job that required my wearing a shirt with my name embroidered over the left breast pocket. I wish I had. I think I’ve been missing something in my life.

7:36. I’ve drifted a bit and Romeo turns to face the curtained window. From a guttural deep-throated growl to a shrill bark, he arouses me from my twilight to inform me that at least three children are walking by the house on their way to school. I miss school, though not at this hour.

7:50. I’m up now, wandering about the house in search of I don’t know what. It’s too early to awaken my gut, and so will settle for cranberry juice. I use it to direct the 13 pills I take each morning into said gut.

9:00. I’ve completed the Los Angeles Times crossword in 19:06 minutes and finished Wordle on the third guess. Not bad since my first guess provided no particularly useful clues. I’ve checked my Facebook feed and wished happy birthday to three of my “friends.” An email informs me that my book club selection for October is Hamnet, by Maggie O’Farrell. It’s a non-fiction novel about the life and times of Shakespeare’s wife. Last month we read “The Grand Inquisitor,” the fifth chapter of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1880 novel The Brothers Karamazov. It was a vigorously cheery discussion with a bunch of men from Nashville whom I don’t know.

10:16. My gut needs food. Refrigerator repair guy has the fridge in pieces. No access to food, cranberry juice or ice. Remember when as kids the water from the bathroom was somehow inferior to water from the kitchen. Found a root beer in the pantry. It was warm.

11:30. Last chance to have anything to eat or drink, except for clear liquids which I assume doesn’t include vodka. (It’s already too cold for gin.)

12:30. Begin the trek over the hill for yet another CT scan, with contrast. New computer program at the hospital and I spend twenty minutes telling the young woman the most revealing of possible entries to the program. How, I wonder, if they have my name and birthday do they not have everything else. My only known allergy is to country music, which the young woman does not find amusing.

1:40. Lying on a hard bench, my britches pulled down to my knees, I slide effortlessly in and out of the donut that contains the X-ray stuff that makes pictures of my kidneys and bladder. Everybody hides behind a formidable wall as I am exposed to a whirligig rotating around my midsection.

2:10. Load up for the trek home. Forgot to use the bathroom and I feel the contrast building up in my bladder. (At least I think that’s what it is.) There is a growing sense of urgency as my driver seems to be driving slower. I’m getting desperate. I try to think about something important. Suddenly, I remember that I was curious about people who refused to evacuate from hurricane Ian.

2:17. I am not a scientist, but I believe in science. I know nothing about hurricanes, though they don’t seem to offer winds much greater than those we get in Montana. If, however, I’m sitting around watching “Jeopardy” and a bulletin comes across the screen telling me to evacuate, I’m gone. I’ll grab a bag of medical supplies, a few of my favorite pictures and a bottle of scotch and wait in the front yard for a helicopter to come take me away. It’s that simple. And it’s because I believe in science.

2:49. Home and quite relieved, so to speak. I notice on Facebook that a cat’s age to a human’s age is 14:72. I think one of our cats might be 14. This is not comforting.

3:03. I decide to watch some baseball, now that the regular season is over, and the new rules that will forever ruin my idea of the game are instituted next season. It killed me (figuratively) when the National League adopted the designated hitter rule. I want to see the pitchers bat. And the pitch clock to hurry up the game. I don’t want the game to end early. The longer it lasts, the better.

3:11. I want football to end earlier. The four-hour average football match could be shortened by getting rid of advertisements for luxury automobiles and gummy digestibles that require supplemental penile stretching and strengthening exercises. I think we know those by another name. It could also be shortened by eliminating the extra-point kick. The last time that one-point score was missed was during the Great Depression. Take 15 seconds off the clock, tack on the extra point, and get on with it.

5:00. It’s the cocktail hour. A friend has sent me news about Sonny Rollins, the jazz tenor saxophonist who is widely considered to be one of the most important and influential jazz musicians in history. In a seven-decade career, the 92-year-old Rollins has recorded more than sixty albums as a leader. Here’s the news. He’s been a longtime subscriber to MAD magazine. Is that cool, or what?

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Marinara Sauce

Nothing is more comforting than a bowl of al dente pasta with a clean and simple marinara sauce. This is how I’ve made mine for 30+ years. Buon appetito!

Extra virgin olive oil
1 large onion, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
2 small carrots, diced
Salt & pepper
6 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup red wine
2 Tbs. dried oregano
2 large bunches fresh basil, chopped
2, 28-oz. cans crushed tomatoes
2, 28-oz. cans diced tomatoes
3-4 dried bay leaves

Heat the oil in a large sauce pan and sauté the onion for 5-6 minutes; add celery and carrots and cook for 2-3 minutes more. Season with salt and pepper. Add garlic & sauté one minute. Add wine and oregano. Mix with tomatoes, basil and bay leaves. Simmer uncovered for at least 45 minutes.

It didn’t occur to me to check the calendar until it was too late: I missed National Sons’ Day. I have a wonderful son who I think about fondly and often. Along with his older sister, I’m equally proud and I meant to show no favoritism in wishing Courtney a happy National Daughters’ Day.

To be honest, I hadn’t heard of either of these days of celebration until last Sunday (NDD) and last Tuesday. You have to admit that Tuesday is a pretty lousy day to celebrate anything other than tacos but there was Facebook flooded with congratulatory notices—none of which I saw until Wednesday. I don’t do the whole belated thing because I don’t wish to appear to others as being forgetful or out of step with things.

I wonder who makes up these holidays.

Mother’s Day has a rich history dating back to 1907 when somebody named Anna Jarvis was so distraught over her mother’s death that she thought everybody in America should share her grief, even though few of us knew her or cared. What started as a simple celebration in a Methodist church became a national holiday in 1914 when President Woodrow Wilson, who presumably also had a mother, did whatever it is that presidents do to make something official. (Actually, Mother’s Day dates back forty years earlier that pushed an anti-war sentiment loosely based on “Lysistrata.” It never caught on.)

In fewer than six years, Hallmark Cards began selling greeting cards and See’s Candy started packaging chocolates in honor of mothers. The flower industry began pushing carnations as the flower of choice, restaurants doubled their prices on that second Sunday in May, and Anna Jarvis went nuts. Obviously forgetting that she lived in America, she protested the crass commercialization of what was essentially meant to be a somber day honoring mothers who regularly went to church. Or something like that.

Father’s Day, of course, predates Mother’s Day by some six centuries and was focused on the Feast of Saint Joseph who, if you’ll remember, wasn’t a father at all. (There’s probably a Stepfathers’ Day somewhere on the calendar.)

In America, Father’s Day is not as big a day as Mother’s Day for a variety of reasons. Men generally don’t care much about greeting cards, especially those that today cost in the neighborhood of thirty-eight dollars; also, chocolates and flowers don’t really do much for many of us. Most of us don’t need any more neckties. What we’d really like is a single-malt Scotch and the day off to play golf or watch NASCAR races for six uninterrupted hours or so.

In all likelihood it seems that if you can name a family member’s rank there is a national holiday at the ready.

Siblings, grandparents, in-laws, cousins, aunts, and uncles are all celebrated in the Hallmark spotlight. It is for those reasons that I’m happy to be relative-free…except for Geri and the kids. Now that I know about the holidays honoring my children, I can avoid the cost of a Hallmark card and merely mention them on Facebook. And I promise to continue to make Eggs Benedict for Geri on Mother’s Day.

It took Congressional action to help pick the days on which Mother’s and Father’s days fall. There are several more significant holidays whose designated dates are a mystery. Christmas, for instance.

There was a pop song declaring that Jesus was a Sagittarius. If one was born on December 25th, that person is, I believe, a Capricorn, missing the Sagittarius deadline by four days. Christmas, a holiday celebrating consumerism at untold heights, was chosen by popes and cardinals and other church officials, to coincide with the winter solstice—a holiday favored by pagans and heathens whom the Church needed to donate to the Church. By combining the holidays, the cash poured in while the Church adopted just enough unholy traditions to keep everybody happy. The Christmas tree, for instance, is made from a pine tree that doesn’t grow in the Middle East. As for snow? The last time it snowed in Bethlehem was centuries before Mel Tormé wrote “The Christmas Song” (“chestnuts roasting…” etc.).

For the Christians’ other most celebrated holiday, Easter, it falls sometime in what we Westerners call the Spring.

Using a mathematical formula that would confound Galileo, some committee or cabal meets annually to pick the next date of celebration based on the arbitrary position of left tackles in college football. Then they get the news to the calendar folks who are careful to print them on the pages opposite of naked firemen or cute puppies.

Jewish holidays are even more complicated, mostly because they’re in Hebrew. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Passover, and Hanukkah are each calculated to fall on dates that are expressed each year—this year it’s 5783—that requires mathematical skills to determine. Most of the calendar folks ignore the dates altogether, opting to remind us instead of important days on the Rotary Club datebook.

This past week was a banner week for national not-quite holidays. Just yesterday, it was Pumpkin Spice Day, International Coffee Day, and National Black Dog Day. And last Wednesday, it was National Drink a Beer Day, a day honoring the memory of André the Giant who, allegedly, consumed 119 12-ounce glasses of beer in six hours.

I’m still waiting for National Hostility Day and Post-Punk Disco Day, the latter of which should be celebrated with disco balls made with tinted mirrors.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Sausage, Leek & White Bean Soup

With each passing day, we move deeper into soup weather. Enjoy!

1 pound mild Italian sausage
1 large leek, cleaned and sliced
2 clove garlic, minced
2 large carrots, washed and sliced
2 stalks celery, cleaned and sliced
1 (14-ounce) can navy beans, rinsed and drained
1 (14-ounce) can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
2 quarts chicken stock
2 sprigs fresh thyme
Salt and pepper

Heat a large soup pot over medium heat.
Slice the sausage into medallions and place directly in the pan.
Brown for about 3-4 minutes per side, stirring to break up the sausage slightly.
Add the leek and garlic and stir to combine.
Cook for 4-5 minutes until the leek starts to soften.
Add the carrots and celery and cook another 4-5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Add the beans, chicken stock, thyme, salt and pepper and bring to a boil.
Reduce heat and simmer for 20-30 minutes until the carrots and celery are tender and the sausage is cooked through.