Journal

Consider, if you will, the hamburger.

A simple food that is nonetheless the quintessential American sandwich, despite its being rooted in Hamburg, Germany. It is rarely given quarter in fine dining establishments, but is readily available at most drive-thru restaurants, chains, and diners.

It is such a part of our culinary fabric that vegans and vegetarians crave them so badly that fake burgers are now available that have more chemicals than one can even imagine. Apparently, they taste like the forbidden meat. Go figure.

They are a staple—not the fake ones—at cookouts and picnics, where they are grilled over wood or charcoal. They are great fried or griddled and placed between slices of bread or a bun and topped with a variety of condiments, many of which stir the pot of preferences among the most ardent of those who believe their way is the only way to properly dress a burger. (Believe me, I get it. To me, there’s only one way to properly adorn a hot dog.)

As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown fonder of hamburgers. I don’t eat as much as I used to and a four-ounce serving of beef is about the most I can handle, assuming there will be fries and/or beans as accompaniments. I like the texture of ground or minced meat as much as I like well-crafted sausages. At this point in my life, I could no more face a 16-ounce T-bone than I could a pound of anything.

The quality of hamburgers run the gamut from “Are you kidding me?” to “Are you kidding me?” Inflection is everything. I recently had a burger that was two, two-ounce burgers smashed together before being placed on a brioche-style bun. The meat was dried out, the bun was too big, and the lettuce was wilted. But, hey, it was only $14.

The smash burger is trending these days and there’s even a chain of restaurants called Smashburger. Based in Denver, I had one of its burgers on my last day in the hospital a couple of years ago. After nearly five months of institutional cooking, it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

My family responded to their burgers with “meh.”

The hamburger can serve as a canvas for myriad ingredients, many of which disguise the taste of the beef. Cheese, bacon, avocado, and pineapple come to mind, as does McDonald’s Big Mac—an unsatisfying sandwich of Thousand Island dressing with bread and pickles. Then there are the burgers with various flavorings mixed into the beef that also alter the flavor of the meat. Garlic and oregano mixed and topped with mozzarella create an Italian burger, though actually it’s just a flattened meatball. Ground lamb, mixed with rosemary, garlic, and feta cheese, becomes a Greek burger. The French burger, if you believe Julia Child (which I do), is a blend of ground beef with minced onion and thyme.

I won’t waste my time with ground chicken or turkey.

The secret to a great burger is, of course, the meat. If you buy packaged ground beef in any of its fat-to-muscle ratios, you’re not having the best burger experience. I like to grind my own burger from a blend of two parts chuck, and one part each of brisket and short ribs. The beef should be graded Choice. I grind it first using the large holes on the grinder and give it a second grind through the medium disc. The amount of fat in those cuts is perfect to provide the juiciness I like in a medium-rare patty.

I baked all of my own bread at our restaurant, and I chose to use our ciabatta for hamburger buns. They were light and airy, buttered and quickly grilled on the char-broiler. The patty protruded slightly from the edges, which was just fine. I served them the usual host of condiments, along with crisp iceberg lettuce, sliced tomato, and sliced onion. I also served zucchini pickles on the side. Today, I buy generic hamburger buns that are soft, yet provide the grip necessary to eat a burger with one hand.

Condiments and adornments are up to personal taste. My son-in-law makes as good a burger as I’ve ever had. His secret, I think, is a splash of soy sauce at the end of cooking the patties on a flat-top grill. He won’t eat raw onion, so I believe he’s missing one the great elements of the flavor profile of a great burger. My daughter thinks lettuce is what food eats, so her burgers have nothing green on them.

Geri likes grilled onions on her burger, and I like raw Spanish onion with lettuce and tomato. I don’t much care for ketchup, which is Jacques Pepin’s condiment of choice for the burgers he serves on toasted English muffins. I like mayonnaise, which is also what I prefer as a dipping sauce for French fries. I don’t care for any of the bottled barbeque sauces—most of which are sweet enough to ice a cake.

I don’t usually have cheese on my burger, but when I do there are only two kinds: bleu or American. I never have bacon (kind of a mixed message of flavors) or pepperoni or mushrooms. When I crave a hamburger, I want it to be as simple as it was once meant to be.

I’m not much of a fan of fast-food burger places unless I happen to be in one of the few states where there are In-N-Out Burger joints. Stop the car! Gimme a double-double! And a chocolate shake!

Photography and food styling by Courtney A. Liska

Zucchini Pickles

During her ordeal with the cancer that killed her, I gave my mother the task of finding a great pickle for my restaurant. She found this one from an early edition of “The Joy of Cooking.” She might have tweaked it a bit. The pickles are delicious, and just in time for that moment in August-September when you need to lock your car doors lest somebody leave a box or two of zucchini on the back seat.

2 # zucchini
2 small yellow onions
4 Tbs. kosher salt
4 cups cider vinegar
2 cups sugar
3 tsp. dry mustard
3 tsp. mustard seeds
2 tsp. turmeric

Wash and trim zucchini, slice thinly. Slice onion. Place in iced water. Add salt. Combine brine ingredients and bring to a boil; simmer for three minutes. Cool completely. Drain vegetables. Add to brine. Let cool.

This is a re-posting of an essay I wrote two years ago. It is a quiet appreciation of our natural world, a celebration of faith, a respect for worship, the sadness of loss, the hope for the future. My little dog, Buddy, has left us, but his memory—like those of so many—is for a blessing that sustains me. L’Shanah tovah. Stay well. Stay safe. Shalom.

Even early tastes of winter cannot diminish the beauty of autumn. While spring may offer the promise of renewal, it is fall that provides a sense of timely reflection—a gentle lead-in to the harsh dormancy of winter.

I like the colors of fall—brilliant shades of yellow and red that soften over the weeks to muted tones of burnt amber, ruby and gold. The leaves fall into a lush, deep-pile carpet to cover lawns and gardens, sidewalks and streets. It is a satisfying melody played by shuffling through the leaves before they are damped by early snow. The sun usually shines bright through patches of clouds this time of year and my little dog, a snow-white Bichon Frise, digs his nose deep into the leaf piles, coming up for a satisfied intake of the cool fresh air that we know will grow colder as the calendar pages turn.

Sunday is the best time to enjoy this wonderland; the other days seem to pale by comparison. Sunday mornings along the banks of the Yellowstone River move at a slower pace. Few are on their ways to work, getting in that run or breath-taking power walk before the clock strikes a certain hour. We’re slowed because we can be. We can stop to visit with the friends and neighbors we meet during this respite from the wearisome world. I take the time to watch a piece of driftwood from far upstream float by our stand on the gravelly bank.

Buddy and I prefer the quiet. He sniffs out of an inherent curiosity, joyously taking in the wonders of a world of myriad aromas sensed only by him; in contrast, my breaths are labored and concentrated, my focus on the inhalations and exhalations that must be taken at a measured pace, in a prescribed manner.

It is only in the last couple of years or so that I’ve had to think about breathing.

In dog years, Buddy is much older than I am and I’m not sure I like the active comparisons. He still prances and runs, jumping on and off the couch with style, grace and ease, and he rolls about the carpet with admirable zeal. I, on the other hand, have not pranced in years (if ever, really); I stand up from a couch using both hands like a ski jumper uses poles coming out of the starting gate; if I find myself on the floor it is not by choice.

In all fairness to me, Buddy does sleep considerably more than I do.

I don’t know what Buddy thinks about as we make our way together on Sunday mornings. Probably not much. His life is sensory and reactive, any gleaned information a mere product of repetition and his genetic imprint. His cognitive skills are suspect at best. He seems uninterested in the day’s news. I am slowed by age, my senses still sharp, but my reactions only as quick as I can turn a somewhat arthritic neck. I’m not complaining, mind you. Walking is faux exercise; retention the goal.

I have a friend who has lived in this little southwest Montana town his entire life. When he ambles through familiar neighborhoods, he is haunted by childhood memories. Friendly ghosts meet him at every corner, he says. Every street and alley that served as a passage to some long-ago destination has become a private Memory Lane, each house a home to a part of his life. I’m envious, knowing that for me Thomas Wolfe was right: You Can’t Go Home Again. It’s a different story for those who never left.

My years here represent about one-third of my life. I have no childhood memories belonging to these streets and schools and the downtown that have become part of my very being. My childhood is left frozen in time in Chicago; the next batch of memories divided unevenly between New York and Los Angeles.

Some of my earliest memories of here were made before I had a dog I cared to walk. I’d walk alone on Sunday mornings and enjoy the tolling of the church bells.

THE MEMORY IS A FAULTY PART of the brain, frequently exaggerating the actual events or burying the unpleasant. Hubris and humility are intimate; hyperbole, their happy companion. We remember most fondly what we want to and express it as we wish. And so it is that I remember there once being more church bells than can be heard today.

Unlike the noon whistle heard in many a small American town, the church bell’s chime is a call to worship, arguably a more noble call than the siren that announces lunch. Our bodies aren’t always hungry at noon; our souls need tending at any hour.

I’ve never answered the call of a church bell, although I enjoy their peals as if they were a symphony of resonant brass playing in some distant hall. In my faith, a shofar is blown to announce that God is ready to listen to prayers and pleas. The sound of the shofar varies, determined by its player. A church bell’s sound was determined when the bell was hammered from bronze by skilled artisans. Time doesn’t change its key.

I doubt there are many bellfounders left. Too bad. It seems like a worthy craft and calling, one inspired, perhaps, by a greater good—not unlike building the spires that reach so majestically to the heavens from European cathedrals.

What I find appealing about the Christian tradition is one deeply ingrained in the imagery of Norman Rockwell. His work was exemplary of an ideal that was empathetic, inclusive and diverse—for the time. People we knew as archetypal characters graced the covers of The Saturday Evening Post. The themes were often simple, but they celebrated complex stories, among them the freedom to worship and the enjoyment of companionship and family, the pain of a scraped knee, carefree skaters on a frozen pond. There always seemed to be more than met the eye.

In my mind, I often see what seems like a Rockwell painting in motion. Families newly defined by the times make their ways through the streets. The elderly with their walkers; a pair of women clutching each other’s arms for balance and strength; a young couple with only the future in view. They make their ways to the churches made of bricks or wood, their interiors pulling one’s eyes from the entry to the stained-glass imagery designed to invoke piety and devotion.

There are songs and readings in those houses, announcements, prayers, a homily and a benediction. There is an offering and perhaps communion is offered and accepted. The congregants shake the minister’s hand on the way to coffee and donuts in the church basement.

I consider myself a pious Jew who is convinced of the spirit of God if not the existence. The first Commandment of our 613 mitzvot demands a belief in God, and the second that He have no competition in the form of other gods; the rest prescribes the way to live as a Jew, from business dealings to grooming to diet. As Rabbi Hillel said, “that which is despicable to you, do not do to your fellow, this is the whole Torah, and the rest is commentary, go and learn it.” We don’t believe strictly in an afterlife and therefore are expected to do good for its own sake. Try as we might, we are fallible; our failings human and therefore profound.

I’ve spent much of this week thinking about the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, which began last Sunday. At sundown on Tuesday begins Yom Kippur—a day of fasting, prayer and reflection as we atone for the sins and transgressions of the previous year. It is the holiest day on our calendar and it demands attention. I went to the Yellowstone River for a private tashlikh, a tradition that asks us to cast our sins to the depths of the sea. In time, my sins will settle in the Gulf of Mexico.

And today my thoughts are about Tony, whom we lost just one year ago. When he died, he was thirteen—the age of a man, according to my faith. I miss him, as do all who knew and loved him. None will ever understand why he left us, and I wonder often about the future he will never have. I imagine it as fine and productive, full of warmth and love. I had stories to tell him, and I wanted to listen to his. I weep for what was lost, what would never be.

These days have emerged as an untidy convergence of sorrow and regret, gratitude and hope; there is an ongoing need for solace, respite from the rigors of life.

My temple offers views of snow-covered mountains, the sounds of the river in motion, the wisps of wood smoke from warming fires spiraling from red-brick chimneys, people walking at a snail’s pace to take it all in, kids zooming by on their bicycles and skateboards. The pews are the benches and retaining walls scattered about; the altar a stand of cottonwoods where the river parts. This is a vivid expression of life, framed by trees in an arboreal cathedral. It may or may not have anything to do with religion or a greater being, but it is valid to seek answers in their expressions. It is an acceptance of faith no matter how defined.

There is great spirit actively at work. To take an hour for quiet contemplation or to sit quietly in a sanctuary to sing a hymn, greet a stranger or friend with a heartfelt smile, think about the needy and the infirm, or say a prayer for peace is a blessing. A mitzvah.

And to walk among the bowed flowers and the fallen leaves of a bright autumn, to cast a sin to the river, to listen to the world’s soul in the wind, to be included in the next year’s Book of Life…each is a blessed reward.

A morning walk seems in order.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

While there is no shortage of events that one might find disturbing, I can’t imagine one more so than to think that one has been the target of a hate crime.

Hate crimes have special legal status at both the federal and state levels. That status is due to the fact that a hate crime has hatred as its motivation. Although we might find the commission of a hate crime as an act of violence, a hate crime may also be a symbolic gesture.

Without any actual proof, it would seem that we were the target of such a gesture.

Last Sunday morning, my son-in-law left to go to work. Sean is an unflappable guy who takes things in stride. When he came back into the house, he looked pale. At the end of our walkway to the street, he told me, was a pool of blood—lots of blood, deep red and deep. It was completely contained in a wide oval, with no signs of anything (like an injured dog or cat) having been dragged there. There was a faint human footprint heading away from the pool.

The police came and after a lot of investigating they determined that the evidence pointed to this incident as an intentional act.

We wear our politics on our sleeves and on placards on the front lawn. We support the concept of empathy and humanity as expressed by Chabad. We also support the Black Lives Matter movement, and we fly a Pride flag in support of the LGBTQ community. We display yard signs for candidates we support.

Our signage is meant to recognize and honor those who might walk or drive past our house. They are not there to be provocative or to inspire the hatred of those who might disagree with our simple values.

But we can think of no other reason why this intentional act of spilling blood at the foot of our walkway occurred.

I certainly don’t care to sound alarmist, and this incident could have been some kind of particularly unfunny practical joke. Either way, it seems that some kind of animal was sacrificed to harvest the blood to fill our walkway.

That’s sad and pathetic.

To my way of thinking, hate crimes are acts of cowardice. The anti-Semitic pamphlets and flyers we’ve found under our windshield wipers over the years were delivered by people who want no conversation. Those papers are threats meant to intimidate.

Since 1968, when Congress passed, and President Lyndon Johnson signed into law, the first federal hate crimes statute, the Department of Justice has been enforcing federal hate crimes laws. The 1968 statute made it a crime “to use, or threaten to use, force to willfully interfere with any person because of race, color, religion, or national origin. It seems limited to protecting those participating in a federally protected activity, such as public education, employment, jury service, travel, or the enjoyment of public accommodations, or helping another person to do so.”

In 1968, Congress also made it a crime to use, or threaten to use, force to interfere with housing rights because of the victim’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin; in 1988, protections on the basis of familial status and disability were added. In 1996, Congress passed the Church Arson Prevention Act. Under this Act, it is a crime to deface, damage, or destroy religious real property, or interfere with a person’s religious practice, in situations affecting interstate commerce. The Act also bars defacing, damaging, or destroying religious property because of the race, color, or ethnicity of persons associated with the property.

In 2009, Congress passed, and President Barack Obama signed, the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act, expanding the federal definition of hate crimes, enhancing the legal tools available to prosecutors, and increasing the ability of federal law enforcement to support state and local partners. This law removed then-existing jurisdictional obstacles to prosecutions of certain race- and religion-motivated violence, and added new federal protections against crimes based on gender, disability, gender identity, or sexual orientation.

The Act is named after Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr.

Shepard was a student who was tortured and murdered in 1998 near Laramie, Wyoming. The attack was spurred by his being gay, and the trial employed a gay panic defense. Shepard’s murderers were given life sentences—in large part because his parents sought mercy for his killers.

Byrd was an African American man who was tied to a truck by three white supremacists, dragged behind it, and decapitated in Jasper, Texas, in 1998. Two of Byrd’s murderers were sentenced to death and executed in 2011 and 2019, respectively, while the third was sentenced to life in prison. All the convictions were obtained without the assistance of hate crimes laws since none were applicable at the time.

The murders and subsequent trials brought national and international attention to the desire to amend U.S. hate crime legislation at both the state and federal levels. Wyoming hate crime laws at the time did not recognize homosexuals as a suspect class, whereas Texas had no hate crime laws at all.

It could be argued that all crimes have an element of hate: crimes of passion and whatnot. But for an impoverished man shoplifting groceries to feed his family, that is a crime based on love.

There is no place in a civilized society for hate, which shows how far we must grow to become a civilized society.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Vegetable Lasagna

With summer near its end and vegetables are ripe and abundant, it’s time for this great lasagna. Substitute the suggested veggies with anything you have and like.

7 oz ricotta cheese
1/3 cup chopped pitted black olives (optional)
1 tbsp. chopped fresh thyme
2 Tbsp. fresh basil, chopped
1/2 tbsp dried oregano
2-3 cloves minced garlic
4 cups prepared pasta sauce
1 lb. lasagna pasta
Freshly ground black pepper
2 small zucchini, diced
2 small summer squash, diced
3/4 cup bottled roasted red pepper, diced
1/4 cup grated Parmesan

Preparation
Heat oven to 375°F. Mix goat cheese, olives (if using), thyme, basil, oregano, and garlic in a bowl; season with salt and pepper. Spread 1 cup pasta sauce on the bottom of an 8″ x 11″ baking dish. Add one layer of lasagna and season with black pepper. Add a layer of zucchini, squash, and red pepper. Dollop spoonsful of ricotta cheese mixture over vegetables and spread to cover. Repeat layers, finishing with pasta and sauce. Sprinkle Parmesan on top, cover with foil and bake 40 minutes. Uncover and bake 5 minutes or until top browns. Let stand 10-15 minutes; serve.

The grandkids are back in school, excited in their different ways about the challenges their course loads will present in coming months. And after a year of home schooling, their social interactions will return to great delight.

They’re also pretty excited about their first experiences of organized sports—Evelyn in volleyball, Sean Liam in football. I just may be more excited than they are.

I’ve always enjoyed sports and only wish that I could still play them. But age takes its toll, and I am sidelined to be an observer.

My favorite sport is baseball, followed by soccer and ice hockey. I’m not all that interested in football, though I sure seem to watch a lot it—only because I can’t pry Geri away from the screen on Sundays, and Monday and Thursday nights. I’m not much of a fan of basketball, although for a three-year stretch in the mid-80s, I went to dozens of Lakers games because I had free tickets.

That was the golden age of Lakers b-ball, and I sat comfortably in the senate seats, smoking a cigar, and imbibing a cocktail or two. But the real joy was in watching how the team actually played. Magic Johnson was particularly interesting in displaying true teamwork. His periphery vision seemed to encompass the entire court—side-to-side, end-to-end—and he’d methodically bring the ball into play and start looking for a teammate to assist. Once he delivered the ball to the shooter, he’d charge to the goal to rebound—if necessary.

He also scored a lot of points.

And of course, watching Kareem Abdul-Jabbar play was like watching an athletic ballet. His skyhook was the stuff of legend.

Being an urban kid growing up, we played sports. Mostly baseball, on vacant lots. We’d use pieces of cardboard as bases, and since there were never more than nine or ten of us, we’d improvise rules—reinventing the game to meet our needs. Some of us would have to go home to practice the piano for half-an-hour, but when we got back to the sandlot the game was still going.

They were marathons that ended with our arms around each other’s shoulders. We’d be home before dark—sweaty, roughed-up and hungry. We’d sleep with our mitts under the pillow, the Neatsfoot oil scenting the night air.

Most of us were in Little League, a concept, on paper, that was good. Unfortunately, fathers (mostly) with over-active thyroids would diminish the experience of organized ball because they feared their son would not gain a spot on the Yankees’ roster ten years down the line. It’s what inspired me to umpire youth baseball for 14 years: keep the parents quiet and let the kids play.

But here’s the deal. While there are inherent risks of injury, the rewards I believe are worth the risk. Sports provide vital conditioning of the body, which helps to feed an active mind. A flabby body cannot support a sharp mind. There’s a balance that is there for the asking.

And team sports teach us to respect authority (the coaching staff), to recognize that hard work will lead to success, that practice approaches perfect, and that teamwork is what leads to victory.

Not that winning is the only thing. I disagree with Vince Lombardi on that score. Doing one’s best is perhaps all that is needed or should be expected.

Most of us have had careers or jobs that require a cooperative effort. Teams build cars, create movies, play music, accommodate car racing, issue newspapers and make restaurants work. In the twelve years I had my restaurant, I found that among my best employees were high school students who played team sports. It was actually a question on my rather odd employment application. (Trying to eliminate the self-centered with no respect for authority, one of the questions asked was about wearing seat belts.)

The worst employee I ever had was a server who turned his nose up at team sports and proudly announced he was a snow boarder.

Sports also have the ability to inspire each of us to do better in any given activity, and provide glimpses of stunning excellence. To watch Messi’s ball handling on the pitch, a double play on the diamond, or a wide receiver snag the football in the midst of a crowd of defenders in the end zone—those are moments of athletic prowess that few will attain.

All the more reason to keep trying.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken and Mushrooms in a White Wine Sauce

This is a no-brainer weeknight dinner that is perfectly wonderful.

4 Tbs. butter, divided
¼ cup flour
2 cups chicken stock, lukewarm
½ cup dry white wine
4 Tbs. heavy cream
1 tsp lemon juice
Salt and pepper
1 lb chicken or turkey breast, cut into chunks
8 oz. button mushrooms, sliced
Handful of finely chopped tarragon or parsley

Melt 2 tablespoons butter in large pan over medium heat. Add flour and beat hard until you have a smooth paste (called a roux). Continue to beat until roux begins to have a golden color. Take off heat and gradually add stock, whisking constantly.

Place pan back over medium heat and simmer gently for 10 minutes, whisking frequently to ensure none of the sauce burns on bottom of pan. If sauce becomes too thick, whisk in a little more stock.

Add wine and continue simmering for 10 minutes, then take off the heat and whisk in cream and lemon juice. Taste for salt and pepper.

While sauce is simmering, melt 2 tablespoons butter in large frying pan until sizzling. Add chicken and fry for a few minutes until golden. Add mushrooms and fry for another 5 minutes or until chicken is cooked through.

To serve, mix sauce with chicken and mushrooms and sprinkle with some fresh tarragon or parsley.

There seems to be no shortage of inspirational messaging on the internet, though I find little of it to be very inspirational. Most of it strikes me as insipidly trite drivel. I mean, really, who needs to be reminded of the industriousness of ants, the busyness of bees, the delicate gentleness of a butterfly?

While I might appreciate and be thankful for all of the goodness of insect life, I certainly don’t care to emulate it—especially at my age. Industry is what others do. So is busy. I try to be gentle.

There is also a lot of poetry—or, at least, poetic sentiment in all of this. Most of it rates as being prepubescent at best. “Ode On a Demonic Cirrus Cloud” just doesn’t quite make it in the world of odist John Keats, although it should be noted that many poems by Emily Dickinson have the same metric structure found in the “Theme from Gilligan’s Island” or “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Go figure.

A posting I saw last week intrigued me. Ostensibly it was about educating our children, although personally I should put that in the past tense. I thought it was going to be another inane diatribe about how high schoolers should be learning how to iron clothes and change the oil, both of which are tasks that I believe should fall to parents. Since I do not possess the skills to teach algebra or chemistry (it’s been 55 years since I had to find the value of x; I never studied chemistry), I figure that the schools might do a better job to undertake that task than me.

While I might be on the short side of oil change instructions, I do know how to iron. I can also teach the kids to cook, which I did, and could probably do a decent job of teaching literature and writing. Our family meals (every night, almost) frequently involved talking about the books we’d read or were reading.

Nothing beats a lively discussion about Horton Hears a Who while dining on spaghetti and meatballs.

Our kids are grown now, and Geri and I are quite proud of them. I think we did a good job of raising them, instilling senses of responsibility, kindness, manners, and a playful approach to good trouble.

If there is injustice, they fight against it. Courtney just has a fouler mouth. (Do not approach her in public without a mask to avoid witnessing her swears-like-a-sailor act.)

We’re fairly progressive here at the house on 3rd Street. We stress fairness, equality, and justice within our modest walls. We deny hate, violence, and intolerance. We believe that Black lives matter.

Our ambitions for the kids were never expressed, although we encouraged and tried to support every ambition they might have expressed. At one point, Daniel aspired to be Alan Greenspan; Courtney wanted to be an Olympic equestrian.

I had a friend in California who expected his son to be a professional baseball player—a shortstop, to be exact. He had the kid’s life mapped out: Little League, Legion ball, college at Pepperdine, an early exit to the minors, advancement to the Bigs.

The father had followed that exact path, though he never made to the major leagues. His ambition became what he wanted for his son.

I questioned him about his son’s wishes and the disappointment that might come. How, the father wondered, could his son not relish such a future?

I suggested that he might have different plans, interests. And what if the kid wasn’t a good player? None of that mattered. John knew his kid was going to be great and enjoy the career the father never knew.

As it turned out, the kid was mediocre at baseball. He never played Legion or went to Pepperdine. He’s a chef now, cooking his way to happiness and a fulfilled life. His father, a successful state’s attorney who put criminals behind bars, suffers needlessly in disappointment.

I believe that most of us have our children’s best interests at heart. While we might wish for them lives as renowned attorneys, diplomats, doctors, dentists, research scientists, and corporate moguls, the reality is for something that might seem less worthy but, in fact, is just the opposite. Every job that needs doing is worth doing. Few of our offspring will ever become professional athletes, revered artists, or movie stars. And it doesn’t matter. Our son is a ship’s Captain for a cargo line in Seattle; our daughter, a homemaker and artist who devotes countless hours to working to fight the epidemic of human trafficking. They seem happy, and Geri and I couldn’t be happier, though their achievements are something we never thought about as we raised them.

We invested nothing in their future occupations, but everything in their futures.

What we tried to do (and I happen to think we’ve been successful) was make them into well-rounded intelligent adults who can think for themselves and who strive to do the right thing.

Geri’s grandmother, a bit of a nasty old woman, frequently reminded her that knowledge and manners were the two things that could never be taken away. She’s right, of course.

In the mid-1980s, graduates of Ivy League schools were being recruited left and right by Wall Street firms. But many of them had to first attend what were, for lack of a better term, finishing schools where they learned how to properly eat in public.

Setting a good example should be the first role of parenting because that is how we first learn: imitation. If a parent regularly holds the door for others, eats with their elbows off the table, and merely smiles when another driver fails to show a roadway courtesy, chances are good the kid will have the same approach.

If a child sees hatred in a parent’s eye, that child will grow up to embrace that same hatred.

We owe it to our children, ourselves, and the rest of humanity to teach kindness and love. And not define them by what they do, but who they are.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Deviled eggs

I have always loved deviled eggs—the simpler the better. Here’s a foolproof recipe.

6 large eggs
3/4 Tbs. mayonnaise
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
1 tsp. apple cider vinegar
Dash of Tabasco sauce
Sprinkle of paprika

After making a hole in the roundest part of the egg with a pushpin to release air pressure, lower the eggs into a pot of boiling water. Bring the water back to a gentle boil and let the eggs cook for ten minutes. Place the eggs in an ice bath to completely cool.

Peel the eggs, cut them half and remove the yolks to a mixing bowl. Mash the yolks and add the mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar, and Tabasco. Stuff the egg halves and sprinkle with paprika.

If I happen to wake up tomorrow—and there’s only mild speculation that I might not—I will be 70 years old.

That’s a relatively long time to have trod the earth on feet that have become numb by the onset of peripheral neuropathy. My treading has been reduced to a cane-assisted shuffle that gets me from room to room, house to car, car to the produce section at my local grocery store. And then repeated in reverse order.

How can a body part be numb and painful at the same time? I’m sure Doctor Google has the answer; I’ve just not bothered looking for it.

While this might be a good time to reflect on past accomplishments, I’d rather reflect on those things I chose happily not to accomplish, which are small accomplishments in and of themselves.

Skydiving, for instance, jumps to mind. I don’t see the need for such activity unless you must be dropped behind enemy lines to infiltrate enemy camps. It’s hardly a sport but it could be considered a death wish. I’m not particularly fond of flying, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to hurl myself out of a perfectly good plane with a parachute someone I don’t know has folded and packed. I’m not at all in that much of a hurry to hit the ground anyway, other than by using the ramp leading to the corridors of airports where food is more expensive than are automobiles.

Speaking of airplanes, I have never stood up before the plane has come to a complete stop at the gate and the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign. I’ve never understood the urgency to deplane. I’d rather sit for five minutes than stand in elbow-to-elbow aisle traffic.

Hot air balloons don’t do much for me either. I’ve never had the experience. My sister and I pooled some funds once to treat our mother to such a trip. When the gondola hit the ground, it tipped over, spilling the passengers onto the ground. Mom broke three ribs in what was an unhappy and awkward landing.

For similar reasons, I’ve never para-sailed. I’ve also chosen not to jump off a cliff and soar around as a human kite. Bungee jumping from a bridge over a river has no appeal. If I want a thrill, I’ll download some new music.

Unless inadvertently, I’ve never eaten bugs.

I’ve never gone ice fishing, which a dear friend once characterized as the “truly moronic sport,” that involves not eating bugs but keeping them warm nestled between gums and the lower lip.

Being claustrophobic, I’ve never ventured onto a submarine—not even the one at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. It’s not submerged, but I’ve never been able to imagine how terrified I’d be if that puppy broke its moorings and started drifting toward Alcatraz. (I couldn’t even sit still while watching Das Boot; I paced behind the couch for the entire 2 hours and 29 minutes of the movie.)

I’ve never purchased pre-torn clothing.

I’ve never tried synchronized diving. Actually, it was only last week that I first learned there was such a thing. It looked mildly ridiculous.

Although I maintain a list and frequently update it, I’ve never killed anybody.

I spent twenty-six years writing for Playboy, but I’ve never had a subscription.

I have not offered an opinion about Simone Biles, other than to note that she’s a gifted athlete. It’s none of my business—or anybody else’s, for that matter—how she conducts her career or her life.

Riding bicycles is something I did to go places when that was my only option. I’ve never traversed countless miles of back roads or challenged any mountain. I’ve also never gone running unless something or somebody was chasing me.

I’ve never climbed a mountain or scaled a wall of ice. The simple fact that “because they are there” doesn’t require any activity or participation on my part.

I have never tasted Spam.

I’ve never driven a race car or a motorcycle.

As an adult, I’ve never lived in a new house in which everything worked.

I am woefully out of step with pop culture and must rely on people half my age to tell me about it.

I have never owned an Elvis Presley record.

I have never seen a James Bond movie. Not one. And I only ever saw the first Star Wars movie, which I found to be a monumental waste of time.

Try as I have, I’ve sadly never been able to read more than three or four pages of James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake.” The same can be said about Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.”

While I’ve never cared much for celebrity, I do admire accomplishment.

Although I have apparently had twenty years of opportunity, I’ve never seen even a minute of whatever it is that the Kardashian people do. Why, I ask, would anybody possibly care?

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Italian Clam Soup

Long stands the argument about whether a savory liquid containing clams and vegetables is chowder or soup. If it were up to me (which it isn’t) I’d define a chowder as being cream-based—something a New Englander might crave for Friday lunch. For New Yorkers, who are inherently Italian without regard to their actual ethnic identity, it’s clam soup and its base is the quite ordinary tomato.

1 large can (51 oz.) SeaWatch clams
4 slices bacon, diced
4 cups chopped onions
2 cups chopped celery
1 cup red bell pepper
1-1/2 cups chopped carrots
3 Tbs. minced garlic
3-4 bay leaves
1 Tbs. dried oregano
1 tsp. dried thyme
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
2-1/1 lbs. potatoes, peeled and cubed
2 cups chicken or fish stock
3 cups diced tomatoes
1/4 cup chopped parsley

Strain the liquid from the clams and reserve.

Over medium-high heat, cook the bacon until crispy; add onions, celery, peppers and carrots, and cook for 10 minutes. Add garlic, bay leaves, oregano, thyme and red pepper, and cook another 2-3 minutes.

Turn heat to high and add potatoes, stock and reserved clam juice. Cover and bring to the boil. Cook at a brisk simmer until potatoes are tender (20 minutes). Add tomatoes and cook another 10-15 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in clams and parsley. Let sit for at least an hour and gently reheat to serve.

During my youthful stumbling around in search of a direction I might find for my life, I showed up one day at the University of Illinois in Champaign-Urbana. I hadn’t applied or filed any paperwork, but I had rented a small, barely off-campus apartment and I just assumed that the head of the percussion department at the school of music would take me on as a student after an audition.

I played some timpani, some xylophone, and some snare drum. We talked. It’s not entirely clear if it was my audition or my chutzpah that won him over, but the next thing I was across the Quad and writing a check to the registrar’s office to re-start my college career. I was twenty-two years old. It was 1973. Tuition was $400 per semester.

A declared music major, I studied percussion with Tom Siwe, music history with Stuart Smith, and composing under Herbert Brun, the Berlin-born, Jerusalem-educated pioneer in electronic composition whose vigorous intelligence perhaps would have equally served the philosophy department. He was vastly erudite—an iconoclastic figure whose opinions ranged from the arcane to the sublime. He died at 82, in 2000.

He was not a guy you’d talk with about the weather or the Cubs.

The class of twelve student composers met bi-weekly around a large conference table. We smoked cigarettes, drank bad coffee, and talked about everything except music, as I recall. He assumed, I believe, that each of us was proficient enough in music theory to compose something. He wanted us to find Euterpe through the exploration of ideas and intellect. The diminutive Mr. Brun led each discussion, typically by introducing an idea or concept that was meant to deeply challenge our minds and beliefs. Perhaps even to offend. Frequently, the subjects were focused on religion (Jewish-born, he was a devout atheist) and freedom. He fervently believed we had too much religion and that freedom could never be fully realized until religion was entirely out of the picture.

To paraphrase his introduction on the first day of class: If you have given yourself to religion, then that was the last decision you will ever have made because every future decision will be defined in accordance with a belief system that is defined by rigidity and the absolute. There is no freedom of thought, and therefore, no possibility to create—the activity of freedom.

Well, there was something to chew on.

I think the flaw in the professor’s argument is that he believed that an assumption of faith was a complete devotion to the tenets of any given religion. It was literally absolute, with no room for interpretation. That, of course, is not the case. The simple beliefs of Christianity have given rise to various movements that exact from the texts whatever it is that pleases the believer. By most standards, the behavior of many of our elected officials in recent years is not in sync with any agreeable moral standards.

Lying, cheating, stealing—pretty much looked down upon by most of us, even the non-believers.

My composing ambitions were sidelined after the first semester. While I certainly enjoyed our composition seminars, I was less-than-impressed with what work my fellow students were offering. And the good professor was not particularly impressed by mine.

At a new music recital to which I had contributed a short piece for eight percussionists, I was rather roundly chastised for laughing—out loud—at a composition that involved four or five Slinkys cascading their ways down a hollow interior door placed at a 45-degree angle to stage floor. Music is far more serious an endeavor than I afforded it.

I got much more emotional pleasure from John Cage’s formidable 4’33”, the four-and-a-half minute-plus composition that requires a pianist to not play the piano. I’ve also harbored thoughts that the Cage piece would make for an astounding encore after, for instance, a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. It would offer comedic relief.

Freedom has been loudly lauded during the last eighteen months or so—mostly having to with the perceived tyranny that mask mandates impose on those who find there to be no reason to be kind or considerate to their fellow citizens.

The internet is ablaze with those unable to breathe while wearing one. Obviously, they’ve never been intubated and put on life support. (For the record, I have been.)

They are also among those who believe that Marjorie Taylor Greene possesses a superior intellect over Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez (AOC), based on MTG’s theory that forest fires are deliberately set by Jewish tasers from outer space. They think T**** had the election stolen from him, that McConnell has the American people’s best interests in mind, that Gov. DeSantis is handling the COVID-19 crisis in Florida with aplomb, and that Michael Flynn, the former national security adviser, is within his rights to look for somebody in Washington, D.C. to shoot with his gifted AR-15.

Freedom, my friend Stephen, with whom I meet regularly to solve the problems of the world, is something he thinks might just be an illusion to all but the one percent. I think he might be right.

Freedom has perhaps become a commodity. If one is capable of buying justice, then one is free. My nephew is incarcerated in Colorado. His crimes against society began with a petty theft to support both a drug habit and his young family. Things got worse. He broke parole a few times and has been returned to a private, for-profit prison environment that offers no rehabilitation because recidivism is more profitable. Considering that Colorado is a three-strikes state, he is likely to spend much of the rest of his life in jail. He’s thirty-seven years old.

The concern is not for the criminal or the oppressed, it’s for the oppressor.

An incorrect assumption is to suggest a correlation between rights and freedom. Rights are afforded the citizenry through legislative action—and any of them may be rescinded at any time for any reason. Americans have certain safeguards in place, but we witnessed four years of constitutional erosion of those “rights” by a lopsided building of the Supreme Court makeup and a marked indifference to the Congress.

Freedom is the ability to be unencumbered by restriction and, at the same time, aware of the needs of others.

If one person is denied justice, then we all are. Humanity is our work, empathy our emotion.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Grilled Halibut

Halibut, the least fishy of the fish family, is readily adaptable to many treatments. This is how my family has enjoyed it for countless years.

Filet of halibut
1/2 C. mayonnaise
1 T. soy sauce
1 T. teriyaki sauce
1 T. Worcestershire sauce

Combine the last four ingredients and baste onto the fish. Grill until the flesh begins to flake. Serve with wild rice and buttered asparagus.

During the course of a long career in journalism and the countless hours spent standing in line at grocery stores, I’ve noticed some amazing and shocking headlines. Most of them have to do with Bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster, and Hillary having given birth to two-headed aliens.

One that topped an “adventure” story I once wrote for the National Enquirer heralded the fall of a window washer from a high-rise in Topeka or some place like that. A fairly short piece, the window washer who had fallen noted that he had found Jesus somewhere around the fourth or third floor. He lived.

But it was just a couple of weeks ago, I read the most shocking headline of them all: “The Rich Pay Fewer Taxes.”

How did that happen? And when? Why wasn’t I told?

After Herbert Hoover, the one-time humanitarian president best known as the “do-nothing” president, proved that the “trickle-down” economic theory produced no positive results for a nation during the Great Depression, FDR came along and raised taxes to fund the government programs that would help restore a robust economy. People went back to work—much of it focused on building an infrastructure and encouraging private enterprise. He focused on work, not relief.

Oh, and there was a war going on that demanded goods and sacrifice.

Most of FDR’s programs disappeared in the boom years following World War II, many of them replaced by a return to manufacturing and housing. The war machine was briefly put on hold and business taxes would reach a 90% rate. Those taxes could only be lessened by businesses actively investing in research, development, equipment, and employment.

It worked. Despite all odds, Joe Biden has embraced this same model.

The high tax rates helped build our interstate highways—highways that provided routes for delivery of goods and services—and underwrote public and private transportation in general (street, rail, air).

We became a prosperous nation. One 40-hour-a-week job was all it took to make a family’s living. A private home, a new car every couple of years, a two-week vacation to the beach, college for the kids—it was all doable on one income.

Although there was a stagnation of the economy during Gerald Ford’s term, it’s imaginable that following Nixon’s disastrous administration we could have ended up far worse. Jimmy Carter, perhaps the best ex-president we’ve ever had, at least slowed the war machine in his efforts to stabilize the economy. He now contributes his time to building houses for those in need.

And then along came Ronald Reagan, the B-movie actor, who systematically tore down a working country by kowtowing to his rich friends and dropping their tax rates. Reaganomics, a euphemism for “trickle-down theory,” instituted tax cuts, decreased social spending (his court appointees dismantled our mental health system, no doubt at his direction), increased military spending, and reduced market deregulation. It didn’t work in 1931 and Reagan only further proved the point with his own idiotic, selfish policies. A free-market economy does not exist when businesses are generously rewarded with subsidies, tax cuts and loopholes.

Mario Cuomo, the late governor of New York, described Reaganomics as being the crumbs from a rich man’s table that fall to the poor.

Our latest round of helping the rich get richer came from Trump, our national wart.

By allowing industry to regulate itself, ignoring the dire warnings of climate change, and making sure that three of the richest men in the world can compensate for their penis size by traveling to the edge of space and floating weightless for a minute or two wearing designer space suits by Ralph Lauren, Trump rewrote the American story.

It’s a sad story.

I’ve seen countless suggestions that this trio of miscreants should pay their taxes. The truth is, of course, that they do pay what is required of them to pay which, as it works out, is at a rate less than a minimum wage earner with three part-time jobs pays.

And that, kind readers, is what has become of our government. Our government taxes us to help them, capitalists with no moral conviction or courage.

A society that allows CEOs to make 600% more than its lowest paid employee is not one geared to accomplishing the basic rules of governance: peace, well-being, meaningful work, and opportunity. What the hell, toss in safety. The basic needs of people—food, health care, shelter—should not be considered a privilege reserved for the rich.

But then, I’m a bit of a pinko commie.

If, as a country, we were not able to provide basic human services, then so be it. But America is a rich country with access to extraordinary resources. Farmers have fallow fields, industries shuttered by out-sourcing employment to countries our government claims as enemies, labor unions busted by the likes of Amazon, Virgin Atlantic and Tesla. A nation built by slaves is reluctant to teach that part of our history. Land we stole from indigenous people is known about by few.

I have known several wealthy people in my life—most of them fine, upstanding folks. My closest friend in that mix seems unable to give his money away fast enough. He quietly puts kids through college, donates to every reasonable cause he hears of, hosts theater and symphony parties to encourage cultural awareness, and sits on the boards of what seems like scores of charities.

The mega-rich of the past—robber barons though they might have been—at least built libraries, museums and concert halls. They endowed scholarships and invested heavily in progressive industry and science.

Space flight might not have been an option for them, but to suggest that the few minutes spent soaring above the earth is some kind of “exploration” is an unfunny joke. For the two whose missions have so far been accomplished…they are what they are: really, really expensive carnival rides for selfish bastards.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Roast Greek Chicken

I love Greek food (Opa! Opa!) and this is as authentic as it gets. Pair it with a dry white wine and avoid retsina like the plague.

2 Tbs. olive oil
lemon juice from half a lemon
2 cloves garlic, pressed or minced
2 Tbs. fresh parsley, chopped
1 Tbs. dried oregano
1 tsp. dried dill
1 tsp. paprika
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. ground black pepper
2 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless

In a medium bowl, mix together olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, parsley, oregano, dill, paprika, salt, and pepper.
Place chicken breasts a large shallow bowl and pour the marinade over top. Toss chicken in the marinade to ensure that they are fully coated.
Cover the bowl with plastic cling wrap and place in the refrigerator for 1 hour, or overnight, to allow the chicken to marinate.
Heat oven to 450 F. Place chicken on a quarter sheet baking pan and bake for 20-25 minutes, until chicken is no longer pink inside and the internal temperature reaches 165 F in the thickest part of the chicken breast (as read on a meat thermometer).
Remove the chicken out of the oven and let it sit for 5 minutes. Serve warm with a side of Greek salad, pita bread, rice pilaf, and Greek lemon roasted potatoes. And don’t forget the tzatziki sauce

Where to begin?

As a nation we seem content with being uninformed, and for how much longer are we willing to be? We seem to be wallowing in an empty celebration of ignorance, turning our backs on fact and truth. Our history is what it is, and no amount of denial or revision will change that.

The philosopher, George Santayana, wisely noted that “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” And many Americans not only don’t remember, they refuse to even learn.

At its root, the subject of critical race theory (CRT)—history is what I prefer to call it—has as its detractors, racists denying 400 years of the suppression of Blacks—from the earliest days of slavery to the ongoing attempts to subvert the voting processes that has as their focus minorities, including the physically infirm. Twenty-eight laws in seventeen states suppressing voter rights have already been enacted, and even more loom on the horizon.

It seems likely that those who want to suppress the vote are those whose beliefs and politics are so out of touch with the public that they can’t get into office without cheating. There’s nothing scarier than a level playing field to those who won’t play by the rules.

And are we afraid that the truth will somehow hurt?

Of course it will. But it will also help.

If one is comfortable learning of the past, then one is probably not learning the truth. “Warts and all,” is an ageless expression to remind us of features or qualities that are not appealing or attractive. That, of course, embraces and defines the history of man.

Schools across the country continue to teach the mythology of Christopher Columbus while ignoring the fact that Native Americans were here to greet his landing parties. I grew up not knowing a thing about the massacres of indigenous people for the acquisition of land by white people. I remember being taught that General Custer was some kind of American hero when, in fact, he was the leader of a murderous incursion onto tribal lands. His “last stand” only reflects that he died in battle.

James Welch, the wonderful Native American poet and novelist, once told me that at the scene of the Battle of the Little Bighorn in southeast Montana one should take the walking tour from the outlined suggestion backwards, as it provides the view from an Indian perspective.

My great grandfather, James Naylor, was an attorney in Nebraska. I grew up hearing about what a wonderful and colorful character he was, how he fought for truth and justice, and died on the steps of the Custer County courthouse in Broken Bow after being shot by the brother of a victim whose killer he was defending.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

He was an anti-abolitionist who served time in various Iowa locations for his criminal activities. His father-in-law, Frank Morgan, was an Indian hunter who he greatly admired for his “patriotic” acts. Although he was, in fact, an attorney, Judge, as he was called, died in a hotel room of alcoholic poisoning—leaving behind a wife and three small children. One of those children, my maternal grandfather, concocted his father’s myth to an end whose purpose I don’t understand.

Hiding behind fake history offers no lessons or insights except to reveal quite a bit about the person who created the falsehoods.

I’ve always found it curious to listen to those who believe in reincarnation. They seem to always believe that their past lives included being part of royalty or some struggle that resulted in new-found freedoms. Nobody ever suggests the likelihood that they were just digging up potatoes for some royal family or dying as a foot soldier in some insignificant battle.

Obviously, there is no shortage of people willing to offer “alternative” facts. It might make them feel better about themselves—although that seems unlikely—or to just support an unpopular view.

The Trump administration has been the most discredited in American history. And yet, there is a wide base of voters who refuse to acknowledge that he and his cohorts worked to destroy our democracy through his actions and inactions. While I wish that the authors of recent books had spoken more loudly during his time in office, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. There was plenty of honest reporting during his tenure, unless you count Fox News.

In addition to wanting to stifle historical fact, there is also no shortage of people who want to control what books can be offered in schools and libraries. It would make sense to me that those people read the books they want banned, rather than censor them. Books provide untold opportunities of exploration—from travel to ideas to fantasy and creative glimpses of the future.

When asked what course of study to follow to allow for a career in psychology, Rollo May, an American existential psychologist, and author of the influential book “Love and Will” (1969), said to major in literature. There is no true human condition that hasn’t been explored and detailed in what is known as fiction.

Turning our backs to the truth takes nothing but fear. Welcoming the truth takes courage.

Again, Rollo May: “It is dangerous to know, but it is more dangerous not to know.”

Or, put another way, the past doesn’t scare me; an uninformed future does.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

INSALATA RUSSA – RUSSIAN SALAD

This is a rather elaborate salad, but perfect as a lunch—served with some crusty baguette.

Makes: 6-8 servings

about 1 c. mayonnaise
1 c. frozen peas
4 oz. string beans
2 carrots, sliced
2 medium potatoes, diced
2 Tbs. capers
salt and pepper to taste
3 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
1-2 Tbs. red wine vinegar
2-3 hard-cooked eggs, sliced
1 can of tuna, well drained

Trim and wash the string beans. Fill a large saucepan two-thirds with water. Bring water to a boil, add salt and the string beans, carrots, and potatoes. Cook 5-8 mins over high heat, test string beans and carrots and remove when tender but still firm. Set them to drain and cool in a colander. Cook potatoes an additional 10 to 15 minutes or until tender. Remove from water and let all vegetables cool a bit. Meanwhile in a separate saucepan heat water and cook peas until tender. Drain and cool.

Place diced vegetables in a large bowl. Add half of the capers and all of the peas. Add the tuna. Season with salt and pepper. Add the oil and vinegar; mix carefully until blended. Taste and adjust salad for seasonings.

Gently mix in 1/2 cup of mayonnaise. Keep adding more mayonnaise until all of the vegetables are well covered in mayonnaise without them seeming to be swimming in it.

At this point, using the back of your spoon press the salad gently to flatten out the top and compress ingredients into the bowl. Cover and refrigerate several hours or overnight. To serve you can turn the salad over onto a platter, it should keep the shape of the bowl or you can leave it in the bowl. Garnish with the remaining capers and slices of hard-cooked eggs. Serve slightly chilled.

This essay first appeared in the Park County Weekly in August 1997. It still seems funny.

Now that the weather appears to be almost summer-like, my wife, Geri, is out zooming around town in her Mustang convertible, driving in what seems to me to be in neither a reasonable nor prudent manner. (For the record, she disagrees with my assessment.)

Geri knows enough about cars and their inner workings that at once upon a time would not have even been considered proper. I learned this about her on our first date, when she told me about her car: “It’s a ’71 Mustang convertible with a 351 Cleveland engine—a racing Pantera—with a factory-installed Hurst tranny.”

She actually said “tranny.” I was too proud to ask what a “tranny” might be.

Geri’s idea of car travel is to aim in the general direction of where she wants to go and slma the gas pedal all the way to the floorboard, not letting up until she arrives at her destination. The Legislature was singing Geri’s song when it said, in not so few words, “Go for it!”

I have altogether different philosophy of driving that results in my having to pack a lunch if I leave for the 26-mile distant Bozeman any time after 9:00 a.m. I’ve actually had friends complain about speed driving up the Valley. “It’s not a school zone, pal,” one was so rude to say.

Despite all of that, I have been in charge of all of our cars’ maintenance, which is as unapt as Geri, the Irish lass, being put in charge of dinner. My idea of maintenance usually involves my opening the hood, looking down at all that metallic stuff that blocks the view to the surface below, and somberly announcing, “I think it needs to go the shop.”

My diagnoses are always met with, “Just check the fluids, dipstick.”

Many years ago we were driving a Dodge Caravan through Utah when the car stalled and died on the side of a country road. It magically started an hour later, and we drove another hour until it stalled and died again. Again, it magically started, and we drove on for another hour. This annoying pattern repeated itself until we arrived in Nephi.

It was a Sunday, and it was 104 degrees.

I wandered around the truck stop looking for somebody with admirably dirty hands. The guy I found responded to my tale of woe by shouting at me: “Fuel filter! Replace it!”

I could more easily perform an appendectomy, I remember thinking.

A car parts store guy with admirably dirty hands delivered a new fuel filter, but didn’t offer to spend the rest of the afternoon changing it for me. And so I began: I crawled under the car, located the old one, took it off, discovered the wonder of having a gallon or so of gasoline pour directly onto my face, and then gave my young children their first exposure to some really nasty words in a loud, clear voice.

I was afraid to light a cigarette for three days, lest the gas fumes lingering about my face ignite.

We got as far as Provo, following our new driving protocol—an hour on, an hour off.

I had a friend in Los Angeles, who I’ll call Dale, which seems only fitting since that was his name. He might have been the real-life role model for the original MacGyver, a mid-’80s television program that co-starred a roll of duct tape. Dale was as serious a car guy as one could be, even going so far as banning his family from the house each Memorial Day so he could drink Scotch and watch the Indy 500 in peace. I called him and explained our situation.

“Vapor lock,” he said with such conviction that I could picture him in his STP cap. “Got any wooden clothespins?”

“Of course,” I lied, although I could see from the telephone booth a store that would sell them.

“Clip one every four inches along the fuel line. It’ll take the heat out of the line and you won’t vapor lock.”
The next morning we made it to Layton, about an hour away. We waited the perfunctory hour and drove to a dealership.

“Fuel pump,” a young mechanic announced. As the van went up on the lift, he noticed the fifty-four clothespins grasping the fuel line. He called over the other mechanics in the shop and they all started pointing and laughing at the sight, offering no sympathy even after listening to my sad story.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Sausage & Cabbage

1 lb. kielbasa smoked sausage
1 1/2 tbsps olive oil, divided
1 medium onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 medium head cabbage, cored and chopped into 1-inch pieces (about 2 lbs)
3/4 tsp. kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp. red wine vinegar

Halve the kielbasa lengthwise and then slice it into 1/2-inch pieces. Heat a large deep skillet or dutch oven over medium heat. Add 1/2 Tbs. oil and the kielbasa. Toss to coat and then cook until browned, about 3 minutes per side. Transfer the kielbasa to a plate.
Return the pan to the stove and reduce the heat to medium low. Add the remaining tablespoon of oil and the onion. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion has softened. Add the garlic, cabbage, salt, and pepper. Toss well to combine. Cover and cook, stirring every 4-5 minutes until the cabbage is wilted, about 12 minutes.