Journal

There are two kinds of people in this world: Dog people and cat people. Three, if you count ferret or hamster people, which I don’t.

While you can have both cats and dogs in your domicile, you can pay allegiance to only one. Dogs will offer their allegiance to you no matter how many cats you might have. Cats don’t really care about you unless you’re opening a can of tuna.

I am a dog guy. There are many reasons for this that my therapist and I are working on. One issue might be control. Another might be that if a cat doesn’t much like me, why should I like it?

Geri and I each brought a dog into our marriage. Her dog, Kona, was a pure white, husky-lab mix whose favorite food was salad and whose mood was exuberant, bordering on ultra-exuberant. My dog, Sappho, was a Cairn terrier who was sweet in her own mean-spirited way. They co-existed warily, though Sappho was clearly in charge.

And then there was a weekend getaway to San Luis Obispo County. After dinner at A J Spurs Saloon & Dining Hall in Templeton, we returned to our motel in Paso Robles. It was dark. I could hear a faint meow. It came from near the dumpsters. I approached it gingerly, reaching out to find a tiny kitten, apparently abandoned or lost.

We took the shivering little kitten into our room. I left to find it some food and when I returned it was obvious that by then we had a cat.

We named her Bird, after the jazz saxophonist Charlie Parker, and knew right away that we had to find her a playmate, which we did. We named him Dizzy.

The four of them and the two of us got along just fine. The dogs had a big backyard to play in, though they kept trying to dig their ways out from under the tall wood fence. The cats stayed in the house we had rented—a single-story, four-room cinder block structure painted brown. We called it the Bomb Shelter. The cats seemed happy to sleep on the back of the sofa or on the windowsill, from which they could watch our neighbor’s dogs escape from his backyard to come play at our house. At that point they would hide until they heard one of us open a can of tuna.

After a couple of years in the Bomb Shelter, we moved two blocks away into our own Bomb Shelter. It was painted blue, and had two more rooms than the first one did. And there we were—the six of us. Soon there were seven, with Sappho refusing to stray more than four feet away from Courtney and growling menacingly at anybody who dared to venture near her. When Daniel came along, we moved to a large suburban house with a block-enclosed backyard about the size of a postage stamp. It had a lemon tree.

By then, Sappho had died. We went to the shelter near our new house and adopted Trusty, a golden retriever-type who years later Tim Cahill thought bore a striking resemblance to Bertrand Russell, the British philosopher and historian. Tim made Trusty famous when he detailed her near-death experience and subsequent brain damage in Outside magazine.

But before Trusty’s fifteen minutes of fame, we acquired Pongo, a purebred dalmatian who was tortured by the kid next door. He would pelt Pongo with lemons from our tree. At his first opportunity, Pongo lunged at the kid and bit him on the arm. His mother insisted the dog be destroyed, despite his being vaccinated.

And then came Aja, a mixed-breed dog that knew no boundaries. He could escape from any enclosure, or over any fence. On his first day at our house, he ate the bathroom’s walls and woodwork.

We all made it to Montana. The brain-damaged Trusty would stare intently at a piece of cellophane that fluttered when the refrigerator’s condenser kicked on. In our backyard, she’d contemplate a single leaf for hours. Aja continued his Houdini behavior, for which we’d have to bail him out of doggy jail. As if life wasn’t complicated enough, we got OP, a beagle/Shar-Pei mix who was born with fewer brain cells than Trusty had. During the fifteen years we had OP, it seemed she was never even sure of her name.

Somewhere during all of this, we acquired a cat we named Gypsy. Bird and Dizzy just left the house—at different times—and never returned. Another cat for whom everybody seemed to have a different name came to live with us. She had been cruelly dosed with LSD and her entire existence seemed like an endless Grateful Dead song.

Then there was Buddy, the bichon frise who was the best dog I’ve ever had. When he died, we got Beau, a blind little dog whose shrill barking is relentless. To keep Beau company, we got Romeo, a silky terrier who spends much of his time hiding toys and leading the blind dog into walls and furniture. Romeo is a bit of a jackass.

When the kids moved in, they brought two large dogs and two cats with them. Micco is a sweet border collie who suffers from an inferiority complex. He readily accepts blame for anything that happens, which makes me think he might be Jewish. His partner in crime is a blue heeler, Kitchi, whose frequent vocalizations are an eerie cross between a hyena and Yoko Ono.

Cottonwood is a sweet cat whose days are numbered due to feline leukemia. He spends his days sitting on the dining room table.

And then there is Mușcă, a clumsy cat that is about the size of an SUV. He is kind of a dirty blond cat who frequently misses landing on whatever surface he has chosen for a perch. He knocks over stuff, falls down, and frequently awakens me when he annoys Romeo, who starts barking at the annoyance. It seems that I can’t go anywhere in the house without Mușcă, which is Romanian for bite, racing in front of me and slowing down to make me slow down. He has figured out that Beau is blind and he likes to attack him.

Mușcă has realized I’m a dog person and he’s making me pay.

And I’m re-thinking the whole ferret/hamster thing.

Photo Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Greek Rice

I have always loved Greek cuisine, dating back to my childhood when my family would dine at Diana’s Grocery on South Halsted Street on Chicago’s West Side. This recipe works well as a side dish to chicken or fish.

1 1/2 tbsp extra virgin oil (or butter)
1 clove garlic, minced
½ onion, finely chopped
1-1/2 cups long grain white rice (uncooked)
1-1/4 cups chicken broth
1 cup water
1 large lemon (1 tsp. zest and 3-4 Tbs. juice)
3 Tbs. finely chopped parsley
1-1/2 Tbs. dried oregano
Salt and pepper

Heat oil over medium heat in large saucepan or small pot.
Add garlic and onion. Cook for 5 minutes or until translucent.
Add rice and stir until rice turns mostly translucent.
Add broth and water. Place lid on, bring to simmer then turn heat down to low.
Cook for 12 minutes or until water is evaporated.
Remove from stove and rest for 10 minutes (keep the lid on).
Remove lid. stir in lemon zest, lemon juice and herbs. Season with salt and pepper.

Warning: Some of the following content is graphic and disturbing. There is also a heavy use of italics. You may wish to ask your children to leave the room.

I recently endured a disease called C. diff. It is called that because not even medical professionals can pronounce its real name: Clostridioides difficile. It’s a Latin name that suggests that whatever Clostridioides is, it is difficult, which is true. It’s also highly contagious under certain circumstances that are unspeakable, even in impolite company.

It is a germ (bacterium) that causes severe diarrhea and colitis, which is an inflammation of the colon. If you get it, you should simply move into a bathroom until it’s run its course. Once it has, you still have a one-in-six chance of getting it again, unless you’re over sixty-five, in which case you have a one-in-eleven chance that you won’t see your next birthday.

I am one of the estimated half-million Americans infected by the germ each year, which made me particularly happy to say good riddance to 2021.

There are interesting treatments for C. diff, mostly involving antibiotics different from the antibiotics you might have taken that might have caused the infection in the first place. (Note: Medicine is not an exact science.) I had a pill-form antibiotic for six weeks or so before switching to a liquid antibiotic for another six weeks.

After three months of my living in a bathroom and seeing very few friends, it was determined that a third process might be effective. Imagine, if you will, your own reaction to a doctor telling you that you needed a stool installation—slang for fecal microbiota transplant—which frequently causes the recipient to take on some of the traits of the donor. Geri suggested that I might emerge from the procedure as either a “Valley Girl or a Rasta.”

This is a disturbing process that involves a colonoscopy with an added twist: poop from strangers you’re glad you don’t know because who really wants to know people who spend part of their time contributing to a poop bank. There’s not even a magazine or video to inspire them.

After my telling the hospital staff that I wasn’t used to taking shit from anybody, the doctor told me that the success rate for the transplant was about eighty percent. He was enthusiastic about this statistic until I asked if he would get on an airplane that had only an eighty percent chance of landing safely.

I believe I took the wind out of his sails.

A colonoscopy is a deeply invasive procedure which involves anesthesia and a tiny camera mounted on a caterpillar-like tube that snakes through the intestine looking for polyps and seeds from hamburger buns. In my case, they were adding to the mix, so to speak.

I had my first colonoscopy some forty years ago, mainly because my father’s side of the family—Bohemians who refused to eat fiber—had a history of colon cancer. (When a cousin of mine died of a brain aneurysm, my father proudly noted that we were moving up.) Forty years ago, a colonoscopy did not include an anesthetic. It did, however, involve several rounds of Fleet enemas, about twenty-eight feet of garden hose, and a snickering nurse. The procedure hurt like hell. That memory is what made me roll the dice with colon cancer.

I beat the odds, so far.

What led to all this began with a collapsed lung just after my sixty-first birthday. I should have seen it as an omen.

After several procedures and eighteen months of antibiotics to ward off Mycobacterium kansasii, Latin for “tiny germs that might come from Topeka,” I was in need of a lobectomy, a surgery that involves the lopping off of the top-third of a lung and hoping that no heinous disease moves into the space.

There are several steps involved in a surgery, starting with somebody with a clipboard asking if you’ve had any of the at least seven-hundred diseases known to currently exist. After a couple of hours, the last question was posed: “Do you have any suicidal thoughts.”

“No more than usual,” I answered, grinning.

Not even a smile. Her reaction was merely to start scribbling frantically in the margins of the questionnaire.

Soon after came pre-op. Lots of people, me included, suffer from manic depression and a need to face our fears with humor, frequently quite dark.

When the anesthesiologist asked if I’d ever had an epidural, I informed her that I had had both of our children naturally. Not even a smile.

The surgeon, after using a Sharpie to make an “X” on the right side of my torso to make sure he wouldn’t take out the wrong lung, told me that this operation was routine.

“Maybe for you,” I retorted. Sort of a smile.

Then I asked what would become of that part of the lung they were removing. He wondered why and I told him about the wonderful lung soup my grandmother made. He gagged.

“I’m pretty sure it was made with a cow’s lung,” I assured him.

Once inside the operating room, a rather sterile place with bright lights, I asked them to turn off the country music and play something classical. Then they transferred me from the gurney to the operating table just like they do on television. Then they took my right arm and placed it on a board, palm up.

Growing drowsy, I asked if that was when they drove in the nail.

These people had no sense of humor, but a keen sense of vengeance. I vaguely remember them replacing Mozart with Hank Williams. I woke up with Hey Good Lookin’ stuck in my head.

When I had my gall bladder removed, a nurse asked me I wanted to keep it—a question along the lines of “would you like hot tar poured up your nose?” I had already lost pieces of my ribs and a third of a lung, and I told her to send it over the mortuary where I had a lay-away account.

During Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur I stay moderately kosher. On one Yom Kippur, I was admitted early on that most holy day on the Jewish calendar to the hospital for something or other. They asked for my dinner order, which I would use to break my fast. Please, I asked them, no pork and not before sundown.

I was growing hungry and was wondering where my dinner was. It finally came at the same time most Hawaiians were sitting down with bowls of poi.

The next day, Geri called in my breakfast order. It included bacon.

The dietician told her they had orders to not serve me pork, and that I only ate in the dark.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ginger Chicken with Peaches

This is a delightful recipe for chicken that is slightly sweet and peppery.

½ pound hard peaches
1 pound chicken thighs
2 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
2 Tbs. dry sherry, or white wine or dry vermouth
2 Tbs. chopped fresh basil
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 (1-inch) piece fresh ginger root, grated
½ tsp. kosher salt
½ tsp. black pepper
Rice, for serving

Heat oven to 400°. Halve the peaches, remove pits, and slice fruit 1/2 inch thick.
In a roasting pan, toss all ingredients except 1 tablespoon of the basil. Roast until meat is cooked through and peaches are softened, about 20-25 minutes. Garnish with remaining basil. Serve with rice and crusty bread for sopping.

Pithy little adages about our inhabiting the planet include “No one gets out of here alive” and “You can’t take it with you.” There are probably more, though the ones mentioned here have become titles for movies.

The first, of course, alludes to the reality that mortality is what awaits a life, what signals its observable end. The second suggests that generosity is more admirable a trait than one displayed by the most parsimonious. That second adage refers to a wealth usually measured in dollars.

But what does go with the deceased is the promise of more of whatever gifts the recently departed offered while alive.

For that reason, I’d like to suggest that there are those who—for any number of reasons—should be granted immortality. And many more for whom I have no room. Their contributions to the arts, culture and science should not have ceased by the mere loss of breath.

Betty White, the comedic actress who died Friday, leaps to mind as my first nominee. Just eighteen days shy of her 100th birthday, she delighted her audiences with a wit and warmth that spoke to generations, making young and old alike smile, if not downright guffaw. Beginning in the late-1930s, she lent her considerable talents to radio, television and film. From all indications, she seemed to be casting for another project, another show, maybe even Robert Redford. Age would not stand in her way. If she had only ever appeared on The Mary Tyler Moore Show and The Golden Girls, her legacy would have been secured, her immortality guaranteed.

Dizzy Gillespie comes next. It was an honor to have known him and a privilege to have listened to his music over multiple decades. He was an innovator, helping, as it were, to create bebop along with Charlie “Bird” Parker, Thelonious Monk and Kenny Clarke, among countless others. Diz could have spent a career living off the laurels of the bebop jazz genre, but he was a restless soul whose musical vocabulary knew no bounds, including his embrace of Latin rhythms. With his bent-bell trumpet and ballooning cheeks, Dizzy was a serious musician with a great sense of obligation to entertain the audiences he faced around the world.

Science-fiction is a literary genre that I have never much appreciated. Although I’ve read the de rigueur pieces by C.S. Lewis, Isaac Asimov and Robert Heinlein, nothing ever grabbed me. Part of it had to do with the lack of character development; the other part with fantastical events and developments I could not embrace. That all changed with Kurt Vonnegut, the author of such masterpieces as Cat’s Cradle (1963) and Welcome to the Monkey House (1968). Slaughterhouse Five (1969), though barely sci-fi, nonetheless captured my attention with his arguments against war, that so poignantly related to the Vietnam war. I would have loved to have read his take on the Trump era.

Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert Francis Kennedy held the future of this country in their hands before assassins felled them and deprived us of that future in 1968. Both believed in justice, and both fought uphill battles to convince others that it was our duty and obligation to see to the well-being of others, and to understand that racism was a systemic plague in the United States. How different, I often wonder, would our world be had they survived the bullets of hatred.

Marie Curie was a Polish and naturalized-French physicist and chemist who conducted pioneering research on radioactivity. She was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize, the first person and the only woman to win the Nobel Prize twice, and the only person to win the prize in two scientific fields. Her second Nobel Prize was in chemistry for her discovery of the elements polonium and radium, using techniques she invented for isolating radioactive isotopes. It’s difficult to image where her intellect and curiosity would have led her, but we might suggest that she alone could have discovered the secrets to Keith Richards’s longevity.

Leonard Bernstein excelled in everything he touched. The first American-born conductor to lead a major American symphony orchestra (the New York Philharmonic), he was a conductor, pianist, music educator, author, and humanitarian. He was a composer in many styles, including symphonic and orchestral music, ballet, film and theatre music, choral works, opera, chamber music and works for the piano. His best-known work is the Broadway musical West Side Story, which continues to be regularly performed worldwide, and has been made into two (1961 and 2021) feature films. His works include three symphonies, Chichester Psalms, Serenade after Plato’s “Symposium”, the original score for the film On the Waterfront, and theater works including On the Town, Wonderful Town, Candide, and his MASS. We would all have done well to embrace his art and humanity.

Myron Cohen (1902-1986) was a stand-up comedian whose lengthy tales (“shaggy-dog” stories as they would become known) captivated the audiences of the 1950s-60s. He told lavish stories about improbable circumstances that might end with “I’ll have it for you by Tuesday” or “I make a good living.” He humanized our Jewish culture that helped explain it to non-Jews and proved that we should laugh first at ourselves. We could all use more of his stories.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt propelled us into a world war that saved our democracy, our economy, and freedom for much of the world. It was the “last good war” the social and literary critic Philip Rahv noted. I was raised an FDR democrat, with both sets of grandparents celebrating his humanity by hanging his portrait on their living room walls. He introduced countless programs to address infrastructure and job creation. There were few handouts, with benefits being offered in exchange for work. Hell, even poets were rewarded for their expressions of truth.

It’s difficult to always remain upbeat and optimistic. My list so far, is both, hoping that their greatness be repeated and enhanced. But now we must turn to a darker moment in our history, and I nominate Adolph Hitler as one whose immortality should be served in a cinder-block cell, stark, dank and dark. Death was far too easy an end to his evil. I wish that for all eternity he be visited by the stories of each of the six-million Jews he ordered murdered.

One by one by one.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Marrow Bones

This dish holds little appeal for many. I happen to find them delicious.

8 to 12 center-cut beef or veal marrow bones, 3 inches long, 3 to 4 pounds total
1 cup roughly chopped fresh parsley
2 shallots, thinly sliced
2 teaspoons capers
1 1/2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
Coarse sea salt to taste
Thick slices of crusty bread, toasted

Heat oven to 450 degrees. Put bones, cut side up, on foil-lined baking sheet or in ovenproof skillet. Cook until marrow is soft and has begun to separate from the bone, about 15 minutes. (Stop 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.

A former colleague and a friend for more than forty years, Ira Rifkin has devoted much of his journalistic career to covering the fields of religion and spirituality. He forwarded this missive from the Reverend Earl Ikeda, resident minister of the New York Buddhist Church. It is by far the most poignant reminder of what this season (and all seasons) should celebrate and embrace that I have seen at a time when words of assurance can seem somehow hollow and sentiments as personal as a manufactured greeting card.

“[The holiday season] is a wonderful time, especially if we remember to celebrate with feelings of peace and good will, banish our harsh judgments and foolish prejudices, and remind ourselves of our interrelatedness with other people, sentient beings, and the natural environment that surrounds us.”

The quote begs the question of how, when and why so many Americans have turned their backs on others. There’s a pervasive sense of a mean-spirited attitude that overwhelms. Politics notwithstanding, the Trump era was time of divisiveness unseen since the Civil War as it ushered in a lack of civility and reasoned discourse.

This comes at a time when the opposite should be true. As a nation, we are challenged by a pandemic that should bring out the best in each of us. Despite the isolation and the accompanying depression that challenge our very beings during these times, we should be celebrating the joy of being helpful to and supportive of our neighbors.

Just the other day I saw a report on CNN that said healthcare professionals are being assailed and assaulted in their workplaces. They are tired and emotionally spent after two years of heart-breaking work. Some COVID-19 patients are demanding that certain procedures and remedies be offered that are known to be of little or no use. And the lawsuits—frivolous as they will no doubt be found—are being filed in a fast and furious manner.

What a monumental waste of resources that are so needed to help the ailing.

At a time when our best natures should bolster our national spirit, there is ample evidence to suggest that racism, hatred, extremism, and antisemitism are on the rise.

And in response to a well-thought program designed to help the American people, the Build Back Better plan offered by President Joe Biden is being held hostage by one senator whose interests in traditional, extractive energy sources are what seems to motivate his every move.

Joe Manchin, the senator from West Virginia, claims that he first and foremost responds to the needs of his constituents. I would agree, noting, however, that the constituents to whom he’s most responsive seem to be the wealthiest who can ensure his seat in the U.S. Senate.

He was elected as a “centrist, moderate conservative Democrat” and is a prominent opponent of policy proposals including Medicare For All, abolishing the filibuster, packing the Supreme Court, and increasing the federal minimum wage to $15 an hour. He receives the largest coal, oil and gas industry donations of any senator.

Fewer than 300,000 West Virginia voters (49.6%) sent him to Washington, and he is challenging the desires of the 88.2 million Americans who voted for Biden. His one vote has the potential to derail Biden’s plan that seems to address my view of what our government should do: provide for the communal good of the citizenry, offer assistance to those in need, and create an environment that encourages equal opportunity.

Is that too much to ask? Apparently so.

The U.S House of Representatives passed a version of the Build Back Better bill that provided $555 billion to help our transition to renewable sources of energy, such as wind and solar power, and away from fossil fuels like West Virginia coal. A significant part of the allotment would provide training for workers in the coal industry.

With every Republican opposing the bill in the evenly divided Senate, Democratic leaders could not afford to lose a single vote, and Mr. Manchin has said he had concerns about energy issues from the start, including his opposition to President Barack Obama’s climate change initiative that would have imposed stiff penalties on electric utilities that continued to burn coal and natural gas.

West Virginia’s coal interests were working hard to kill a package of tax credits to make clean energy more financially competitive, and, by extension, coal even less so. Of course, Manchin supported the coal interests.

The United Mine Workers of America (UMWA), which represents West Virginia coal miners, urged Manchin to revisit his opposition to Biden’s Build Back Better plan.

The labor union noted that the bill includes an extension of a fund that provides benefits to coal miners suffering from black lung disease, which expires at the end of this year. The UMWA also touted tax incentives that encourage manufacturers to build facilities in coalfields that would employ thousands of miners who lost their jobs.

“For those and other reasons, we are disappointed that the bill will not pass,” Cecil Roberts, the union’s president, said in a statement. “We urge Senator Manchin to revisit his opposition to this legislation and work with his colleagues to pass something that will help keep coal miners working, and have a meaningful impact on our members, their families, and their communities.”

Manchin announced that he would not support Democrats’ roughly $2 trillion climate and social spending bill, dooming its chances in the 50-50 Senate.

Maybe what we need to address is how we treat each other and recognize that there is a morality to governance that should be embraced.

Hubert H. Humphrey, the late senator from Minnesota, once offered words that Manchin should heed. (Thank you, Lawrence Pettit.)

“The moral test of government is how it treats those who are in the dawn of life, the children; those who are in the twilight of life, the aged; and those in the shadows of life, the sick, the needy and the handicapped.”

Oh, to be in Bedford Falls.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Cioppino

This easy-to-make dish got its start in San Francisco, made by the immigrant Italian fishermen’s wives from the day’s catch. But its beginnings can be traced to Italy, where every fishing village has its own version. Unlike its French cousin, bouillabaisse, there are no strict rules for its creation.

• 4-5 lbs. mixed fresh fish fillets and shellfish, such as sole, cod, monkfish, sea bass, prawns, clams, mussels, squid or scallops
• 8 Tbs. olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
• 1 large onion, finely sliced
• 2-3 garlic cloves, finely chopped, plus an extra clove for the toast
• 2 14-oz cans of diced tomatoes
• 4 oz. red wine
• 2 tsp. chopped fresh chili
• 3 Tbs. finely chopped flat leaf parsley
• 1/2 tsp. fennel seeds
• salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 6-8 slices good bread, slightly stale or toasted

Clean and prepare your chosen fish and shellfish. Cut fish fillets into large chunks.

Put the oil, onion and garlic into a large pot and fry briefly. Add the tomatoes, wine, chili, parsley and fennel seeds and season with salt and pepper. Cook for 15 minutes. Start adding the large pieces of fish to the sauce first. Then add the more tender fish such as sole and the shellfish, ending with the mussels and clams. Cook for five or so minutes, or until the fish is cooked and the mussels and clams have opened.

Rub the bread with garlic, drizzle with olive oil, and put each slice in the bottom of a deep soup bowl. Ladle the soup and serve.

Being genuinely and irreversibly old, I feel more than qualified to issue a holiday shopping guide that reflects the needs and desires of the elderly—with no regard for whatever holiday it is they might celebrate.

Old is old without regard to faith, creed or race.

First of all, no fruitcakes. Dense bread with dried fruits and nuts and other unidentified ingredients is inedible at best, if not downright toxic and generally bad for the environment. If not properly disposed, they contribute to the creation of greenhouse gases. Their only real use is as doorstops. The bravest recipients simply re-gift them to somebody they don’t particularly like but feel obligated to gift. We’ve been exchanging the same fruitcake for thirteen years with a family across town.

But getting back to that friend for whom you feel only a seasonal obligation, any recording by Kenny G would suffice.

Another rule to follow when giving to the elderly says that nothing should be gifted that would ever need dusting.

Tchotchkes, for instance. Yiddish for “worthless little pieces of crap,” they are the trinkets one might find in overpriced souvenir shops while traveling to odd places. While aesthetically pleasing to the purchaser, they serve zero function. They take up space on shelves and tabletops and they tend to need a lot of dusting.

The worst tchotchkes by far are the souvenir commemorate plates that come with their own little easels, thereby making that cleaning chore a two-step process. And who wants any reminder that Arkansas was perhaps once a tourist destination anyway? Oy.

In that same league are the demitasse spoons with decorated handles that need a rack for their display. They not only need frequent dusting, but they also actually need polishing on the off-chance somebody might drop by for a visit.

Books make terrific gifts but there are some hazards in their selection. Just because you have an abiding interest in the secrets of the Amazon rain forest, don’t assume that Aunt Sophie does. A gift certificate to a local bookstore is a safer bet. And you can make it even more special by offering her a ride to the store and afterwards, a nice conversation over a cup of coffee. Now that’s a gift to both you and Aunt Sophie.

Still on the subject of books. If a potential gift recipient loves to cook, resist the urge to give a cookbook. It might subtly imply that the cook could use some improvement. Hardly the message we want to deliver, unless it is the message we want to deliver.

And what is one implying if one gifts somebody a health club membership?

Pets are generally a lousy gift. If one wants a dog, cat or ferret, it’s likely that one will get one of their own choosing. There are obvious exceptions, however. My kids gifted me with Buddy, a bichon frise who happened to be the best pet I’ve ever had. When he died, they gave us a blind dog—a cross between a Shih Tzu and a poodle—whose biggest joy is to annoy me with a shrill bark that seems painful. I know it is for me.

After my grandfather died, my father decided his mother—my babička—needed a companion. Dad bought babi a parakeet—an expensive one with a little metal ID tag around its left foot. It escaped from its cage the night before we were to take it to babi and committed suicide by flying into a window. Dad made a late-night run to EJ Corvette, kind of a poor man’s Kmart with a pet department, and bought a cheap parakeet. He took the band off of the dead bird and put it on the cheap one.

The next morning, we took it to babi. She was thrilled in the way most of us are upon receiving a fruitcake.

Dad put the cage on the kitchen table. In time, babi came to like the little bird. She taught it to swear in Bohemian. It outlived her.

It’s been noted that as a species we spend the first two-thirds of our lives amassing stuff and the last third getting ride of it. The equation loses much of its meaning for those who die before realizing that it was time to de-clutter.

Babi had amassed few things in her rather long life (she died in 1979 at the age of 95). She barely read English, but subscribed to the Chicago Sun Times to use its pages as cage liners for her bird.

My grandmother was a terrific cook who had only the basic pieces of kitchenware in the tiny kitchen she had after her husband died. From the perspective of less-is-more, she would have been challenged by the ideas of cooking that have emerged since her death, although we did have boil-in-a-bag before her passing. Today, of course, it’s called sous vide because italics lend a sense of importance to the simplest ideas.

Her response to an air fryer would probably have been “and so what’s wrong with schmaltz?” As far as the Instant Pot cooker is concerned, she no doubt would have said “and so what’s the hurry?”

Holidays for the elderly can be as difficult as they can be for the young. There’s built-in anxiety—both revolving around the great expectations of family, friends, food, et cetera ad nauseum.

And the gifts. Many children are visibly disappointed upon the opening of a box with socks, pajamas, or fuzzy slippers. Those children, in my opinion, need to have the next year’s holiday privileges revoked.

In the meanwhile, the older of us would cherish some socks, pajamas, or fuzzy slippers. Other ideas might include hiring a season’s worth of snow removal or yard care.

Most importantly to reiterate is that we don’t want fruitcakes or anything we have to dust. And time—that most precious commodity—is what we want most to share with family and friends.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Scallops Adagio

I created this recipe for the Italian trattoria I owned as a selection on our antipasti menu. It is delicious, which accounted for its being one of our most popular dishes.

12 scallops
1 small carrot, minced
1 scallion, thinly sliced
3/4 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup butter, cut into pieces
1-2 tablespoons heavy cream
pinch of saffron threads
salt
a little chopped parsley

Put the carrot, scallion, wine, a pinch of salt and 1/4 cup water in a pan; bring to a boil and simmer for 10 minutes.

Meanwhile, remove the small side muscle from the scallops, rinse with cold water and thoroughly pat dry.

Add the butter and oil to a 12 to 14-inch saute pan on high heat. Salt and pepper the scallops. Once the fat begins to smoke, gently add the scallops, making sure they are not touching each other. Sear the scallops for 1 1/2 minutes on each side. The scallops should have a golden crust on each side while still being translucent in the center.

Boil the cooking juices and vegetable garnish until reduced, then stir in the butter, cream and saffron.

Pour the hot sauce over the scallops, garnish with parsley.

The problem with books is they have the ability to upset the status quo, as well as any number of apple carts.

They can be life-altering, transformative. They can feel like magic, world-making and unforgettable. They can be dangerous, upsetting. Many inspire such feelings, especially in young people. Reading is meant to be challenging, and literature should serve as a way to explore ideas that feel unthinkable, unfamiliar, and even illicit. They can challenge lies with truth. They can take you to exotic locales and introduce you to a wide variety of characters from wildly different walks of life. Ideas abound within their pages. Imagery can be fantastic, familiar or gritty. They can expose social ills and suggest their remedies.

And when a notion that provokes deep thoughts dances off the page, you can stop for as long as you wish to ponder such a notion before turning the page. (Try doing that with your devices.)

As ridiculous as it sounds, there are those walking the earth who find no value in any such challenges to intellect or mores. They don’t care to be challenged by ideas or differing points of view. And some of them want to make sure that their children—and yours—cannot access such information.

It’s safe to suggest that there have been very few libraries or schools that have not suffered the slings and arrows of the repressive forces wishing to suppress books that they find offensive.

It’s probably also safe to suggest that the oppressors have not read the books they want banned.

Ulysses, by the Irish author James Joyce, jumps to mind. Its nearly impenetrable prose keeps most would-be readers from even getting as far as the masturbation references in the “Nausicaa” chapter. The book was banned in the 1930s in both the UK and the US. And as far as masturbation goes, one does not have to read about it to adopt and understand its pleasures.

The Tropic of Cancer is in that same league. Henry Miller wrote frankly about sexuality in a novel that a Pennsylvania judge found to be an “open sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human depravity.” (Note to self: It’s been on the shelf for forty years. Read it.)

And then there’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, the D.H. Lawrence novel that led the prosecution in a 1960 trial to ask if you would “wish your wife or servants to read it.” The book sold hundreds of thousands of copies.

Politics, sex and prejudice—sometimes all three in a not-so tidy package—lead the reasons for people not to read.

Huh?

The current anti-book climate seems focused on tomes exploring the LGBTQ culture. I can’t figure out what the problem is, even if there are explicit passages that, ultimately, explore an expression of love.

Note to the homophobic: If you read a book about a gay person, it doesn’t turn you into a gay person. It’s not an owner’s manual offering tricks, procedures, or techniques. Similarly, if you read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, it doesn’t make you want to find a family of four in Kansas to kill.

The LGBTQ book leads to an understanding of that community. Capote’s leads to an understanding of murder.

There’s a Republican in the Texas House of Representatives named Matt Krause. He has busied himself searching in public school libraries for any books that might generate “discomfort, guilt, anguish, or any other form of psychological distress because of [a student’s] race or sex.” In October, he distributed a watch list of 850 books.

Besides being something of a paranoid idiot, he is denying exactly what books are meant to do. Most students are resilient enough to take “discomfort, guilt, anguish” etc. in stride. In most cases, knowledge makes the students think, not act. Although some should.

My daughter gifted me How to Be an Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi. It is a thought-provoking book that explores the disturbing aspects of racism. It suggests that being non-racist is not enough. One needs to be anti-racist. It’s on Krause’s short list of books to be banned, as are Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale and John Irving’s The Cider House Rules.

Ironically, The Year They Burned the Books by Nancy Garden made a haphazard list that included a Michael Crichton thriller and the Gale Encyclopedia of Medicine.

Whether it was a scandalous story of sex or simply taking issue with a talking pig (Animal Farm by George Orwell), many people have found reasons to ban some of the world’s best and most famous books. Court cases have been fought, books have been burned, and fatwas have been issued.

One of the most banned books is Brave New World, Aldous Huxley’s cautionary tale of a world grown too used to artificial comfort built on exploitation, and for what they saw as its comments against religion and the traditional family, as well as its uses of strong language.

The history of World War I was brought into sharp focus in All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. Seen as unpatriotic by the National Socialists and even a number of non-Nazi aligned military personnel and writers, what these groups and individuals disliked about the book is exactly what makes it so compelling an account of the true horrors of warfare.

On the home front, The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck’s moving depiction of migrant workers in the Dust Bowl, was found to be so brutal that it was widely banned, despite its truthful accounting of the Depression.

Frequently, the truth hurts.

To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee, The Color Purple, by Alice Walker, and Beloved, by Toni Morrison, have been the targets of book bans for their content about race. Richard Wright and James Baldwin have also suffered such indignities.

My advice to anybody who learns the title of a book being banned or censored is to run out and get a copy before it’s too late.

As Isaac Asimov once noted: “Any book worth banning is a book worth reading.”

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Papa’s Soup

This recipe comes from a late afternoon throw-together of whatever happened to be on hand. We liked it!

6 cups water
Salt
3 Tbs. olive oil
2 leeks, sliced
2 medium potatoes, peeled and chopped
1/2 lb. carrots, peeled and chopped
2 large celery stalks, chopped
1 large onion, chopped
2 garlic cloves, minced
White pepper

Plus, one large carrot (diced), one stalk celery (diced), one can (15 oz.) small white beans, drained.

Bring water, salt and oil to a boil, adding the vegetables in any order. Cook at a quick simmer for 45 minutes. Purée. Sauté the diced carrot and celery in olive oil. Add to puréed soup, along with beans.

The last thing any parent should have to endure is the death of a child. It is against the natural order of things and is the best argument there is against war—sending off our children to do old men’s work.

Just this past Tuesday, Ethan Crumbley, a fifteen-year-old sophomore at Oxford High School in Oxford, Michigan, allegedly shot and killed four of his fellow students. He injured seven others and a teacher.

Ethan was arrested with the gun and three 15-round magazines. There were eleven rounds in the handgun’s magazine and another seven in his pocket. He was charged as an adult with four counts of first-degree murder. He also faces one count of terrorism causing death, seven counts of assault with intent to murder and twelve counts of possession of a firearm in the commission of a felony.

The prosecutor said the attack was “absolutely premeditated.”

Armed with a Sig Sauer semi-automatic 9mm pistol, he destroyed the lives of many families—families whose children were following the school district’s mission to create “lifelong inquirers who are caring, contributing members of a global society.”

Those families are faced with the unbearable tasks of burying their children, left to forever wonder about their kids’ unfulfilled dreams in a global society. And the community of Oxford (pop. 4,000) is left to grapple with a future forever scarred by violence.

The gun, which retails for around $570, was purchased by the young man’s father on Black Friday at a local gun store. It was an extravagant expense for a family that was struggling, by their own accounts, financially.

In a blog posting ostensibly intended for Donald Trump’s eyes, Jennifer Crumbley, a real estate agent wrote:

You see Mr. Trump I can go on and on, in fact I used to think Democrat. I don’t believe in God and [sic] Im quite opposite of your typical “republican”. But now I am 38 years old. I have a family. My husband and I both work full time jobs. I have watched our insurance premiums double. I cannot afford to buy into this Obamacare. For my family [sic] its over $600 a month with deductibles. We bust our ass Mr. Trump. I pay taxes, my husband pays his child support, I donate to charities. We are good fucking Americans that cannot get ahead. And what makes me sick, is people that come over here from other countries and get free everything.

My husband suffered a stroke and a broken back, and we were with just my income. Do you know how hard it is to support a family on only $40,000 a year? I couldn’t qualify for State Aid. I made [sic] to much.

Originally, James Crumbley said the gun was for his wife, who wrote, in that same blog, that she wanted to thank Trump for “allowing my right to bear arms. Allowing me to be protected if I show a home to someone with bad intentions. Thank you for respecting that Amendment.”

But the 9mm apparently wasn’t for Jennifer. It was an “early” Christmas present for Ethan.

Nothing quite captures the spirit of Christmas like a semi-automatic handgun.

Until last Tuesday, the story of Ethan and his parents seemed so normal as to be boring.

By all accounts, Ethan Crumbley was a sweet kid when he was younger. Bespectacled and nerdy, he expressed interests in archaeology and Minecraft. When he was in the fifth grade, he participated in a program where students presented solutions to real-life problems. Ethan’s group focused on poverty and hunger.

“I see people that are on the streets sometimes that are homeless and hungry, and so I feel like I should take action and help them,” he told reporters covering the exhibit.

By 15, Ethan had begun wearing all-black clothing and had stopped socializing with other students. Children of angry parents can become depressed, alienated, and feel marginalized from their peers, but in Ethan’s case nothing pointed at such an obvious cause—until the morning of the shooting.

This is the account in the Daily Beast:

By Monday…Ethan’s new present, which was kept in an unsecured drawer in his parents’ bedroom, was already causing concern at Oxford High School.

A teacher found Ethan searching for ammunition on his cell phone during class and reported it to higher-ups. Administrators left a voicemail for Jennifer Crumbley and followed up with an email, but received no response.

“Lol, I’m not mad at you. You have to learn not to get caught,” Jennifer texted her son.

According to Oakland County Prosecutor Karen McDonald, on Tuesday Jennifer and James were called in to meet with a school counselor after a teacher saw disturbing drawings on Ethan’s desk.

On the morning of Nov. 30, the day of the shooting, she said, the suspect’s parents were urgently called into the high school after one of his teachers found an alarming note he had drawn, scrawled with images of a gun, a person who had been shot and a laughing emoji, and the words, “Blood everywhere,” and, “The thoughts won’t stop. Help me.”

The drawing also contained the lines “my life is useless” and “the world is dead.”

By the time the meeting took place, Ethan had altered the drawing to make it less disturbing, but his alarmed teacher had already taken a picture of the original version. Ethan’s parents did not inspect his backpack or ask him about the gun, according to the prosecutor.

McDonald also said the parents declined to take Ethan home after the meeting, which she said was a mistake, insisting he should not have been allowed to re-enter the classroom.

On Monday night, Ethan wrote in a journal about “his desire to shoot up the school to include murdering students,” Lt. Tim Willis of the Oakland County Sheriff’s Office told the Court.

When news of the shooting broke, Jennifer texted her son again, saying, “Ethan, don’t do it.”

The parents of Ethan were charged with four counts each of involuntary manslaughter. After their fleeing jurisdiction, they were apprehended in Detroit and taken into custody. Bail was set at $500,000 each.

It is anybody’s guess about what went wrong and when.

Were the parents derelict in their duties? Were they negligent gun owners? Were they irresponsible in offering guidance to their child?

Yes, is the probable answer in each instance. But it wasn’t always so.

She once blogged a plea on behalf of her son:

You see Mr. Trump, I need you to stop common core. My son struggles daily, and my teachers tell me they hate teaching it but [sic] the HAVE to. Their pay depends on these stupid fucking test scores. I have to pay for a Tutor, why? Because I can’t figure out 4th grade math. I used to be good at math. I can’t afford a Tutor, in fact I sacrifice car insurance to make sure my son gets a good education and hopefully succeeds in life…

Such needless sadness in these times of sadness. Lock up your guns. Pay attention to the kids. Watch for signs. Help them as if their lives depend on it—because they do.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Curried Chicken Salad with Grapes

This makes a delightful lunch entree, served atop leaves of Bibb lettuce and a crusty baguette. A Sauvignon Blanc is the perfect wine accompaniment.

Dressing
1/2 cup mayonnaise or salad dressing
2 Tbs. lemon juice
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
2 to 3 tsp. curry powder
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper

Salad
3 cups diced cooked chicken
1 cup sliced celery
1 cup seedless green grapes, halved
Small can of pineapple chunks (optional)
3 Tbs. slivered almonds, toasted (optional)

In large bowl, stir dressing ingredients until well mixed.
Fold in chicken, celery, grapes and, if using, pineapple chunks. Sprinkle with almonds, if using.

In the wake of what I hope was a Thanksgiving rich with love, friendship and bounty, it might be the right time to remember that there is another America burdened by poverty. Almost fourteen percent of Americans live well below the financial standards determined to be what is needed to just get by.

According to the latest data from the U.S. Census Bureau, the 2019 American Community Survey of Five-Year Estimates, the U.S. poverty rate nationally is 13.4%. This is equal to more than approximately 42.5 million Americans living below the poverty line.

The poverty rate in America has actually gotten better over the five years previous to the survey. In 2014, the share of the U.S. population living below the poverty line was 15.6%: equivalent to more than 47.7 million Americans. Fortunately, both on the national level and on the state level (for the majority of states), poverty rates have declined from 2014 to 2019.

But since the pandemic, it is likely that the number of Americans living below the poverty level will increase as lost jobs and rising prices are taken into consideration.

In the 21st century, the Great Recession helped to increase poverty levels again. As of 2009, the number of people who were living in poverty was approaching 1960s levels that led to the national War on Poverty, instituted by President Lyndon B. Johnson. The 2010 census data shows that half the population qualifies as poor or low income, with one in five millennials living in poverty.

Many sociologists and government officials have argued that poverty in the United States is understated, meaning that there are more households living in actual poverty than there are households below the poverty threshold established by the government. A recent NPR report said that as many as 30% of Americans have trouble making ends meet. Other advocates have made supporting claims that the rate of actual poverty in the US is far higher than that calculated by using the poverty threshold. A study taken in 2012 estimated that roughly 38% of Americans live “paycheck to paycheck.”

In 1969, the Bureau of Labor Statistics issued suggested budgets for adequate family living. Sixty percent of working-class Americans lived below the intermediate budget, which allowed that a family would buy a two-year-old car and keep it for four years.

There was no allowance for savings. It’s difficult to save for that rainy day when there seems no safe harbor from the storm.

The cycle of poverty in America is vicious. For the basic family budget to allow for the purchase of a two-year old car every four years is ludicrous considering there’s not an allowance for savings. When that by-now six-year-old vehicle is beyond repair, the family will incur debt for its replacement—if they even might qualify.

But without a working vehicle, it’s close to impossible for a family’s wage earner to earn a wage.

The automobile issue is reflected in the reality the impoverished face. If a family can’t qualify for a $1,000 mortgage, how are they to afford $1,500 in rent?

Another example is the Sam Vimes “Boots” Theory of Socioeconomic Unfairness, which Terry Pratchett wrote in 1993 as part of Men At Arms.

A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.

But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years’ time, while the poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

Apply this model to any number of issues facing the poor.

The lack of affordable health insurance can lead to health problems gone unattended. Early detection is not an option to many of those without insurance. The best chance for the afflicted is to hang on until Medicare—if one can afford Part B—kicks in.

A person’s well-being is further jeopardized by poverty when that person cannot afford to eat a healthful diet. High-fat foods are cheap, and their steady consumption can lead to any number of health problems—from obesity to diabetes. One can only guess about the profound impact poverty might have on mental health.

But there are those who think poverty is the fault of the impoverished.

Senator Chuck Grassley (R.-Iowa), a career politician whose estimated net worth is in the neighborhood of $3.2 million, has suggested that poverty can be attributed to those who spend their money on “booze, or women, or movies.”

Many international bodies have emphasized the issues of poverty that the United States faces. A 2013 UNICEF report ranked the U.S. as having the second-highest relative child poverty rates in the developed world. As of June 2016, the International Monetary Fund warned the United States that its high poverty rate needs to be tackled urgently by raising the minimum wage and offering paid maternity leave to women to encourage them to enter the labor force. In December 2017, the United Nations special report on extreme poverty and human rights condemned “private wealth and public squalor,” declaring the state of Alabama to have the “worst poverty in the developed world.”

If somebody living below the poverty line has a checking account, he and/or she likely pays more in bank fees than anybody in the middle class. Even with overdraft protection—an unlikely service to the poor—there can be fees charged for not being able to cover a check.

Again, a vicious cycle.

The rent is due on the first, which is late because payday wasn’t until the fifth. There’s a penalty for being late, which causes an overdraft for which there is a bank penalty. If these fees seem excessive and predatory, it’s because they are. They serve to punish lower-income people for not having enough money in the bank.

Exact amounts of overdraft fees depend on the bank or credit union, but it’s clear that overdraft fees have generated significant revenue for financial institutions. During 2020, banks charged U.S. consumers $12.4 billion in overdraft fees, with the average overdraft fee being almost $25.

While the answers to our most pressing problems are never easy, it would seem prudent to start paying attention.

A hand up is not the same as a handout.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Navy Bean Soup

An economical soup that easily serves twelve.

1 Tbs. olive oil
1 large onion, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, minced
64 ounces chicken stock
32 ounces of water
1 pound dry navy beans
1.5 pound smoke ham hocks
2 pounds of potatoes, peeled and cubed
black pepper

Rinse and drain the beans.

Heat a very large stock pot over medium-low heat and add olive oil. Add onion and cook for 4-5 minutes until soft, then add in garlic and cook for 30 seconds more until fragrant. Add the ham and beans, then add in chicken stock and water. Bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, then cover and let cook for 4 hours.

After 4 hours, add the potatoes, cover, and cook for 2-3 hours more, stirring occasionally. Towards the end, the potatoes should break down causing the soup to become starchy. The ham should fall right off the bone. Season with salt and more pepper if desired.

It’s difficult to determine whether Mike Flynn, the former national security adviser to the Trump administration (albeit for only 22 days), has either 1) failed to understand the meaning of the Constitution or, 2) thinks the document, which he has sworn to uphold on numerous occasions, should be ignored while pursuing his goal of creating a single religion under a single god.

Listen carefully and you can hear the screws loosening inside his head, the marbles swarming about his feet.

In his effort to escalate the war between good and evil, Flynn, who was subpoenaed last week by the House select committee investigating the January 6 Capitol insurgence, made the comment last weekend during a speech to a conservative Christian audience on his ReAwaken America tour in Texas.

“If we are going to have one nation under God, which we must, we have to have one religion,” he said. “One nation under God and one religion under God, right? All of us, working together.”

Flynn’s desire to impose his own presumably Christian version of sharia law on the United States is disturbing on so many levels. It seems to appeal to evangelicals who see the pulpit as the place from which non-Christian ends can be sought through Christian politics.

Or something like that. Who really knows?

Much of what Flynn says, besides being unnecessarily incendiary, is pretty vague. (He’s accustomed to controversy because he has made it a habit of saying really stupid things.) It can be assumed that his desires are based—however loosely—in Christianity, although there is some wiggle room on that front.

I’m unaware of any religion that doesn’t have at its base the urging of being a good neighbor, although Flynn might argue the point.

If Flynn’s commentary is to be political, he should note that Christians and Jews get along far better than Republicans and Democrats.

I’m concerned about what religion he might have in mind to become America’s meeting place. And who or what did he have in mind by invoking God? Is it his God, or somebody else’s, that we’ll be under? I’m pretty sure mine’s not in the running. Nor are the estimated 8,000 to 12,000 who have been worshiped in recorded history.

Flynn, who has an expunged juvenile criminal record and was raised a Roman Catholic, used the 2020 Fourth of July celebration to pledge his oath to the pro-Trump QAnon conspiracy theory(s). And as Trump sought to overturn the results of the 2020 presidential election, Flynn suggested the president should suspend the Constitution, silence the press, and hold a new election under military authority.

I can hardly wait for his first sermon. In recognition of “prosperity theology,” he’ll be paid $45,000 and there will be Russian subtitles.

If we’re going to have a national religion, its formation should honor and respect all of those religions to which American have been free to belong for lo these many years. We need to keep the good stuff and toss out the bad. For instance, communion will be retained but the wafers will be replaced with artisanal crackers with olive oil and rosemary and the wine will actually be wine, perhaps a Pinot Noir with a little age on it. There will be another communion line featuring Cheetos and Coors beer. Confession is out because too many people have to pretend that they’ve sinned just to pass muster with the priest, which seems a tad sinful in itself.

But first, we need a name. I’m suggesting our national church be called The First American Church of the Perpetual La-di-la…

We’ll need to replace the Bible with “The Big Book of Huh?”As for the name of our national deity, I’ll suggest Terry because it is not gender specific and can be spelled in different ways. Terry lives in the clouds and is invisible, which begs the question that if we’re created in Terry’s image how is it we can see each other. We will be asked to fear Terry, which is made difficult by Terry’s gleeful singing of “If They Could See Me Now,” and to conduct ourselves by adhering to a performance-based system of earning Terry’s love and approval, which is highly unlikely because we accept the fact that people are inherently bad. We will also be taught to honor conformity and disparage individuality. We can, however, eat shellfish and bacon.

Punishment for those who question the wisdom of Terry will be swift, severe, and inane, usually involving watching Jim Carrey movies.

Existing churches and cathedrals will be replaced with large buildings constructed of corrugated steel. They will feature giant-screen televisions, ATMs, and mosh pits.

Hymnals will be replaced with collections of Broadway show tunes. There will be jazz bands and dancing will be encouraged. Each congregant will be required to bring a tambourine. Failure to do so will be met with having to spend an hour listening to a third-grade class playing Tonnettes.

The American church symbol will be the Nike Swoosh or Swish or whatever the hell it’s called. It’s uplifting and helps to deify athletes.

Jesus and his gang of disciples are out. That cult of do-gooders with socialistic tendencies will not be tolerated within the new American religion, which also bans acts of charity or benevolence.

It seems like Pope Mike might be onto something. Or not.

Photo illustrations by Courtney A. Liska

Artisanal Communion Crackers

Easy and wonderfully delicious. Best enjoyed if kneeling.

1 3/4 cup all-purpose white flour
2/3 cup water
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary

Heat oven to 425 degrees. Prepare baking sheet by lining with parchment or paper.

Combine all ingredients in a stand mixer with dough hook (or in large bowl and mix with hands). Knead until dough is very smooth. About 5 minutes.

Form into a ball and cover with a towel. Let rest 20 minutes.

Roll into a log and cut into 8 even pieces. Cut each piece in half for a total of 16 pieces.

On a floured board roll each piece out until very thin. Remove to baking sheet. Sprinkle with additional salt if desired.

Bake for 10-12 minutes or until edges are just brown.

It’s that most wonderful time of the year, a time when snarky Christians lose their minds if somebody wishes them Happy Holidays rather than Merry Christmas. If you’ll recall, according to Eric Trump—the least intelligent of Donald’s spawn, which isn’t saying much because IQ standards represent a pretty low bar in America’s most dysfunctional family—saying Merry Christmas was against the law. His father changed all of that to the point of almost banning our right to say Happy Holidays.

I don’t get it.

There are countless holidays celebrated by countless people of various faiths. Just a tad over 31 percent of the world’s population is Christian, yet they seem to have a corner on the holiday market with the whole Christmas thing—a holiday book-ended by Black Friday, the day people trade their large-screen televisions for larger-screen televisions, and December 26, the day people return unwanted gifts for much wanted cash.

Unless the person I might be greeting is dressed up as Santa Claus, I avoid the Merry Christmas greeting. Happy Holidays covers the whole spectrum of believers and nonbelievers as well. Quite frankly, if somebody wishes me a Happy Weekday, I’m delighted they thought of me in a kindly way.

A holiday I wish was more widely celebrated is Church / State Separation Week, which is observed November 21-27, 2021.

And speaking of holidays, politics is something to be sure to mention at Thanksgiving dinner. The resulting conversation (no doubt lively and spirited) will help narrow down the holiday gift list.

Aaron Rodgers was in the news this week for his competition with Eric Trump to see who reigns as America’s most stupid man. While Eric was vaccinated, Aaron can throw a football. Kind of a toss-up.

QAnon is always there to provide a healthy dose of paranoid implausibility as it promotes the most ridiculous of claims. This past week’s theory—in case you might have missed it—had JFK, Jr. returning from some other world to take his rightful place at the right hand of Donald Trump. It wasn’t entirely clear what such a bonding might portend, but it no doubt had something to do with taking over control of the world—or, at least, Florida.

You really do have to hand it to the conspiracy whackos. Theirs is not an easy task to conjure up such nonsense and then get ABC News to talk about it in oh-so-serious tones for days on end.

I’ve been working all week on a conspiracy theory of my own. So far, it involves Gwyneth Paltrow and Buddy Holly (he arises from the dead just like JFK, Jr.) plotting to remove alkaline from our drinking water by adding lemon slices to those places where our drinking water is stored, thereby ensuring that we won’t overdose on chlorine and short our supply of COVID-19 cures. Somehow, it involves multi-national ZOOM meetings.

I think I’ve achieved my goal of creating a successful conspiracy theory: it makes absolutely no sense.

Speaking of making no sense, what is it with these people who insist that we be just like them? Keto dieters argue we should all be following their lead by eating tons of bacon, few beans and no pasta. If they want to suffer, I say let them suffer alone. The same thing goes with vegetarians, who, if pushed, can be moderately annoying, and vegans who are predictably insufferable—many of whom belong to PETA yet still wear Birkenstock sandals.

If you don’t want to eat as your parents taught you, then don’t. Enjoy your McPlants and Impossible Burgers. Just leave the rest of us alone.

Speaking of vegans, New York City’s mayor-elect, Eric Adams, is probably the first vegan mayor New York has ever had. After his election last week, he promised the people of the city that “I’m going to be a broccoli mayor. You’re not going to like it when you eat it, but long term, you’re going to see the benefits of it.”

George H.W. Bush had a different take on the subject.

“I do not like broccoli. And I haven’t liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I’m President of the United States and I’m not going to eat any more broccoli.”

I agree with Bush. And I’m not too fond of cauliflower, either.

And while we’re on the subject of food, language usage comes to mind.

The idiomatic proverb, “You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” is a popular English figure of speech. It literally means “you cannot simultaneously retain your cake and eat it.” Once the cake is eaten, it is gone. Happy to clear that up for y’all.

Food can be many things to many people. It can be delicious, nutritious, tasty, or awful (see: broccoli). It can be restorative and contribute to one’s well-being. In its preparation, it can be gourmet or homey, fancy or plain. Food cannot, however, be healthy.

Unless you’re pledging a fraternity whose initiation rites include swallowing live goldfish, all of the food we consume is dead. And as we all know, dead is not a healthy state.

Just as an aside, Gordon Ramsey needs to be drawn and quartered.

I read (and write) a lot of recipes. Both activities I find to be enjoyable, especially reading those others have written. But I object to the most common inclusion in most recipes: to taste. If you’ve not made the dish before, how are you supposed to know what it’s supposed to taste like?

President Theodore Roosevelt, a Progressive Republican and founder of the American Progressive Party, said that “this country will not be a good place for any of us to live in unless we make it a good place for all of us to live in.”

It is in that spirit that we should put an end to gerrymandering, a political process geared to ensure one party’s dominance over the other’s by designing districts—however ill-drawn.

My thinking is to abandon the entire act of districting by making each of the 435 members of the House of Representatives at-large members, in just the way the Senate is structured.

Let each aspiring representative present his/her positions to the entire state, rather than a selected “district” whose boundaries are solely political.

As we enter another winter of discontent—some of it sequestered and distant from loved ones—we need to understand that leptospirosis is a bacterial disease that affects humans and animals but is not transmitted through saliva.

Let your dog lick your face.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Penne with Chicken Sauce

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 chicken 2/12-3 pounds, cut into 8 or 10 pieces, liver reserved
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 large onions, chopped
2 bay leaves
1 sprig thyme
2 tomatoes, chopped (canned are fine)
1 pound penne or other pasta
Freshly grated Parmesan, optional.

Put oil in a large, deep skillet over medium-high heat. A minute later, add chicken and brown thoroughly, adjusting heat as necessary and sprinkling with salt and pepper as it cooks; this will take 10 to 15 minutes. Remove chicken, lower heat, and add onions, stirring occasionally, until they become soft and golden brown, at least 15 minutes. Chop liver and add , along with bay leaves and thyme, and cook for a minute, add tomatoes and sprinkle with salt and pepper.

Return chicken to skillet and add water about halfway up its sides; partially cover and cook at a brisk simmer, adding water as needed to keep mixture from drying out. When chicken is falling off the bones, raise heat if necessary to achieve a saucy consistency (or add a little more water if needed and continue to cook a bit). Set a large pot of water to boil and salt it. Taste and adjust seasoning.

Cook pasta al dente; drain and put on a platter, topped with chicken and sauce, passing grated cheese.