Journal

In 2021 Gina Peddy, head of curriculum and instruction for the Carroll Independent School District in Southlake, Texas, told teachers they must teach “opposing” perspectives on the Holocaust if they have students read books on the subject.

Ms. Peddy, perhaps a bigot or just plain ignorant (the two have a lot in common), had little to say when a teacher asked, “How do you oppose the Holocaust?” There is no answer. There are not two sides to the story. There are neither pro nor con, neither heads nor tails. There is enough creditable documentation to suggest that Holocaust denial belongs on the same pages where moon-walk skeptics rant and in the annals of the Flat Earth Society.

Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, commander of Allied forces in Europe during World War II, foresaw the possibility of Holocaust denial. He took actions to ensure that the horrifying truth of the Holocaust would be documented and taught to future generations.

“The visual evidence and the verbal testimony of starvation, cruelty and bestiality were so overpowering,” Eisenhower said. “I made the visit [to Ohrdruf concentration camp in Germany] deliberately, in order to be in a position to give firsthand evidence of these things if ever, in the future, there develops a tendency to charge these allegations to propaganda.”

Much of the Holocaust story has fallen on deaf ears, ears found in multiple places—places that are frequently where education is supposed to be happening, where learning our history makes us squirm and wince in disgust.

One could argue that such a Holocaust statement might be expected from ultra-red Texas, the last state to host slavery. But this past week offered proof that on Capitol Hill and in the halls of the Ivy League some sort of clarification is needed to determine what constitutes racism. The presidents of Harvard, M.I.T. and the University of Pennsylvania suggested that “context” is needed to determine if a calling for genocide against Jews could be counted as harassment. (Late yesterday, UPenn president Elizabeth Magill, and the chairman of the board of trustees, Scott L. Bok, resigned.)

In other words, being antisemitic can be allowed if supported by plausible excuse or reason. It’s almost akin to saying that bigotry against Blacks is allowed on Tuesdays and as dangerously ludicrous to say that Trump will be a dictator only on day one.

I don’t buy it and I don’t believe there are any excuses or reasons. There is simply no context in which racism can be given berth. Antisemitism and each of its semantic cousins is inexcusable, a word which has no other meaning. The deadly violence visited upon Jews, as well as homosexuals, Sinti, Roma, mentally ill people, and others murdered by the Nazis in pre-war Europe was so horrific in nature that the word genocide was coined in 1944 to offer a single description.

The International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (I.H.R.A.), an intergovernmental organization, adopted the following definition: “Antisemitism is a certain perception of Jews, which may be expressed as hatred toward Jews. Rhetorical and physical manifestations of antisemitism are directed toward Jewish or non-Jewish individuals and/or their property, toward Jewish community institutions and religious facilities.”

Citing three pages of incidents characterized by antisemitism, the House of Representatives passed a resolution (HB 894) saying, “since the massacre of innocent Israelis by Hamas, an Iran-backed terrorist organization, on October 7,2023, antisemitic incidents of harassment, vandalism, and assault in the United States have spiked 388 percent over the same period last year, according to reports from the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) Center on Extremism.”

The resolution provides that it was doing, according to Maureen Dowd in the New York Times, “what most cultures cannot: looking at its own crimes, its own worst self.”

While that is all well and good, there is no shortage of problems in the Middle East, where Palestinians seek real estate and independence. “From the River to the Sea, We Demand Equality” read the placards at demonstrations around the world.

Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu has called the Hamas murders on October 7, the “Holocaust by bullets.” This comparison, picked up and recirculated by world leaders, including President Biden, serves to bolster Israel’s case for inflicting collective punishment on the residents of Gaza.

At the same time, Netanyahu has curried favor with fellow autocrats: Hungary’s hard-right leader Viktor Orba, Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, N. Korea’s Kim Jong Un, and China’s Xi Jinping. Oh, did I forget Russia’s Vladimir Putim?

Netanyahu is a racist thug who cares only that the Palestinians be eradicated. I know, I know: he says HAMAS needs to be destroyed, which it does, but would he stop there? Of course not. Nor is his position of revenging the deaths of 1,400 Israelis very believable. Without regard to international law, Bibi has more than exacted his state’s revenge. His onslaught of Gaza is deplorable.

For the last seventeen years under Bibi’s rule, Gaza has been a densely populated, impoverished, walled-in compound—a ghetto. A ghetto wherein tens of thousands have died from bullets and bombs aimed at housing, hospitals, maternity wards, and ambulances carrying the wounded toward uncertainty. Eight out of ten Gazans are now homeless, moving from one place to another in search of a safety that doesn’t exist.

A two-state solution, orchestrated by sound minds devoted to peace, is what is needed. As of late, we only have shoah—a catastrophe in Hebrew.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Latkes (potato pancakes)

A recipe repeat that is a staple in most eastern European countries, latkes. They are particularly popular during the Jewish holidays. Cheap and easy-to-make, we like to eat them with apple sauce and chicken soup.

2 cups grated russet potatoes, squeezed dry
2 eggs, well beaten
2 Tbs. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. Kosher salt
½ small onion, grated

Mix all ingredients well and form into 3” to 4” pancakes. Fry in vegetable shortening until brown and crisp. Drain on a rack and serve warm. Traditionally, they are served with sour cream and a garnish of chopped green onions.

It’s a shame that American workers seem to take so little pride in the work they do. From building and fixing to inventing and installing, the national work force seems satisfied with punching in and, some eight hours later, punching out. This is a routine that is done five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, minus the two weeks of paid vacation and ten days of mandatory sick leave.

It amounts to basically eleven months of laboring at the behest of a company owner who has both a driver and a yacht.

Clearly, there must be some form of equity established in this labor-management relationship. We need only to look to the NFL to see how it’s done. Each one of the players, I think there are fifty-five of them on each team, makes more money than the owners. This is because the players have contracts to be honored even if any one player is sidelined for the entire season with a sprained pinky finger. The owners only get paid if every seat, including the ones nearly a mile away from the fifty-yard line that can be purchased for about the same cost as a semester at Stanford, is sold.

But money is only one of the things that motivate football players. The other is that if they score a touchdown everybody gets to dance in the end zone for a few minutes. In fact, they are encouraged to dance. A sign over the locker room exit boasts a classic example of gibberish: “It takes an athlete to dance, but an artist to be a dancer.”

But not every move in football deserves a dance. An interception is worthy of a chest bump. A fumble recovery gets a fist bump. Every other move, including a three-yard loss for instance, gets a pat on the ass.

I believe that worker productivity would increase at least threefold if dancing and other forms of physical expression were encouraged in the factory or office space. For instance, when an assembly line worker secures that last nut on the last bolt there is good reason to jump up and boogie. Everybody will feel rewarded with a moment or two of getting down.

In the office, whose reception area should boast notification that “there are shortcuts to happiness and dancing is one of them,” a sale or finalized contract calls for the workers not only to dance, but to perform extravagant arm waving and bumping routines. These can be choreographed and rehearsed during coffee breaks in the employee lounge.

The national Chamber of Commerce has been promoting local businesses by noting that when you buy stuff from Amazon nobody dances. Conversely, when you buy stuff from people who work and live in your community, the business owner dances a little jig in celebration. That owner could be dancing a little jig into eternity if the business priced its merchandise to be competitive with Amazon.

It should be noted that ceremonial dancing in politics is mostly private, spirited by an overall sense that the politicons have “fooled them (us) again.” Public celebrations by panelists in Republican debates are limited to those moments when one of the debaters tells a truth.

[Ed. Note: “Politicon” is a word coined by this blog’s owner. It expresses a gentle mix of politics and grift. We have hired the prestigious law firm of Goode/Chance to copyright it.]

Sadly, or perhaps not, attorneys don’t dance. They do, however, chest-pound, a somewhat primitive reaction to express any measure of dominance. The louder the thump, the bigger the win.

The Gatorade pour is a traditional rite that is typically reserved for football coaches. What’s most curious about the pour is that the cooler in which the Gatorade is stored is almost full when dumped on the coach. This goes to show that football players don’t like Gatorade.

I’d like to see the Gatorade pour become a part of the golf tradition. All one needs is for the caddie to dump a bottle of the power drink over the head of the tournament winner while being interviewed on the 18th green. That would add to the repertoire of post-play celebrations, notably including the fist pump first demonstrated by Tiger Woods when he sank an uphill putt from almost 300 yards. The fist pump was quickly adopted by every Sunday duffer when a four-footer drops into the cup.

In baseball, dancing is limited to the bullpen. There, relief pitchers perform line-dancing with all the aplomb of attendees at the junior prom. But baseball gave us the celebratory low-five, issued to the line coaches at first and third; the high-five, stolen by everybody; and the harbor-haul, that hand-and-arm pulling action that seemed to give an ailing Kirk Gibson whatever it was he needed to run the bases after his 1988 game-winning homer against the Oakland As. Under the new rules of baseball, the run would have been negated because it took him too long to round the bases.

Being a soccer fan, I love it when a goal is scored. There are so few goals ever made, it’s especially exciting to watch the man who made the score slide on his knees for three or four yards while baring his chest.

But I return to my desire to see non-sports figures celebrate with the joyous actions demonstrated by sports figures.

Except hockey. Too much blood.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Creamy Garlic Chicken

Yet another delicious dish perfect for comfort on cold winter nights.

1 cup sliced mushrooms
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
4 cloves of minced garlic
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup chicken broth
2 Tbs. butter, divided
2 Tbs. olive oil, divided
1 tsp. dried thyme
1/2 tsp. dried rosemary
Salt and pepper
Chopped fresh parsley for garnish

In a large skillet, heat 1 Tbs. each of butter and olive oil over medium heat. Sauté mushrooms until lightly browned. Remove from pan and set aside.
Season the chicken breasts with salt and pepper on both sides.
In a large skillet, heat the butter and olive oil over medium heat. Add the chicken breasts and cook for about 6-8 minutes per side, or until cooked through. Remove the chicken and set aside.
In the same skillet, add the minced garlic and sauté for about 1 minute until fragrant.
Pour in the chicken broth to deglaze bottom of the pan. Let it simmer for 2-3 minutes.
Add the mushrooms, cream, dried thyme, dried rosemary, salt, and pepper. Stir well to combine.
Bring the mixture to a simmer and cook for about 5 minutes until the sauce has slightly thickened.
Return the chicken breasts to the skillet and cook for an additional 2-3 minutes, allowing the chicken to soak up the creamy garlic sauce.
Remove from heat and garnish with chopped fresh parsley.
Serve the creamy garlic chicken with your favorite side dishes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I’ll tackle friction.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Fettuccini ala Toscana

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

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

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

Good morning, and welcome to a very busy Sunday.

Where to begin? Recapping the highlights of this past week or so in our fragmented society leads to a narrative that is at once humorous and tragic. Take, for instance, allegations that former House Speaker Kevin McCarthy (Rep. Calif.) elbowed fellow Republican Congressman Tim Burchett of Tennessee. NPR’s Claudia Grisales, who witnessed the assault, called the event “stunning.” The whole incident, while not proving that the hallways of Congress are narrow, seems to have been blown out of any imaginable proportion.

A rabbit punch thrown with any authority should have left Burchett doubled over. Rather, he ran to the closest throng of reporters to register his finger pointing.

Both Burchett and McCarthy should be given time outs and be denied recess for a week.

Joining them in detention is Republican Senator U.S. Sen. Markwayne Mullin, whose parents apparently didn’t know that Mark and Wayne are two different names, said that his fellow Oklahomans “would be pretty upset” if he hadn’t threatened a union leader to a fight during a senate hearing. Teamsters’ leader Sean O’Brien had a heated exchange during a senate hearing on labor unions, at the end of which Mullin asked O’Brien if he wanted to fight. Mullin even stood from his chair, but was stopped by Sen. Bernie Sanders, I-Vermont, who was chairing the hearing.
Mullin, a plumber by trade and a former MMA (mixed martial arts) fighter, should promote more floor violence to reassure his re-election by his fight-happy Oklahomans.

Since both chambers are filled with elected officials sent to do their constituents’ bidding, it’s reassuring to note that there is no shortage of sound bites expressing opinions regarding the possibilities of tossing George Santos out of office.

Santos, who lied about everything to get elected from his Long Island, New York, district (he ran unopposed), has been acting out his criminal self ever since taking office. But the Republicans are less concerned about Santos’s behavior than they are about losing a vote—should one ever be needed by a slim House majority.

Known as the House “Dandy” for his sartorial sense, Santos should be sent packing, along with Rep. Marjorie Taylor Green, R-Georgia, who was calling out Rep. Darrell Issa, R-California, for voting against her articles of impeachment against Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas. And just to be fair, let’s never forget that moment in history when House Oversight Chairman James Comer (R-KY) told Democrat Rep. Jared Moskowitz, of Florida, that he looked like a Smurf.

And while we’re at it, let’s ask Mike Johnson to vacate his seat as Speaker. He seems to lack the dynamics of McCarthy, which is like comparing matzo to milquetoast, and much of the House finds his religiosity a tad over the top.

He claims to be a Christian whose world view is found in the pages of the Bible, but he’s as anti-LGBTQ as an elected official can be. One wonders if he might join the boycott of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which is hosting performances by nonbinary Broadway actors. This is the latest attempt to force companies to reverse course on social issues that some far-right groups consider too liberal. One Million Moms is protesting the participation of two nonbinary actors: Alex Newell, the Tony Award-winning performer who stars as Lulu in “Shucked,” and Justin David Sullivan, who plays May in the musical “& Juliet.”

Gender-identity issues abound.

Apparently, there are serious delivery issues with the United States Postal Service. It took more than twenty years for a letter from Osama bin Laden to get to the American public. There’s not much content beyond its expected condemnation of America’s support for Israel and accusations of aiding the oppression of the Palestinian people. Bin Laden, who was killed in a U.S. special forces operation in Pakistan in 2011, also denounced U.S. interventions in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Kashmir, Chechnya and Lebanon.

In the letter, bin Laden addressed the American people and sought to answer the following questions: “Why are we fighting and opposing you?” and “What are we calling you to, and what do we want from you?” Not surprisingly, the letter includes antisemitic language and homophobic rhetoric.

Speaking of antisemitism, Elon Musk, owner of X, formerly known as Twitter, has allowed racist posts to be seen by its 160 million users.

Both GOP and Democrat strategists are carefully reviewing attempts by those seeking judicial relief to keep Donald Trump from holding office ever again. Eyes are on the prize of using the Fourteenth Amendment to demonstrate restrictions of anyone who participated in any insurrection. Trump, who has been credited with “187 minutes of dereliction” during the January 6 riot on the Capitol steps, keeps making his bid to be the 47th president.

All of this has me embracing the Scottish word: Dumfungled, feeling mentally and physically worn out.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Sauerkraut

Many moons ago, I encountered a gentleman who would could tell where you were from based on what you ate on Thanksgiving. I confused him because our family’s traditional meal included sauerkraut. That suggested that I was from Maryland, where sauerkraut is served with both brats and turkey. For us, it was because we were Bohemians and we ate sauerkraut all of the time.

1 pkg. refrigerated sauerkraut
2 Tbs. finely minced onion
1 tsp. finely minced garlic
2 tsp. caraway seed

Lightly sauté the onions and garlic. Add sauerkraut, along with the brine. Add more water as necessary to cover. Add caraway seed and simmer kraut for 20 minutes over medium heat.

A little more than two years have passed since I stated my desire to find employment as the guy who makes up names for new pharmaceuticals. I imagined at the time that such a gig would meet my newly acquired lifestyle of sitting around all day pondering the imponderables.

I assume that most of Big Pharma has read my plea for such employment. Because they’ve not contacted me, I’m guessing that others have beat me to the punch and are pulling down six figures to concoct one-syllable names using at least two Xs, one Y, a Z and no vowels. The fact that I could easily handle such a job leads me to believe that prospective employers are simply ageist. They see seventy-two as a stumbling block to achievement in such a specialty field. I see seventy-two as something that I can’t quite recall.

They don’t count as positive that much of the time I’m perfectly capable of distinguishing the proper use of the various remote devices that litter my confines. Once a day, maybe twice, is the most I try to adjust the television’s volume using my cell phone. (I’ve yet to discover what the little black one with a blinking red light does.) I have tried, obviously in vain, to change the channel on the television with the mouse that moves the cursor around my computer screen.

While still seeking some kind of employment that suits my less-than-lively lifestyle—remaining basically responsive while remaining erect in my desk chair—I’ve decided to offer my services to one of the television news outlets that could make good use of my vast stores of knowledge in any number of fields.

And what I don’t know, I can just make up.

To all that it should be added that I own a suit coat and several neckties, and have learned to embrace the magic that is Zoom.

MSNBC is my first choice as employer. Not to denigrate CNN, but the NBC-owned cable network has an interesting format for its reporting. First of all, the network’s opinion and its “breaking news” seem at odds. That might have something to do with the structure of its news reports.

First of all, the news segments are touted by anchors who provide introductions to any given story. The anchor then introduces two or three experts in whatever field the story might be found. They are usually retired politicians, admirals, and generals. Then the reporter is introduced to restate what the anchor has pretty much covered in the introduction. Then the anchor starts asking questions of the experts, each of whom lauds the anchor for asking an “important question.” After everybody has a word or two to toss in, the anchor then thanks the far-flung correspondents for their “expertise” in whatever field they might have worked.

I would position myself as a pundit and host of my website that frequently makes fun of the news and the people who bring it to us. And besides all the bullshit (MSNBC now allows the use of the word ever since Bill Barr blurted it out one day) that permeates the day’s news, I have actual expertise in literature, jazz, and the culinary arts—subjects that rarely come to the fore of the network’s broadcasts. From all my journalistic training and work, I can read things upside down and backwards, and I can ask really embarrassing questions of people in power.

Once again: What I don’t know, I can just make up.

In preparation of my becoming a pundit and receiving the undying gratitude of the anchors, I’m arranging three sets of backdrops to help propel the efficacy of my commentary as I join the other panelists in the obfuscation of any subject presented in the four-minute segments.

I’ve discovered that books scare the hell out of a lot of people who’ve never read one. Keeping that in mind, I’ve cleaned up the wall of books that are behind my place at the desk. Some of the titles can be read on the spines, but most are indiscernible.

A second set involves paintings that suggest nothing more than the splashes of color.

The final set, used best on those segments of jazz coverage, is sparse, with a guitar hanging from the wall and a drum set in front of it. (For the record, I’ve never played the guitar. I haven’t played the drums in more than forty years.)

I think I’m ready to take on what will no doubt be my last foray into the work-a-day world. Posing as an intellectual heavyweight seems a fitting end.

MSNBC: You’ve got my number. Call. And leave a message. I’ll probably be taking a nap.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Easy Beef Stew

For those days when you just don’t have time to cook, but want something to eat that makes it seem like you did. Delicious.

2 pounds seasoned stew meat, cut into bite-sized pieces
1 packet brown gravy mix
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 cup water
1 packet beefy onion soup mix

In a bowl, combine the brown gravy mix, cream of mushroom soup, water, and beefy onion soup mix. Stir well until the ingredients are thoroughly mixed.
Place the seasoned stew meat in a greased slow cooker.
Pour the prepared mixture over the meat, ensuring that it is evenly distributed.
Cover the slow cooker and cook on low heat for 6-8 hours or on high heat for 3-4 hours. The meat should become tender and flavorful.
Once the cooking time is complete, stir the beef tips gently to mix the gravy and serve hot over noodles or mashed potatoes.

The last substantive argument my sister initiated, unlike the little one about whether our cousin Nancy attended our grandmother’s funeral one November afternoon almost thirty years before, involved—as they frequently did—a dog. In this case it was about my dog Buddy, a Bichon Frisé whose pedigree might have been less than pure.

She, my sister, broached the subject on tippy toes. “Have you had the dog’s DNA tested?”

The test is a canine version of 23&Me, a rather ridiculous scam that claims 100 percent accuracy in tracing one’s ethnic and/or racial background. From what I can tell, after having been assessed by the company via a kit with which I had been gifted, is that the company is 100 percent accurate in finding my email in-box at least once a week hoping to sell me additional genetic forays into my biological makeup which the company had completely wrong.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“To know more about the dog,” she said, adding that “it’s the responsible thing to do.”

The day after adopting Buddy, I looked on the internet to see what I could find out about the breed. It said that the breed is “merry” and “curious” and is renowned for its “gentle mannered, sensitive, playful and affectionate” being.

Since Buddy was all of those things, I decided that I had no need to know if the dog had its origins in the Swiss Alps or the Canary Islands. Besides, I knew that he came from Billings, Montana.

Why my sister chose to characterize my not getting the dog’s DNA test as “irresponsible” is a mystery. The dog doesn’t know anything about its ethnic background and would not care if I chose to tell him.

There are dog people. And then there are DOG people. I’m a member of the first group, so earned by my liking dogs better than cats. It makes me feel good when the dog is glad to see me, and I like to rub them behind their ears. My sister, obviously, was a member of the second group. For years she owned borzois, large dogs who seem to be skeletons with thin layers of wispy hair. I didn’t much care for her dogs. At some point she stopped giving shelter to them and started giving shelter to dogs that had been abandoned.

When she died, she had a border collie mix with a back leg once broken and never tended; it dragged the leg. The other dog was a Jack Russell terrier who exercised his vocal cords enough to create a high-pitched, shrilled screech that only ceased when the dog took a nap. He made me like the other dog.

Mankind’s relationship to dogs as pets is based largely on the environment in which the two live. This is great science I made up when I happened to reminisce about all of the dogs I’ve owned. When I lived in New York City I didn’t have a dog. Most of the people who did had at least a dozen of them. Then I learned that there were profitable businesses that walked the dogs and picked up after them. Since everybody in New York lived in apartments, dogs tended to be small and quiet or huge and showy.

During my first semester in college in Champaign-Urbana I found a German Shepard puppy who was cute and cuddly. I named him Ralph and he held court with several coeds idling on the Quad between classes. I got a couple of dates that way. After a long winter, Ralph was a full-grown dog who was handsome but un-cuddly. He attracted no coeds. And that was my Spring: lonely with a big dog who growled a lot.

Geri and I each brought a dog into our marriage. Hers was a white husky with all the brains of a rock. Mine was a Cairn terrier whose personality was that of a street fighter. That was in Los Angeles where it became de rigueur for women to have dogs that would fit in their purses. It was a curious state to be enjoying a fine luncheon with at least one dog sticking its head out of its purse at every table.

Because of the state of high anxiety that characterizes a town dependent on film success, Los Angeles also became home of “service” pets. These dogs wear vests that warn against petting them. Their owners get to take them on airline trips. Counterfeit vests can be purchased at most pawn shops.

Montanans enjoy dogs on multiple levels. First, there are the ranchers whose dogs tend to be working breeds. In the back of every pickup truck, except for those that have never been driven on a two-track, is a border collie or a blue heeler. Both are agile breeds who like to herd sheep or cattle.

Bird hunters have a wide variety of retrieving dogs, some of which point and flush as well. Golden and black retrievers are mostly used as adorable pets for people with small children. The other ones belong to hunters whose SUVs are generally made by Mercedes-Benz and whose quarry—small as it might be—is celebrated with single-malt bourbon.

My current dog is a silky terrier who earns his keep by letting me know whenever somebody walks past the house.

I’m glad we live on a quiet street.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Roasted Parmesan Cabbage

1 large head of green cabbage, cut into 8 wedges
2 Tbs. olive oil
3 Tbs. soy sauce
1 tsp. garlic powder
1 tsp. onion powder
1/2 tsp. crushed red pepper flakes
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Heat your oven to 425 degrees and line a large sheet pan with parchment paper.
Place the cabbage wedges on your prepared baking sheet.
In a small bowl, combine the oil, soy sauce, and all seasonings.
Brush your cabbage wedges with this oil mixture on all sides.
Sprinkle with the parmesan cheese.
Roast for 25-30 minutes, flipping halfway.

For those of us whose pipe dreams include that of holding political office or merely working in the federal government, there’s a sure-fire way of getting selected to occupy one of the cubicles in the legendary West Wing.

All you’ve got do is fill out the application for the 2025 Presidential Transition Project, which, if selected, paves the way for your becoming part of an effective conservative Administration’s Presidential Personnel Database. From there, it’s anybody’s guess how far and fast you might advance in what will emerge as a conservative plank of an Administration that could only be imagined.

While you may start off opening the mail, you could become that person who will lead a national farm bureau that will require that all Americans consume three pounds of animal protein per week. In that spirit, other departments of the new conservative party will also be able to dictate almost every aspect of human behavior. For instance, if you want to purchase a new car it must be one powered by oil or some other extracted stuff that Democrats say will continue to ruin our environment.

The new American Right denies Climate Change and believes that using oil and coal whenever possible is admirably patriotic and will, ultimately, prove the bible-thumping right wing hypocrites right. They also have other preposterous beliefs involving guns, vaccines, voters’ rights, and Mattel’s introduction of Hamas Barbie—a doll which cowers under a state-ordered black Burqa.

All of this, plus plenty more, comes from an organization called Project 2025. Its mission statement is as follows: “The actions of liberal politicians in Washington have created a desperate need and unique opportunity for conservatives to start undoing the damage the Left has wrought and build a better country for all Americans in 2025.

“It is not enough for conservatives to win elections. If we are going to rescue the country from the grip of the radical Left, we need both a governing agenda and the right people in place, ready to carry this agenda out on day one of the next conservative administration.”

But wait! There’s more! Namely there’s a publication called Mandate for Leadership: The Conservative Promise, published by the Heritage Foundation, an organization that endeavors to put a coat and tie on a Proud Boy or Jim Jordan.

“This book is an invitation…to come to Washington or support those who can. Our goal is to assemble an army of aligned, vetted, trained, and prepared conservatives to go to work on Day One to deconstruct the Administrative State.”

Well, that is certainly a refreshing suggestion, despite its ringing reminder of the people and events of January 6th.

The founders of this multi-tiered organization are Paul Dans, a dead-ringer for Goober and former chief of staff at the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) during the Trump administration. He serves as the director of the 2025 Presidential Transition Project. Spencer Chretien, who looks like a shelf stocker at his parents’ IGA, is a former special assistant to the president and associate director of Presidential Personnel. He serves as associate director of the project.

On the surface, Project 2025 appears to be a simple pyramid scheme. Either that or it’s a Ponzi scheme that is attempting to pick the pockets of non-MAGA Republicans.

It’s all rather humorous until further research reveals the following: “Project 2025 is a plan to reshape the Executive Branch of the U.S. federal government in the event of a Republican victory in the 2024 United States presidential election.”

It gets even worse: “Established in 2022, the project seeks to recruit thousands to come to Washington, D.C., to replace existing employees to restructure the Executive Branch of the federal government and to further the agenda and policies of Donald Trump. The plan would perform a quick takeover of the entire U.S. federal government under a maximalist version of the unitary executive theory – a theory proposing the president of the United States have absolute power of the executive branch – upon inauguration.”

What I read in all of that is that this ultra-conservative organization wants a modern-day Hitler to lead an American Third Reich.

Needless to say, Project 2025 stands firmly against anything that isn’t desperately conservative. It is opposed to clean energy, any and everything that is reflected by the LGBTQ+ community, and, of course, anything that might appear to be anti-gun.

In short, Project 2025 has been characterized as a plan to install Trump as a dictator, warning that Trump could prosecute and imprison enemies or overthrow American democracy altogether.

We live in increasingly dangerous times that should be met with our vigilant opposition to those very things that threaten our democracy.

Halloween isn’t nearly as scary as Project 2025. Boo!

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

INSALATA RUSSA – RUSSIAN SALAD

This is a wonderful salad for any season. Feel free to add vegetables to your liking. This recipe makes 6-8 servings.

1 cup mayonnaise
1 cup frozen peas
4 oz. fresh green beans
2 carrots
2 medium potatoes
2 Tbs. capers
salt and pepper to taste
3 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
1-2 Tbs. red wine vinegar
2-3 hard-cooked eggs, sliced
1 can of tuna, well drained (optional)

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

Dice the potatoes, carrots and string beans. Place diced vegetables in a large bowl. Add half of the capers and all of the peas. Add the tuna (optional). Season with salt and pepper. Add the oil and vinegar; mix carefully until blended. Taste salad for seasonings.

Gently mix in 1/2 cup of mayonnaise. Keep adding more mayonnaise until all of the vegetables are well covered in mayonnaise..

Cover and refrigerate the vegetables several hours or overnight. To serve you can turn the salad over onto a platter, it should keep the shape of the bowl or you can leave it in the bowl. Garnish with the remaining capers and slices of hard-cooked eggs. Serve slightly chilled and enjoy!

“Jazz Composer, Arranger and Provocateur” read the headline atop the obituary of Carla Bley, 87, in The New York Times this past week.

I knew her as a musician—a pianist and band leader whose influential effect on jazz was fully demonstrated in such works as A Genuine Tong Funeral and Escalator Over the Hill. Nate Chinen wrote of her compositions in the Times: ‘[W]ith delicate chamber miniatures and rugged, blaring fanfares, with a lot of varied terrain in between. She was branded an avant-gardist early in her career, but that term applied more to her slyly subversive attitude than to the formal character of her music, which always maintained a place for tonal harmony and standard rhythm.”

It was that “slyly subversive attitude,” as well as the provocateur that led me to wanting to meet her for an interview.

We met on a sunny Spring morning in 1981 at Duke’s, a diner popular with Hollywood’s creative underworld. The restaurant—crowded, smoke-filled and noisy—was an integral part of the Tropicana Motel, a flea-bag institution with 74 rooms on Santa Monica Boulevard. It was to Los Angeles what the 250-unit Chelsea Hotel was to New York.

The Chelsea had Sid Vicious and the Sex Pistols; the Trop, Lee Ving and Fear.

I sat alone at a table for four, my elbows absorbing some of the grease that had accumulated over the years. Ms. Bley’s entrance was widely noticed. Tall, with a shock of reddish-blonde hair coiffed into a boxy Page Boy, her very presence commanded attention.

Seated across from me, we exchanged pleasantries. Suddenly, she lurched forward in her chair and spoke in a decidedly commanding voice: “Revenge!”

I hadn’t a clue what she meant, although I briefly entertained the rather romantic notion that, as a journalist, I could be counted on to somehow avenge the wrongs so evident in our society. I was eager to join the underground’s rank-and-file.

“Revenge,” she extolled. “Revenge, Jim, revenge.”

She picked up her menu, stabbing at it with her index finger.

“Revenge!”

Little did I know that “revenge” was the name of one of several omelet options.

I ordered it, ate it over the course of a couple of hours, and lived with its daunting effects for at least three days.

The few times we met after our initial interview, she never failed to speak “Revenge” in a seditious tone. I liked how her utterance might confuse any who’d overheard her.

Although the memory might not have been as great, my digestive tract would have fared better had I had the egg salad.

I love a good egg salad sandwich and as a child I would devour those made by relatives on my father’s side of the family. Those were the only egg salads I was allowed to eat. It was based on some farkakte idea that anybody else’s egg salad was bound to bring on a case of food poisoning that would lead to certain death. That was the reason that I wasn’t allowed to order egg salad at the lunch counter at Woolworth’s in Oak Park, Illinois, where we frequently had Saturday lunch.

My mother had similar bans in place for tuna fish and chicken salad.

The best I can figure is that Mom was perhaps traumatized by an open jar of mayonnaise when she went off to college in the big city. (As much as we can tell, there was no mayonnaise in the Nebraska of her youth.)

I remember longing after the egg salad contained in the metal bowls as I chewed with little conviction on the turkey club which, by the way and for the record, had mayonnaise.

There is something inherently funny about egg salad—not the food, but the name. Imagine Mel Brooks saying it: his gravelly Brooklyn lilt would forever change the way you heard it. Robert Young (“Father Knows Best”) would never have had that effect.

Woody Allen appreciated egg salad, as both a food and a subject matter. That’s what led to his making his first movie, What’s Up, Tiger Lily?, in 1966. Allen took footage from a Japanese spy film, International Secret Police: Key of Keys (1965), and overdubbed it with completely original dialogue. He changed the tone of the film away from a James Bond spy clone to a comedy about the search for the world’s best egg salad recipe.

Henry Winkler, the actor best known for his playing of Fonz on television’s “Happy Days,” wandered into my restaurant one day. He was starring in a kids’ movie that was filming in our little town and he was hungry for lunch. As luck would have it, he ordered the egg salad sandwich. He returned the next day and had the chicken salad. On the third day, he ordered both—eating half of each, we learned, while saving the rest for dinner in his hotel room.

He told me that my chicken salad was the best he’d ever had, adding that “And I’ve eaten a lot of chicken salad.” He didn’t comment on the egg salad, but since he ordered it every day for two weeks it must have been at least up to par.

At least he wasn’t afraid of it.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Egg Salad

8 hard-cooked eggs
½ cup mayonnaise
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
2 Tbs. finely diced celery
2 Tbs. finely diced green onion
1 Tbs. sweet pickle relish
¼ teaspoon paprika
¼ teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper

Peel and chop the eggs and transfer them to a medium mixing bowl. Add the mayonnaise, mustard, celery, onion, dill, onion powder, paprika, salt, and pepper. Stir to combine the mixture.

Before the next time you order a pizza for delivery, take a few minutes to understand the training and effort that goes into making the process of delivery even possible.

For instance, hiring a local doesn’t necessarily guarantee that such a person will know his/her way around the town in which he/she was born and raised.

While I had seen such a display more than once, one stood out from all the rest. A local native and graduate (I think) of the local high school, I hired this young man (mid-twenties) to deliver pizzas and wash dishes—two compatible chores in an Italian restaurant. On his first day, we had a delivery order of three pizzas to a local bank that was less than a block away. Our little town has five banks and a credit union. It’s not hard to find any of them and I just figured that if one had lived here for more than a few months, one would know where they were.

Wally was that one who didn’t. I told him where it was. He left with the pizzas and went to his car which was across the street. He drove to the bank to deliver the pizzas, turning that less-than-a-block walk into a four-block drive. I suggested he make future deliveries to that bank on foot.

As luck would have it, the bank called in an order—three pizzas—the very next day. Wally asked where the bank was.

“You don’t remember from yesterday?”

“Not really.”

“It’s around the corner, down the alley. Can’t miss it. It hasn’t moved.”

Wally took the pizzas, got into his car, and drove down the alley to the bank.

On the third day, he remembered. He walked.

Now, you may find all of this unbelievable, but trust me it’s true.

My delivery-dish guy actually asked the location of the high school from which he might have graduated. Who knows? Nor did he know the location of the City/County building—our little town’s place where government business is conducted.

“It’s where you got your driver’s license,” I told him.

“I don’t have a driver’s license,” he said.

“And now you don’t have a job,” I explained.

Next up on the delivery hall of fame was an oldish woman whose daughter was a friend of mine. While Donna had a great sense of knowing where she was and where she was going, it took several delivery attempts to convince her not to carry the pizzas tucked upright under her arm. She was something of a vegan who didn’t know (or had forgotten) that the toppings would slide right off a pizza held in her preferred way.

Delivery continued in some fairly amusing ways but became prohibitive as worker’s comp and liability insurance became too expensive for our business. More than ninety percent of our business was dine-in or pickup, so I wasn’t doing the restaurant any harm by ceasing the service. I was pleased to do so.

Adagio had thirty seats—a small restaurant by any estimation. Our kitchen was small, as well. On any day when I had the full complement of back-of-house (kitchen) workers it seemed really small. I had designed my kitchen based on an idea expressed in a magazine article about a restaurant in Paris. The mantra, as reported by Thomas McNamee, was a chef explaining why his kitchen was so small; “When we want to hike, we go outside.”

Keeping all that in mind, I realized that a set of kitchen skills was less important than who the potential hire might be. Basic skills could be taught; personalities were a different ballgame.

My job application, while collecting necessary data, featured a few questions that left applicants shaking their heads: What’s the best restaurant you’ve ever eaten in? Create a menu for a family gathering. Do you always wear your seat belt? Never? Do you like to participate in or watch sports? Which ones?

Each question provided insights into the applicant. Both the best restaurant and family gathering, though skewed by personal economics, were interesting for the obvious reasons. The answers to the seat belt question demonstrated levels of respect for self and authority. Sports? Many of my best employees were high school boys who played team sports: they knew about teamwork, hard work and discipline. My worst front-of-house hire was a snowboarder who hated team sports, never wore his seat belt, and showed no respect for his fellow workers.

Dinner at Adagio took about an hour-and-a-half. One server I had hired came from the giant tourist restaurants in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He was adamant that dinner should take no longer than 45 minutes. His battles with me—chef/owner—were relentless. I suggested he apply for work at Outback or Applebees. He didn’t last long.

I saw a lot of potentially good cooks. One was a high schooler I was willing to underwrite for a year’s apprenticeship in Italy. He had already earned a fine set of knives and would have had a great start to his career. Sadly, an affinity for drugs put an end to that career—before it had even really started.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Crépinette

Crépinette, ground or minced meat patties seasoned with herbs and wrapped in caul fat, are a decadent treat. Although pork is the most common meat used, any animal protein will work well. You’ll have to go to a butcher’s shop to special order the caul fat.

1½ cups pork meat, ground
3 garlic cloves, coarsely chopped
1 egg
1 tsp. freshly chopped thyme
1 tsp. freshly chopped parsley
1 tsp. dried marjoram
1 Tbs. flour
1 Tbs. salt
1 Tbs. pepper
1 Tbs. dried breadcrumbs
120 grams caul fat or little more than ½ a cup, tightly packed
1 onion sliced
Butter to fry

Add the chopped garlic, egg, the chopped thyme parsley and savory, the dried marjoram, the flour, salt, pepper and the breadcrumbs to the ground meat in a bowl. Mix it all well and leave to marinate for a minimum of 15 minutes.

On a board, spread out the caul fat, add 1-2 handfuls of the meat mixture into the center and wrap the caul around the meat to create a patty and to seal the meat. Cut extra parts of the caul off. Repeat the procedure for the rest of the meat mixture.

Then heat up a big pan with butter and some of the crépinette parcels into the hot pan. Fry first for 5 mins on 1 side, then turn and fry on the other side. The caul will melt away but keep the patty together and that is the aim. Fry an all sides slightly light brown.

Serve hot with a simple cream sauce, roasted vegetables, rice, mash potato and a salad of raw red radishes.