Journal

The first pitch of the Major League Baseball 2023 season will be thrown out at 1:05 p.m. ET on Thursday, March 30. At that very moment there will be the slightest shift of the earth’s axis, thereby offering balance, meaning and alignment of a universe on the cusp of madness. For those who find solace in a game played on a (mostly) grassy field, that sense of awe and wonder will last until the last out of the World Series sometime in October.

Then is the onset of the winter of our discontent.

During much of those nearly eight months of America’s pastime, another sport will take place on sandlots and ball fields across the country every Saturday morning. Based loosely on a vague concept of baseball, tee-ball was created sometime in the 1950s by any number of people claiming credit. It was meant to introduce 4- to 7-year-olds to the fundamentals of baseball, thereby preparing them for a lifetime of athletic achievement and a possible career in the Bigs.

Tee-ball is frequently mentioned by professional ballplayers and credited with providing that first steppingstone to HOF immortality.

Actually, that’s not true. Most ballplayers would prefer not to recall the personal embarrassment of participating in an activity that is as humiliating to the participants as it is entertaining to the audiences. Seriously. Even people without children in the game seek out opportunities to attend such festivities, although we can never be too sure that’s why. Nothing delivers laughs at a kid’s expense better than tee-ball—from the crack of a bat that sends the ball dribbling seven inches away from home plate to the awkward cry of “what do I do now?”

With fans of each team screaming directions to the kids, the base runner makes it to the right field foul pole while the opponents toss the ball around the infield with no specific design or purpose. At the end of this three-and-a-half minute exhibition of ineptitude, the play ends with tears and jeers.

The kids don’t seem to care, but the parents are walking that thin line that separates pride and embarrassment. All is right with the world, especially in left field where the entire outfield, the pitcher (who has no official duties in tee-ball) and the shortstop have gathered to perform cartwheels and pick dandelions.

While not quite qualifying as an actual sport, it is a game whose rules are tossed to the wind at the opening shout of “Play Ball!” by an umpire whose role is suspect.

Now that everybody gets to play the game without gender considerations, I fear tee-ball might not be so entertaining.

My kids played on gender-specific teams, i.e., boys and girls. The port-a-potty wasn’t, however. Parents of kids born in the 1980s didn’t care about those things back then. The right-wing evangelical movement was restricted to a few counties in the Deep South where paid actors faked illnesses to raise money for whoever owned the revivalist tent. In California and Texas, there were religious movements based on psychedelics or automatic weapons. As you might well imagine, it was the ones with the guns who wanted separate bathrooms.

I contend that 5-year-old girls tee-ball is the greatest spectator sport on the planet. I even have a couple of cockamamie theories about why that might be.

From the get-go girls have little exposure to baseball. The answer from a little girl about watching a game with Dad on television is the same as Dad’s answer might be to attend a tea party with a pair of stuffed animals. For boys, the invite to watch a game on television with Dad beats doing yard work with Dad; fathers will gleefully enjoy any activities with their sons because those activities typically employ knives, fire, and pictures of Richard Nixon.

If it’s true that “girls just wanna have fun” (with their dads), I’d suggest low-grade explosives.

Exposure to baseball for boys usually begins in their having their first mitt while still in the crib. This early indoctrination (the unforgettable, permeating smell of neat’s-foot oil) helps the fathers live out pro careers that eluded them through their sons. This rarely works out.

The first mitts given to girls are those that were used in high school by their fathers. They’re usually the same size as their torsos and need two hands to lift. If they lift them too high over their heads, the weight will knock them over backwards.

“Dat’s funny,” as the comics say.

Although girls will grow up to be women who don’t lack any particular sense of direction, as five-year-olds they haven’t a clue. That infield dribbler will inspire them to run anywhere but first base—third is the most popular, followed by a quick jaunt to the pitcher’s mound for a hug from their best friend: the opposing pitcher.

It’s difficult to imagine why hitting a teed-up ball is so difficult. There it is: a stationary object positioned just above the waistline. After several whiffs over the top and a few thwacks at the tee itself, the young player is finally able send the ball foul. That doesn’t stop the batter from becoming a runner, unless she is physically stopped by a coach who intercepts and carries her back to the batter’s box.

I was never too involved in tee-ball. I preferred to sit somewhere along the first-base line in a folding chair. Geri, of course, would join me along with most of our neighborhood friends. We’d drink a un-oaked Chardonnay and munch on crisp apple slices dipped in baked brie with plums.

For eight or nine Saturdays in a row, we were in baseball heaven. Sorta.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Baked Brie with Plums

1 Tbs. Butter
2 Tbs. Brown Sugar
2 plums, pitted
1 Tbs. orange juice
1/2 tsp fresh rosemary, chopped
salt
15 oz. brie

Heat oven to 400 degrees.
Thinly slice the plums.
Melt butter in small pan and add sugar, plums, and orange juice. Cook and stir until sugar melts and juice begins to thicken, about 10 minutes.
Add rosemary and a pinch of salt.
Remove from heat and let cool 5 minutes.
Slice rind of one side of brie and place cut side up on an oven-safe plate or platter.
Arrange plums and juices on top of Brie and bake for 10 – 15 minutes.
Serve with sliced apples or toast.

It was just a few weeks ago that I got my Pandemic Haircut. My almost-shoulder-length gray locks fell unceremoniously to the floor with the skilled snip of scissors, each snip sapping me of whatever strength I might have had, vis a vis Samson.

The untamed hair bodes ill of me. And not to slip too far into the grips of the Diogenes Syndrome, I realized that some new clothes might be in order. Although I wasn’t refusing food or sleeping under staircases, for the last three years I have worn three sweatshirts in rotation. Hardly stylish, I should note.

I am not a fan of fashion as it carries in its meaning a sense of fleeting. I am a fan of style, however, most of it as defined by its lasting nature. I doubt that a blue blazer and khakis, blue shirt and club tie, will ever fall out of favor with men not wishing to attract much attention to their wardrobe.

Working as a writer at a large marketing firm in Los Angeles, I once wore the above outfit. It was on a Friday, though casual Friday had to become a thing. Rather, it was just a sartorial change from the previous four days of wearing three-piece suits. My boss greeted me that morning with “Going yachting, are we?”

I played music professionally from an early age and by the time I was a sophomore in high school I had outgrown four tuxedos. Later, I went to a small college where we were required to wear a jacket and tie, which we found to be a challenge to wear in outrageous combinations. When we closed the college down in 1970, it was de rigueur to wear jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts to all of our pre-revolution events.

My seventeen years in Los Angeles were my suit years. Day-in and day-out, I donned some really nice suits, and I didn’t mind in the least to do so. It was curious, however, that the suitcoat would be worn from front door to the car, where it would be removed for the drive across town. Then it would be worn from the parking garage to the office, where it would hang over the back of a chair until it was time to go home. No wonder there was a time when suits came with two pairs of pants.

Among my dozen or so suits, I had two favorites. One was forest green; the other a rumpled khaki that I fancied made me look like a tall, blond Peter Falk.

Moving to Montana thirty years ago ushered in a middle age- and dotage-satisfying wardrobe of jeans and whatever might go with them, depending mostly on the weather. During the twelve years of owning my restaurant, Adagio, I rented my clothes.

This past week or so, I thought it was time for a change.

I spend my days at a desk, and I thought it would be nice to emulate Philip Rahv, whose picture in The New York Times before his death in 1973 has remained clearly in my mind. An American literary critic and essayist, the Ukraine-born Rahv co-founded Partisan Review, one of the most influential literary periodicals in the first half of the twentieth century. He is something of my literary hero and the picture of him at his desk wearing a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves and a loosened necktie seems perfect.

I have an assortment of ties, although I doubt if I’ll wear any of them for my days at my home office. But, I discovered, I have no dress shirts.

My search for dress shirts online was less than satisfying. There are about a million sources for dress shirts on the internet, ranging in price from steep to steeper. There are more choices than I remember: button-down, flared collar, slim-fit, full-fit, regular, neck and sleeve sizes to meet the needs of any man. And colors. Lots of colors and patterns.

From what I remember, we had button-down shirts in regular or husky, in white, blue or yellow. Nobody complained that I know of.

A trip to the big city the other day gave me a wide selection of shirts. They all cost in the neighborhood of $60, although there were $200 models. Nothing will convince me how one shirt could be worth $140 more. And I’m barely convinced that a shirt should cost $60.

But then again, I noticed a pair of pre-torn blue jeans priced at $79.99. For that kind of money I’d like to make my own holes.

Because buying clothing online doesn’t offer any tactile sense, the manufacturers are left to claims created by ad agencies or marketing firms. A pair of $170 jeans becomes “legendary,” as they seem to throw down the consumer gauntlet to buy those pants and become a legend.

Another challenge, this time for an expensive shirt, is multifaceted: “Make a statement in this pure cotton shirt that is both trendy and masculine. Enjoy this blend of versatile and cool! [It is the] sexy boyfriend shirt.”

Back at the department store, I splurged and settled on three, Oxford cloth dress shirts that are nice looking without suggesting my being a slave to fashion. They are still in the bag unopened, their pins and thin strips of cardboard neatly in place.

Meanwhile, I’m wearing a sweatshirt.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Marrow Bones

While not a dish for everyone (a diner at my restaurant once found the dish to be “disturbing”) marrow is delicious, especially adorned with the parsley salad.

8 center-cut beef marrow bones, 3 inches long
1 cup roughly chopped fresh parsley
2 shallots, thinly sliced
2 tsp. capers
1 1/2 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
2 tsp. fresh lemon juice
Coarse sea salt
Thick slices of crusty bread, toasted

Heat oven to 450 degrees. Put bones, cut side up, on a foil-lined baking sheet. Cook until marrow is soft and has begun to separate from the bone, about 15 minutes. (Stop cooking before marrow begins to drizzle out.)

Meanwhile, combine parsley, shallots and capers in small bowl. Just before bones are ready, whisk together olive oil and lemon juice and drizzle dressing over parsley mixture until leaves are just coated. Put roasted bones, parsley salad, salt and toast on a large plate.

To serve, scoop out marrow, spread on toast, sprinkle with salt and top with parsley salad.

It’s that time of year to feature my annual rants and raves about American fast food—that drive-thru, eat-in-the-car phenomena that has become a defining part of our national food culture.

Actually, this is the first time I’ll have written about fast food in this format. But something that claims to be an annual event lends credence to the exercise. It also demonstrates staying power and longevity, as well as a certain authority about the subject.

That having been said, I don’t care much for fast food, although I’ll admit to my craving a Big Mac every year or so. From a nutritional standpoint, fast food is not very good for you. It’s generously described as being mostly empty calories with enough sugar content to provide a foothold for the onset of diabetes. The fact that much of it is quite tasty is what, I suppose, keeps customers making it a part of their regular diet.

There have been stories about people who eat nothing but fast food for a year. Then they die. It’s a good bet that there is a causal connection there.

All that is what distinguishes fast food from broccoli. Broccoli is high in every vitamin and mineral known to mankind. So what? It tastes bad in any of its guises: in casseroles, as a side, or in a salad. It’s difficult to cook. In most cases, the stalk stays firm while the florets turn to mush. And it is guaranteed to be cold by the time it gets to the table.

Cauliflower shares many of the same qualities. The main difference is that lab technicians have figured out ways to make pizza crusts from cauliflower. Those responsible for this heinous act should be drawn and quartered before they figure out a way to make crusts from broccoli.

As nutritionally sound as broccoli and cauliflower are, if that’s all you ate for a year you’d die by your own hand.

I’ve had some fast food adventures in recent weeks. They were out of necessity. While we used the drive-thru and ate in the car, the car was not in motion. We found parking spots that offered panoramic views of parking lots and big-box stores.

We ate at Wendy’s one day at lunchtime. The line of cars wrapped around the building at least once. Wendy’s distinguishes itself from the other fast-food joints by using square beef patties in its burger offerings. It’s a mystery as to why the meat is square but not the bun. Go figure.

McDonald’s beef patties are round. Their burgers—adorned with lettuce, onion and tomato, ketchup and mustard—taste pretty much like Wendy’s burgers. I’ve concluded that the shape of the burger is irrelevant.

Burger King’s beef patties are traditionally round. They are charbroiled, which makes them less greasy and gives them more flavor than those cooked on a griddle or in a microwave oven.

I got sick after eating at an Arby’s in Thousand Oaks, California. But the real reason I won’t eat at Arby’s is that the guy with the thundering “We’ve got the meats” scares me. I’ve heard that their milkshakes are really good. I don’t like milkshakes.

I ate at a Subway sandwich shop once. Their “foot-longs” aren’t that long, and they are mostly bread.

At about the same time as Glen Bell was opening his flagship Taco Bell in Downey, California, my Uncle Joe, the flamboyant Sicilian physician, opened El Adobe in Westchester, Illinois. The food was good at El Adobe, but it didn’t quite catch on. People in suburban Chicago didn’t know about Mexican food back then. Southern Californians did.

That year, 1962, also saw the low price of corn syrup drop the costs of soft drinks considerably. Two years later, high-fructose corn syrup was created, and food and soft drink products used it as both sweetener and preservative.

There was great excitement when word got out that our little town was getting a Taco Bell. I don’t find it to my liking at all. It’s too greasy for my tastes and nothing about it compares favorably to the street food I’ve enjoyed in Mexico, even it was dog or pony meat. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

McDonald’s used to have the best fries anywhere. That was when the fries were cooked in beef suet, which gave them their distinctive taste. The Micky D execs caved to the demands of vegetarians and the fries are now deep fried in vegetable oil. They’re not as good.

For my money, the best burgers come from In-N-Out Burger, a local chain based in California with stores mostly in the Southwest. Their fries are so-so. Back in the day, my dear friend Jörg and I used to get In-N-Out burgers and McDonald’s fries. We’d wash it down with a Bohemia beer for what we thought was an ideal lunch.

Once, I went to a Long John Silver’s. I had the “Big Catch,” and it was quite good. The Center for Science in the Public Interest, a nutrition and health policy watchdog group, named Long John Silver’s “Big Catch” meal the worst restaurant meal in America, noting that it contained 33 grams of trans fat, 19 grams of saturated fat, 1,320 calories, and almost 3,700 milligrams of sodium.

No wonder it tasted so good. All that was missing was bacon.

It’s plausible to think that same formula for a heart attack is used at Popeyes, a self-described Cajun restaurant. I had some kind of combination meal that involved chicken and popcorn shrimp. It was awful, probably the worst fast food I’ve ever had.

For the same reasons I won’t go to Hobby Lobby, I won’t go to Chick-fil-A. Ever.

I long for the fast foods of Chicago. Portillo’s offers a hot dog that rivals those at the concession stands at Wrigley Field. And Al’s Beef, where hoagie rolls are stuffed with roast beef and dipped in au jus. Both are to die for. Or from.

Whatever.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Nightmare Tomatoes

The first time I served this simple salad, two of our dinner guests called to say they had been tortured all night with nightmares. Is there any higher praise?

Roma tomatoes, sliced
3-4 garlic cloves per tomato slice, thinly sliced
Extra virgin olive oil
Salt

Generously salt the tomatoes. Scatter the garlic over the tomatoes. Pour over the oil and let stand for one hour. Serve. Sweet dreams.

There are a variety of indications that I’m at yet another awkward age. I’m old enough not to give a damn about whoever might be offended at some off-handed comment I may make. I care even less about reactions to comments I make that I’ve thought long and hard about.

Awkward moments have occurred.

I’m not sure if this latest condition includes anything physical. I shuffle along due to the neuropathy that has taken up residence in my legs. Shuffling might not be part of the awkward age, but turning to my left certainly is. (I don’t like to turn to my right for political reasons.)

All of our friends’ children are grown up, pursuing their careers as baristas and starting their own families in homes they cannot afford. To many of those, years ago, I provided suggestions pertaining to their collegiate futures. This advice was usually unsolicited and widely ignored, but that didn’t even slow me down, let alone stop me. I harangued them with my visions of higher education garnered from my own experiences at two different colleges. I wanted them to avoid the pitfalls I found along the way.

And now I find myself in advisory limbo: One generation past college, with the next generation too young to consider their academic futures. I’m eager to advise the grandchildren and as soon as they look up from their devices, I will.

In this week’s edition of The New Yorker, Nathan Heller, a staff writer since 2013, goes into excruciating detail in his article, “The End of the English Major.” Armed with a ream of statistics and a slurry of anecdotes, Heller offers a keen analysis of why college students are leaving the humanities—in droves—for placement in hard-core studies that seem to bode well for singular scholarship and big paychecks from industry.

He also addresses the monetization of curricula geared to job placement, typically from such academic disciplines like business, engineering and hard sciences.

While there certainly is room for such an approach to education, I don’t believe it should be done at the expense of a well-integrated program of liberal arts, from which a “major” can be constructed.

Schools habitually point to career achievements of their alumni. These bragging rights help bring in the money to fund brick-and-mortar facilities, as well as programs in various disciplines. Few graduates whose academic focus was Victor Hugo, are storming the halls of Wall Street. They are not joining the ranks of the MBAs whose familiarity with Hugo might be limited to having heard the soundtrack from Les Miz.

I happen to have several friends in academia and several other professions who are academically well-rounded—their interests broad and varied. I suspect, since most of them are roughly my age, that they attended college when a required core curriculum introduced them to literature, history, social sciences, art and music. That requirement, as I understand it, has lessened, allowing more classroom time for a student’s declared interest and less time for the humanities. There are good arguments for both, although I’d like to note that Richard Feynman, the Nobel Prize-winning physicist, was a virtuoso bongo player.

It is my firm belief that a liberal arts education is what college-bound students should pursue. The average college student changes majors with great frequency, so often, in fact, that most students can’t earn a degree in the once-standard four years. Both medicine and the law require an undergraduate degree in something before admittance to the advanced program. A vigorous course of studies in the humanities builds a good foundation for whatever may follow. (I knew three music majors who went on to law school.)

This was what I preached to my children. One studied theater; the other went to a maritime academy and became a ship’s captain.

There are no doubt thousands of students who are determined to focus on a single discipline. I would guess that such a commitment is mostly in the arts by students seeking only the wealth of the exploration of expression.

As a freshman in college, I pursued with equal enthusiasm music and philosophy. At my next attempt, I might as well have been a literature major since that, upon reflection, made up for at least half my course load. The rest was in philosophy, history and economics. After learning that I was lacking an acceptable language credit for a degree, I scrambled around and found myself earning a Bachelor’s degree in journalism, which had no language requirement.

By designing my studies in such a way that mostly bowed to my interests, I avoided science and math. Time I might have spent in a chemistry lab—recreating experiments long proven—would have been a complete waste. I’ve always believed that survey courses in both the natural and hard sciences would be more than sufficient to make sure every college graduate in the humanities had a working knowledge of how things appear and work.

By the same token, business majors and biologists should be required to study, albeit briefly, literature, art history and music appreciation.

It’s my sense that such an approach to higher education would turn out classes of graduates who had been exposed to a maximum of educational opportunities.

Besides, the downward curve of learning doesn’t preclude the ability of one to be trained.

Stove-top artistry by Courtney A. Liska

Ramen

As far as I know, ramen noodles had yet to be invented when I went to college. Well, I’m sure they had been, but they had yet to reach the grocery-store shelves in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois. Now, of course, college students live on them, except when they’re having pizza or are dunking their Oreos in cheap beer.

In honor of this blog celebrating my views on college curricula, I am suggesting that we all have some ramen. It’s cheap (about 50 cents per package) and takes only three minutes to cook. They come in a variety of flavors, all of which, I assume, are enhanced with any number of artificial things and chemicals that originally were used to clean chlorine sediment from the sides of swimming pools. (Actually, I don’t know what’s in them because not even bifocals will allow me to read the package.)

Anyway, boil some water and soak the noodles. Turn on an old movie, crank up the stereo, and start again reading Victor Hugo. All at once. Welcome back to college.

For my money, Miles City, Montana, has little to recommend it. With its alternating mottos—“Less Meth than Glendive” and “Only 110 miles to North Dakota”—this eastern Montana hamlet is a dusty town in the middle of badlands that was once the country’s center of horse trading. It still has an auction and the annual Bucking Horse Sale, where rodeo people buy stock that will challenge any rider to stay atop for eight seconds.

There’s also the Cowtown BBQ Cookoff and, according to Tripadvisor, of the top ten things to do in Miles City, two involve going to church.

Like all small towns in the west there is a favorite cafe where regulars sit in their usual places and stare down out-of-towners. There are more cowboy hats than baseball caps at the 600 Café, a decidedly Republican joint with both table and counter service. It is known for its deep-fried side pork that looks menacingly from the plate on which it’s served. Along with fried eggs, hashbrowns, and homemade biscuits and gravy, it is a breakfast guaranteed to leave measurable plaque deposits in one’s veins.

Greg Kmetz, the first-term Legislator in the Montana House, is a Republican of the once-rogue nature. He has thus far sponsored bills that would 1) Revise laws to protect religious expression for students and teachers; 2) Revise laws related to religious materials and prayer in schools; and, 3) Repeal licensing of hucksters.

I’m not sure what Kmetz means by the term “huckster.” I think of it as a small-time peddler who sells objects of little value. Sort a role model for Donald Trump, writ large. I also didn’t know that peddlers could even be licensed in Montana.

And now Rep. Kmetz wants to make it easier for these people to ply their trades. Snake oil, anybody?

He is also the sponsor of HB645, a bill whose passage would penalize folks in Montana vaccinated against COVID-19 who knowingly donate blood, tissue, organs, etc. Also anyone who knowingly uses, receives, transports, ships, etc., said blood. So we now see that Kmetz is a QAnon theorist and self-described Christian who is frequently awakened by images of Bill Gates implanting little things in our genes.

I have issues with everything he endorses, especially the whole blood and tissue donations. In the course of three major surgeries in five days a few years back, I received twenty-two units of blood. They saved my life. Period. I’m assuming that the blood donors were probably vaccinated against any number of childhood maladies. I’m glad, and I’m not in the least worried about what might have been transferred to me.

A fear of modern medical science should not permeate political beliefs.

Although Kmetz has yet to weigh in on House Bill 359, sponsored by Rep. Braxton Mitchell, R-Columbia Falls, I’ll bet that the banning of drag performances in public schools, libraries and public properties “in any location” when a minor is present, is within his wheelhouse. Republicans have become modern-day Victorians who worry that somebody somewhere is having a good time.

I’ve been to a couple of drag shows that were great fun. They weren’t in public spaces, and I don’t recall any children being there. I’ve watched a little of Ru Paul, whom I find faintly ridiculous, but am inspired to help my grandkids find great Halloween costumes. I’ve also been to a few strip shows, including the ones for which I played drums in Cleveland. Boom-ba-da-boom!

I’m assuming that most of the state’s Republican lawmakers are eagerly looking forward to banning books that may not be to their liking. If we had an electorate that was capable of critical thinking and had been exposed to the entire and accurate history of the United States, we’d not have a Republican in office–especially those really nasty ones who constantly remind the American people that they are the party of Lincoln.

We seem to be at a critical juncture in our history, although that might be true at any juncture.

Florida’s governor Ron DeSantis is single-handedly dismantling the educational opportunities in The Sunshine State. Books are disappearing from school shelves at a rapid pace and Black history is being revised to reflect a sense that slavery wasn’t altogether a bad thing.

DeSantis is a “new age” Republican in that he embraces the ideals of the Far Right and has been remarkably quiet in support of Ukraine. A student of Putin autocracy, DeSantis is akin to Trump but smarter, and is therefore far more dangerous.

It’s curious to note that Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, published 138 years ago, changed the course of children’s literature in the United States with its “deeply felt portrayal of boyhood.” It is also known for its colorful descriptions of people and places along the Mississippi River and is an often scathing satire on entrenched attitudes, particularly racism and freedom…

Got to keep that one out of children’s hands. They might discover truths on its pages.

And while we’re at it, we desperately need to make sure that our children don’t see Robin Williams in “The Bird Cage” or “Mrs. Doubtfire.”

Dangerous stuff. Or so the Republicans might make us think.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Biscuits

Heat oven to 425 degrees

2 cups flour (sifted)
1 Tablespoon Baking Powder
1 Tablespoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup milk
3/4 stick of butter (cold)

Mix dry ingredients together
Grate or chop the cold butter into small pieces
Add milk and butter to the flour
Knead into a ball
Roll or pat dough to 1/4 ”
Fold in 1/2 and do that 2 more times
Cut into circles and place on a buttered cookie sheet 1″ apart
Bake for 12-15 minutes

My first attempt at college was marked by some serious fun and balanced by serious efforts to end the Vietnam war. In between were tucked educational pursuits that were both challenging and rewarding.

I started my college career in the fall of 1969 at a small liberal arts school just outside of Cleveland. My arrival coincided with a fire that blazed wickedly on the surface of the Cayahoga River. Although I lacked much of a scientific background, I knew instinctively that water shouldn’t burn. At that time the river lacked much water, its content being mostly flammable liquids from petroleum and other chemical spills. This led to my own awareness of environmentalism, mere months before the first Earth Day.

With the war raging on, campuses around the country were shutting down—administrations caving to the demands of student bodies. My college was one of the schools that did so in early spring of 1970. In the long run, the student demonstrations and riots seemed only to heighten awareness of the ill-wrought situation in southeast Asia. That may have been enough though.

When I wasn’t busy trying to end a war, bring justice for all and plumb the depths of medieval philosophy, I was having great fun.

The summer before I started college I worked in the underground. Sewers, actually. I got a job with the town’s water department cleaning sewers. It was a shitty job that somebody had to do.

When I left the sewers and headed to the burning river, I liberated a water main wrench. I just knew that I would find a good use for it in my new hometown.

I did.

I worked alone in my occasional pranks of turning off the water in large sectors of the town. I chose the hour of 6:30 a.m., that time when most working families were headed to the bathroom to perform their morning toilette. They were also brewing the coffee that would allow them to fully awaken to face the day. Having their water turned off was an unexpected and unpleasant surprise. Frantic calls to the town’s water department were met with the department employees dumbstruck. It took several hours (I maintained a vigil throughout the process of discovery) to find the source of the problem.

Over the course of several months, I inconvenienced people with this simple prank on four or five occasions. It was quite fun.

It was during that time that I discovered the joys of Ronsonol Lighter Fuel. Far beyond my use of it to refill the Zippo lighter I used to light my Camel non-filters, I discovered that you could dowse your hands with the stuff and light them without burning your flesh. This had no practical use, per se, but at a time when many students were experimenting with psychedelic drugs, the sight of someone with their hands on fire was rather freaky.

I only lived in a dorm for a few weeks, and I never met the elderly lady who lived alone in an apartment near the front door. She was the dorm mother or something. Nobody knew her or knew why she was there. We did know that at exactly 5:30 p.m. she would open the door of her apartment to go to dinner at the student cafeteria across the street.

It took a few practice runs, but I discovered I could create a large pool of lighter fluid in front of her door and create a trail of the stuff for some 12 feet or so away. It worked like a charm. I set a match to the trail and as she opened her door the pool ignited into an impressive blast. Nobody saw her for three or four days.

By now, I had enlisted a couple of guys to help in my exploits—one of which included the daily removal of the plaque commemorating the construction of a new administration building. The school finally hired a guard to protect the plaque until the mortar set.

The Coke machine at the dorm featured bottled sodas. If you sneaked a girl into your room, it was up to you to hang a necktie around the doorknob. This told your roommate to stay away and told the rest of us to create havoc. We would silently build a wall of empty bottles in the frame of the door and thread the necktie through the sculpture. When the girl would leave, the wall of bottles collapsed noisily, allowing all of us to come out to see who the girl was.

One of us merry pranksters of suburban Cleveland had some scientific ability. I was thinking about him when the Chinese spy balloon wafted across the skies above America a couple of weeks ago. Why we blasted it to shreds with expensive anti-aircraft weaponry will remain a mystery. It was a balloon and a simple round or two with a .45 would have brought the thing down intact. Eventually.

My science-guy friend showed us how to create a hot air balloon using a couple of strips of balsa wood, four candles, some string, and a pillowcase. We launched a few of them. Although they probably never attained an altitude of even a hundred feet, they were visible to the pilots and passengers on their approach to Cleveland Hopkins Airport. Police were called. Fortunately for us, all of the evidence had drifted away.

Those were vastly different times. Nobody ordered the Air Force to shoot down our pillowcases.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Creamy Potato Soup
More comfort food for the coming snow.

6 cups (about 5) peeled, diced Russet potatoes
1 chopped yellow onion
3 medium carrots, peeled and diced
2 stalks diced celery
4 cups chicken stock
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1/3 cup butter
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
2 1/2 cups milk
1/2 cup sour cream

Combine diced potatoes, carrots, celery and onions with chicken broth in a large stockpot. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover pot and bring to a boil over medium-high heat, reduce heat to medium and continue to cook about 15-20 minutes longer until potatoes are very soft when pierced with a fork.

Meanwhile, in a medium saucepan melt butter over medium heat, add flour and cook for 1 minute while whisking constantly. While whisking, slowly add milk and cook, stirring constantly until mixture begins lightly bubble and thicken. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Once potatoes are soft add thickened milk mixture. Add sour cream and mix well. Top each serving with bacon or ham, cheddar cheese and green onions.

It was just the other day that I read, in The New York Times no less, that Brad Pitt will be cheering for the Kansas City Chiefs in this afternoon’s Super Bowl. That, along with his devilish good looks, is something we just happen to have in common. (Had I managed to develop any acting skills, that could have been me in the backseat of Thelma and Louise’s 1966 convertible Thunderbird.)

Mr. Pitt grew up in Missouri and is, by default, a Chiefs fan. I’ll be pulling for the Chiefs because I’m a Bears fan. As a Bears fan, it is my responsibility to find another team to support sometime after the third game of the regular season. That’s usually the time frame in which it becomes mathematically impossible for the Bears to even have a winning season, let alone an appearance in the playoffs.

For the record, it should be noted that the Bears won the Super Bowl in 1985. Later that year I met Jim McMahon, the team’s quarterback, at the Playboy Mansion. He struck me as an pompous, arrogant ass—sort of how I imagine Tom Brady.

I chose the Chiefs this year for several reasons. In 1999, my son and I stayed in a hotel in Kansas City that offered a bird’s eye view of Arrowhead Stadium. That is as much as it takes to declare allegiance to a football team. However, it was baseball season and so we went to Kauffman Stadium, which is just a parking lot away, to watch the Kansas City Royals rout the Chicago Cubs in an inter-league game.

While Kansas City, Missouri, has sports, Kansas City, Kansas, has museums commemorating the wartime aviation, the blues, and the Negro Baseball Leagues. Both cities are fine places to visit.

The main reason I’ll be cheering the Chiefs this afternoon is Patrick Mahomes. He’s a stellar athlete with a sense of play to complement his commanding control of the game. Personable and friendly, he seems the opposite of McMahon.

But enough about football, a sport that regularly features concussions, torn ACLs, and spinal cord injuries.

The Super Bowl is a showcase for clever advertising of products ranging from luxury cars and pickup trucks to alcohol and snack chips. The afternoon’s main themes are dips. Avocado, beans, tomatoes, cheese, sour cream, and artichokes all blend with other foodstuffs which are consumed with any number of chip and crackers. Fritos, Lays and Tostitos own the day with their salty, crisp goodness that helps fuel beer consumption.

There is also a vegetable tray that is widely ignored.

Chili is a major player on Super Bowl Sunday. It’s the only food that gets a bowl and a plastic spoon. The other stuff doesn’t even get a plate, resulting in participants holding the dipped stuff—including wings—on a cocktail napkin that, when saturated with dips, needs to be disposed of. That, of course, means the eater loses his or her place in front of the 92-inch television screen.

I used to be too late to claim a good seat at the Super Bowl party we used to attend. It was because I was at the film festival that was held in our town. It was six or eight films shown on Sunday afternoons in the dead of winter. Frequently, the films didn’t end until well into the second quarter of the Super Bowl.

The film festival showcased movies that were, to say the least, obscure and unlikely to be shown in any theater. One of the films I remember best was called Patata. It was an Italian, black-and-white film about an impoverished family trying to grow potatoes in the volcanic ash at the base of Mt. Etna in Sicily.

Deeply compelling, none of my friends at the Super Bowl party cared to listen to my recap of the movie. I was even called at least one uncomplimentary name for my expressing an interest in the fine arts.

But there’s more to Super Bowl Sunday than just food, drink and a perfunctory nod to the game itself. There’s the half-time show.

An extravagant spectacle of pre-recorded songs, the half-time show typically features pop artists who dangle over the stage from massive cranes. There are usually 800 dancers who have learned to lip-sync the lyrics to the three or four hit tunes. There is usually a band.

Unless there’s a wardrobe malfunction, the most interesting thing about the half-time show is wondering how the crew can set up the stage and then tear it down in time for the second half. That’s a side story I’d pay money to watch.

To make sure the audience doesn’t wander too far from the television arena in search of Pepto Bismol, there is the promise of the annual Budweiser commercial following the half-time show. That, of course, might not take occur until the middle of the fourth quarter. Most everybody loves the Budweiser commercial, even if they find the beer itself to be watery and tasteless. Who, after all, doesn’t shed a tear or two at the sight of a Clydesdale and a Beagle rubbing noses in the middle of a dirt road?

There is some alternative programming set for today. There’s always the “Puppy Bowl,” in which several cute puppies do cute puppy things while Patti Page sings “(How Much Is That) Doggie in the Window.” There’s also the “Fish Bowl,” in which guppies and the sort swim around rather aimlessly. This is a show for stoners and requires a healthy supply of Hostess products.

Sadly, for some, “The Kitten Bowl” has been cancelled this year to make room for “The Great American Rescue Bowl.” Hosted by George Santos, the Jerry Lewis MDA-like telethon, will solicit funds to help starving and mistreated animals. At the end of the show, Santos absconds with all the money.

Photography and food styling by Courtney A. Liska

Beef-and-Cheese Nachos

Heat oven to 350°.

On a baking sheet, evenly spread an entire bag of tortilla chips.
Squeeze the juice of one lime over the chips.

Layer Mexican-style cheese over chips, followed by a layer of shredded beef. Spread one can of refried beans (heated) on top. Then add another layer of cheese, another layer of shredded beef and more cheese. Top with diced tomatoes, onions, jalapenos, and sliced black olives.

Bake until the cheese is thoroughly melted (15-25 minutes). Serve with guacamole and sour cream.

Imagine my surprise one day a couple of weeks ago to learn that the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) was considering a proposal to set a maximum of the amount of lead found in baby foods.

“Considering?” Wait a minute. “Maximum?”

What the FDA issued was a “draft guidance” which would not be mandatory for food manufacturers to abide by.

That alone reminded me of traffic lights in Italy, which seem optional if you’re riding in a taxi in Rome.

No less a publication than The New York Times issued this grim story lede on January 24: “The Food and Drug Administration on Tuesday proposed maximum limits for the amount of lead in baby foods like mashed fruits and vegetables and dry cereals, after years of studies revealed that many processed products contained levels known to pose a risk of neurological and developmental impairment.”

The simple fact is that lead is a neurotoxin, and no amount of it is safe.

We’ve known about this since 1922 when the U.S. Public Health Service warned of the dangers of lead production and leaded fuel. These precautionary warnings went unheeded for more than 50 years.

Those very same dangers were repeated in the use of leaded gasoline until 1973, the year the United States started its withdrawal from leaded gas. That was in conjunction with the development of catalytic converters (leaded gas destroys them) in 1978. By the mid-’80s, most gasoline used in the U.S. was unleaded, although leaded gasoline for passenger cars wasn’t fully banned in the U.S. until 1996. By then, leaded gas was gone from your neighborhood gas station. (Today, leaded fuel can be used only in aircraft and off-road vehicles.)

Within that same time frame, the government addressed the issue of lead in paint. Used to help quickly dry the paint, the additive dates back to paints in the 14th century. Exposure to high levels of lead may cause anemia, weakness, and kidney and brain damage. Studies have also shown a drop in IQ. Very high lead exposure can cause death.

Banned from household paints in 1977, it is still available for some commercial uses, as well as those paints used to paint highway and parking lot stripes. If your house dates before 1978, it is likely that lead is on your walls, just like asbestos is likely to be found in tile and linoleum floors. This is also when the use of lead paint in toys and furniture was banned in the United States.

We’ve long known that the consumption of crumbling paint with lead is a danger to children. Lead is actually sweet tasting, so children, once exposed to it, will continue to enjoy its taste. Consumption, as opposed to mere exposure, also hurries the lead’s effect.

Not remarkably, crumbling wall paint is more likely to appear in homes awash in poverty, thus demonstrating an historical increase among urban Blacks.

Many years ago, my then-teenaged son and I got invited to go snake hunting on a south-facing mountain slope outside of town. The snakes we have in Montana are prairie rattlers, and our hunt did not include any killing. Instead, our leader in this adventure would disturb the sanctity of a snake den with a prod. As the snakes emerged from their rock shelter, he’d pick them up—sometimes two at a time—and then, after having made close eye contact with each of them, he’d playfully toss them at my and my son’s feet. We slowly worked our ways down the hillside until our host mistook a snake den for the home of several skunks, many of which doused our friend with their inimitable scent.

My son just shook his head at this fiasco, no doubt questioning my choice of so-called adult friends.

“Do you think he ate a lot of paint chips as a child?” my son asked.

“Maybe,” I answered, adding, “probably.”

My friend could trace his heritage to Gaelic beginnings. Immigrants to the US in the mid-1800s, they settled in Appalachia, taking up religious practices that included faith healing and snake handling. They also ran successful moonshine operations in the area’s backwoods. It was his history he competed with, beating out only the faith part.

We’ll never know if his Appalachian childhood home had paint peeling from its walls.

The fact that we know about the dangers of lead in fuel and paint, should have been enough to inform us that oral consumption of lead from commercial baby foods might be a bad thing. Babies eat baby food and babies, during this particular time of their lives, are at their most vigorous times of development. Basically, most organs (including the brain) and the entire nervous system are most vulnerable to attack by this insidious poison.

The idea that the FDA is toying around with the health and safety of our children is an abomination.

The FDA should abandon all its subsidized studies and immediately serve each manufacturer with cease-and-desist orders to stop production until they can come into compliance with that “draft guidance.”

IQ points are dropping away with each jar of pureed squash. As a nation, we can’t afford that.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Baked Acorn Squash

I was pleasantly surprised to find some acorn squash at my local market last week. This is a wonderful side dish with pork roast or lamb. My favorite topping, added at the end of cooking, is cranberries.

2 medium acorn squash
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil, divided
¼ teaspoon fine salt

Heat the oven to 400° and line a large, rimmed baking sheet with parchment paper.
Cut the squash in half from tip to the stem. Scoop out the seeds and stringy bits inside, and discard.
Place the squash halves cut side up on the parchment-lined pan. Drizzle the olive oil over the squash, and sprinkle with the salt.
Bake until the squash flesh is very easily pierced through by a fork, about 30 to 45 minutes depending on the size of your squash. Add any desired toppings, and serve warm.

With projections by the U.S. Department of Agriculture that eggs will reach a record high of $37 a dozen by Easter, many Americans are foolishly planning to raise chickens. That same group of Americans, concerned that a 24-ounce caramel, creme de menthe, white chocolate powder, butterscotch, English toffee, peppermint, and white coffee will soon cost $79.50, are considering buying their own coffee plantations in South America or Jamaica.

These people tend to be like the stars of Hallmark Channel movies in which highly motivated, successful businesspeople in New York give up their lavish, Park Avenue lifestyles to become florists or cupcake decorators in dinky towns that celebrate every Christian holiday with fruitcakes and covered dishes.

I once fancied myself a chicken farmer. I was in the fifth grade.

My family had deserted the concrete jungle that was (is) the West Side of Chicago for an idyllic plot of farmland featuring waves of tall grasses that could only remind one of Walt Whitman in one of his more romantic moods.

Although our family “farm” wasn’t all that big, it was potentially big enough to install a commercial operation that would give Tyson a run for its money.

I had no notions of such grandeur. In fact, I had never thought about chickens or eggs unless I was about to eat them. What happened was that in the back pages of Boys Life magazine was an advertisement promising untold riches from raising chickens. I was intrigued and I had in hand the three cereal box tops and $3 cash in took to get, if memory serves, three dozen baby chicks. It might well have been four.

After sending off the remittance, I forgot about the chickens. Of course I failed to mention them to my parents.

My mother rarely greeted me from the front porch as I made my way from the school bus. When she did, it was likely that I had done something terribly wrong. One spring day, I saw my mother standing on the front porch. “There’s a package for you on the back stoop,” she said, her voice in an agitated state. “My chickens!” I shouted.

I ran to the back of the house and sure enough, there were three pallets of squeaking yellow chicks. I tore open the packaging and soon the little birds were running frantically around, pecking at the ground and each other. As I recall, it was quite exciting and amusing.

And then I noticed that my father had arrived on the scene. He was less amused than my mother. He ordered me into his car, and drove me to the library where I spent the next few hours reading about chickens.

I don’t remember much about that research assignment. What I do remember is that chickens tend to stay near the first place they learned was their new home—in this case under the clothesline right outside the back door our of house. I also observed that my chickens are nasty little animals that used to scurry about my mother and attack her ankles. She didn’t care for that.

I used to strew a mixture of grains about the yard twice a day. When the grain was consumed, the chickens would spend the time before their next feeding pecking madly at the ground in search of insects and worms.

I learned that it is a long time before baby chicks will grow old enough to start laying eggs, and that’s only after encounters with roosters. I’m not exactly sure how that works, although I have always been intrigued that in Pennsylvania—it has been rumored that there is an actual law on the books prohibiting men from having sex with chickens. I assume that such activity was prevalent enough to cause the legislature to take action.

From my experience with chickens, they’re not very cuddly and one would not want to try to kiss one. They lose their cuteness in a matter of weeks.

At some point, we had plans to build a coop and fence in a part of the yard in which they could live. That’s when the work begins. Their floors must be kept brushed of droppings and the use of semi-automatic feeders and water dispensers become necessary. As chicken farmers, we never got that far. When chicks had grown to about eight inches in height, my father, early one Saturday morning, told me to get rid of the chickens. “Today,” he added.

We had an old Ford station wagon and, using a broad aluminum scoop, I shoveled the chickens into the back. I then drove to the houses of legitimate chicken farmers and donated to their cause. In five or six trips, we were chicken-free and my mother felt safe to return to drying the family’s clothes outside.

The only evidence of there ever having been chickens was a few shed feathers. And poop. Lots of poop.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Risotto milanese

One of my favorite dishes, we frequently will have this as a main course. I also like to add fresh, chopped mushrooms sauteed during the final steps.

5 1/2 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade
1/2 cup dry white wine
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 cups arborio rice
Pinch of saffron threads
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

In a medium saucepan, bring the chicken stock to a simmer; keep warm. In a large saucepan, heat the olive oil. Add the shallot, season with salt and pepper and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the rice and cook for 1 minute, stirring to thoroughly coat. Crumble the saffron into the wine and add it to the rice. Cook, stirring, until the wine is absorbed. Add 1 cup of the warm stock and cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly, until nearly absorbed. Continue adding the stock 1/2 cup at a time, stirring constantly, until it is nearly absorbed between additions. The risotto is done when the rice is al dente and suspended in a thick, creamy sauce, about 20 minutes total. Season the risotto with salt and pepper. Stir in the cheese, butter and parsley and serve immediately.

There is a daily barrage of imbecilic surveys my computer coughs up. Somebody, somewhere wants to know my least favorite vegetable, my earliest television memory, the first LP I paid for with my own money or the name of the first girl I ever kissed.

I don’t participate in those surveys as I’m suspicious that my answers might create something that will lead to somebody gaining access to my MasterCard account. Since I’ve yet to be hacked as far as I know, I feel safe in answering the questions posed above here: Broccoli, the assassination of John F. Kennedy, “The Shape of Jazz to Come” by Ornette Coleman, and Evelyn (we were in kindergarten).

My coffee mate was attracted to one of these surveys that asked to name airline companies you’ve flown that no longer exist. He thought of Braniff International, a Texas-based carrier that ceased operations in 1982. While never a passenger on Braniff that I can recall, I have flown on Continental, Pan Am, TWA and North Central, the latter of which had a “Herman the duck” logo painted on its tail.

In the 1960s, North Central flew daily round-trip flights from Chicago’s O’Hare to Traverse City, Michigan. The plane it flew was a Convair 440, a twin engine plane whose passengers loaded from the ground and pulled themselves up the steeply tilted aisle. I remember the flights as being slow and bumpy. On one such flight was Allen Funt, founder of the popular television show, “Candid Camera.” We were worried that he was surreptitiously filming something we might have been doing.

Like my friend, I didn’t complete the on-line survey. I was satisfied just with the conjuring of memories.

Another survey question I saw intrigued me even more: “If you were to know the day you were going to die, how and with whom would you spend your last day?”

The question presumes that I will be well enough on my last day to actually do something. In all reality, I’m not particularly healthy enough to do much of anything today. (Dying, I should note, is not on my schedule for tomorrow.) Chances are pretty good that when my time comes, I’ll be strapped to a bed and tethered with any number of tubes.

But I’ll go along with the game and pretend that my last action on earth will involve my breaking the tape in my first, last and only marathon.

But before the starter’s pistol is fired, I will have spent the entire twenty-four previous hours pursuing any number of activities—most of which involve food and wine. I shall not waste even a moment of that time sleeping.

I will insist that my family accompany me on my last day on earth. They are what is most important to me throughout my life, and I want to share with them the activities of my last day. I only wish that I could experience their presumed sorrow. But who knows, maybe I will.

I don’t know where on earth I will take my last breath. I’m hoping it will be in Italy or France.

If Italy is the spot, I want to enjoy espresso in the morning. There is none better. Lunch should be a simple pasta with a boar ragu; an aged Brunello would be a fine accompaniment. If in France, it is a café au lait and a croissant with jam to start the day. Lunch will be steamed mussels and sole meuniere. A full-bodied Viognier would be brilliant.

At some point during the day I will spend an hour or so calling old friends to tell them of my coming demise. “We’ll not talk again,” I’ll say. “Tell me a secret I can take to my grave.”

I wouldn’t mind taking in a Cubs game at Wrigley Field or hearing some live jazz in a New York nightclub. I’m pretty sure I would spend a little time with my books, each of which brings me to recall those moments in my life when I spent reading them. Others are left unread and will remain so.

The original question can’t be answered because only those awaiting execution know that precise time they will die. They’ll likely spend the day before doing nothing different than many other days before.

I don’t know that I would want to know the answer to the question.

Some things are better left unknown.

Photo artistry by Courtney A. Liska

Roast duck (Pečená kachna)

My maternal grandmother was a terrific cook. Roast duck was one of her specialties. Braised red cabbage and bread dumplings should round out the meal.

1 whole duck, 5-6 lbs.
1 Tbs. kosher salt
2 tsp. whole caraway seeds

Rinse the duck well under cold running water. Dry with paper towels. Cut the wings off.
Salt generously on all sides. Pour the salt into the belly cavity as well. Rub the caraway seeds into the skin of the duck.
Put the wings in the bottom of the roasting pan. Place the duck on top of them, breast side down. Cover the pan with a lid and place it in a preheated oven at 325 °F for 2 hours.
After two hours, remove the lid from the roasting dish, turn the duck breast side up. Increase the temperature to 375°F and let the duck roast until a crispy crust forms on the surface. This takes about half an hour.