Journal

The calendar, or more likely my computer, informs me that today is September first. Normally this is a date that would slip by pretty much unnoticed. After all, unless it’s your birthday, it is just another day out of 365 of them we have each year. What makes this day significant this year is that we’re about four months away from Christmas, a holiday that in past years has featured a dinner that is a repeat of Thanksgiving.

It is a run-of-the-mill meal whose biggest challenge is to remember to take the turkey out of the freezer in time to thaw and to not get upset because the Brussels sprouts didn’t get cooked.

We, meaning Courtney and I, are setting off on an uphill climb to change that food scenario to something that seems more like some kind of celebration than punishment. It might take all of the next four months to accomplish our goal.

Christmas, my daughter told me, was invented by Catholics. She would know, having been confirmed as one in a clear collusion between some priest in Southern California and my wife, an Irish Catholic. To listen to Geri tell it, being an Irish Catholic is twice as bad as just being Irish or Catholic. Sort of a double whammy for those living for an afterlife of angel’s wings and harp refrains.

But to continue with Courtney’s observation is to acknowledge that Roman Catholics were the inventors of Christmas. They witnessed the fun that pagans were having at that time of the winter solstice and wanted in on the action. It didn’t matter that Jesus was mostly likely to have been born in the Spring.

The Roman Catholics were a small sect of a bigger church whose name has been conveniently lost to history. What is known is that Rome was pretty much the center of an entire empire populated by Italians, many of whom were family matriarchs who spent their days making tortellini. None of them knew they were Italian; that came later. They also took most of the day to make tomato sauce, although not until well into the 19th century. The earliest recipe for tomato sauce was published in 1694, nearly a century after the fruit made its way to the Italian shores.

They, being Italian Catholics by now, assumed the red fruit had something to do with Satan, which is never a good sign.

By 1861, the date of Italian statehood, natives could not go a day without consuming tomatoes. Apparently, Satan held little sway in the church-state that Italy became that year. Sauces began bubbling on the back burners as sweaty men in black suits pushed the sausages and meatballs into the deep cauldrons. In the movie, Sonny destroys Michael’s aspirations to be a chef by reminding him he had a few folks he’s promised to kill.

But I digress.

We, meaning Courtney and I, are designing an entirely new menu to reflect the Italian holiday more accurately. But before we take our cause to a higher level, we have to get past Geri, the Irish Catholic. To fully understand what we’re up against, the Irish were first experimenting with black pepper at about the same time Italians were starting to eat tomatoes.

My Sicilian uncle brought a lasagna to our house one Christmas. Geri locked herself in the guest bathroom and cried. She’d have stayed longer had she not noticed the whole cooked piglet I had temporarily stowed in the bathtub.

The “Lasagna and Dead-Pig Christmas,” as we all remember it, is daring to be repeated as a bright red and meaty lasagna takes its place at center stage this Christmas. We will pass on the suckling pig, which was mostly for show anyway.

By design, the relish tray that replicates how Americans began Sunday dinners in the 1950s, will be replaced by a platter filled with spicy meats, hard cheeses and marinated olives. It is an antipasto that is an introducing course. Following will be cheese tortellini in chicken broth.

Lasagna, as previously mentioned, comes next. The squares should be about four inches in every dimension. It should ooze a meaty sauce, the handmade noodles a satiny delivery system for cheese and spice.

A mixed-lettuce salad with a pour of extra-virgin olive oil and balsamic vinegar cleanses the palate. A dessert of cheese and fresh fruits, is accompanied by a healthy pour of the digestive grappa and espresso.

Compared to the turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, the Italian feast wins by a long shot. Even without the benefit of Brussels sprouts.

Geri disagrees.

We, meaning Courtney and I, will be doing the cooking and therefore preparing the menu as written above. We’re just hoping Geri doesn’t spend the day in the bathroom crying.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken Stock

This basic component of many cuisines, chicken stock can be used as the base for soup, pastas, gravies and sauces.

2 pounds chicken backs and necks
2 leeks, coarsely chopped
2 carrots, coarsely chopped
1 onion, peeled and chopped
2 stalks celery, coarsely chopped
2 cloves garlic, unpeeled
8 whole peppercorns
4-5 sprigs of parsley
2 sprigs of fresh thyme
1 bay leaf

Place all of the ingredients in a stockpot and cover with four quarts of cold water.
Bring to a boil and simmer, partially covered, for about 3 hours. Be sure to skim the fat and foam.
Strain through a fine sieve and let cool. Remove all of the fat that rises to the surface.

By now, the detritus of confetti, ticker tape and balloons has been removed from the floors of the two sites for summer political action, we turn our attention to the nearing of that November date when we the people decide who gets to occupy the Oval Office for the next four years. Actually, I might be wrong about there being ticker tape, an item no longer in use by the stock exchanges and therefore unavailable for parades and political conventions.

Anyway, the dust has settled in Milwaukee and Chicago and the candidates from the two major political parties have been chosen. Those candidates are busying themselves by crisscrossing the country while still managing to land in a swing or battleground state for their nightly banquets of over-cooked chicken and rice pilaf. (Never order the fish.)

This essay was initially imagined to be about Third Party or Independent candidates. The herds of these whack jobs down through the ages have never been in short supply, but none was more colorful and implausible as Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., son of the more familiar RFK who was assassinated in 1968.

Depending on how you might skew the polls to be favorable to one candidate or another, RFK, Jr., has “suspended” his run for the White House. His five percent in the standing polls is unremarkable until you consider his pledging his support to Trump.

Junior has gone to great extents on his way to what was always considered a dead end. A drug addict for 14 of his years, he is something of a man of mixed messages. The crazy conspiracy theory advocate was busted after a heroin overdose on a flight to Rapid City, South Dakota, to enter into a treatment program for drug addiction. Can we say, “irony”? He worked as an environmental attorney and is an anti-vaxxer and a proponent of the ridiculous claim that the most immune from COVID were Ashkenazi Jews and Chinese. My Eastern European heritage failed to prevent me from getting COVID three times.

Diagnosed earlier this year with “brain worms,” Junior has blamed the affliction on a dead bear cub he picked up in Upstate New York and traveled to Central Park to pose the carcass with a bicycle.

At this point, it is hard to believe that he has even five percent of the polled vote. Kennedy was a leader of those who frequently got their information from social media, cable news, and YouTube.

He dominates, along with Trump, a subset of people described as “low-information voters.”

Basically, whatever two-bit idea that came along was fodder for the half-wit Junior. His scattershot aim at science, liberals, the media, Bill Gates, Stephen Hawking, and the television show “The View,” were among the demonstrations of what might be called paranoia.

His fellow outliers for the Presidency were people with a more defined agenda: Green Party member Jill Stein (don’t pollute), self-help author Marianne Williamson (use your bootstraps), and Libertarian Chase Oliver. The Libertarian position might not be well defined but, in a nutshell, basically says we need Big Government to create No Government.

In the past, supporters of Ron Paul and his idiot son, Rand—the optometrist who likes to pose as a medical doctor—have been noted for living in old Subarus (typically red) with all of their worldly goods stacked to the ceiling. Apparently, theirs is a statement of something or another, but nobody knows for sure.

Single-issue campaigns have dominated the so-called Third Party or Independent efforts. Alabama governor George Wallace, crippled by an assassin’s bullets, ran as an anti-civil rights activist who turned 180-degrees with the help of Jesus. But his salvation was overshadowed by his 1962 racial stance, two years before the passage of the Civil Rights Act: “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever.”

An Illinois Republican member of Congress, John Anderson saw a sea change of his own views in 1979, a year before campaigning for the Presidency as a liberal Republican. He strongly criticized the Vietnam War as well as President Richard Nixon’s actions during the Watergate scandal. Anderson entered the 1980 Republican presidential primaries, introducing his signature campaign proposal of raising the gas tax while cutting social security taxes.

As an independent candidate for president, H. Ross Perot, alternately seen as a non-political and witty “folk hero” or a “short-tempered” “authoritarian,” ran his 1992 bid for the office on his plans to balance the federal budget, further economic nationalism, strengthen the war on drugs, and implement “electronic town halls” throughout the nation.

A colorful character with an eventful life, Perot went from being a Navy officer to an IBM salesman before making his fortune as the founder of a data processing company, which he sold to General Motors in 1984. His role in the race gained him no Electoral College votes, but he was nonetheless considered a spoiler that helped Bill Clinton win his first term.

An almost-spoiler in that same campaign was Pat Buchanan, a Washington insider who made a name for himself in the Nixon administration and later the Reagan White House. From the start, he held deeply conservative beliefs and staked his place as the father of the culture wars—particularly when it came to gay rights, abortion, diversity, and immigration.

Ralph Nader ran on a progressive platform of campaign finance reform, universal health care, affordable housing, free higher education, a living wage, marijuana legalization, criminal justice reform, labor-friendly policies, environmental protections, and higher taxes for corporations.

Nader went on to receive 2.9 million votes, falling short of the five percent goal. But he did win 97,488 votes in Florida—a state Gore lost by only 537 votes. There’s a good reason many Democrats still bitterly blame Nader for Gore’s loss in 2000. If Buchanan harmed Gore’s chances, Nader, many believe, dealt the fatal blow.

One can’t help but wonder what effect the parade of whackos and weirdos will have come November 5.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Steak with Herb Sauce (Bistecca Con Salsa delle Erbe)

A great summertime dish with vibrant, fresh herbal flavors. Serve with roasted red potatoes and carrots.

1 cup packed basil leaves
1 cup packed flat-leaf parsley leaves
2 Tbs. packed fresh oregano leaves
1 Tbs. packed fresh rosemary leaves
1 Tbs. packed fresh thyme leaves
1 Tbs. packed fresh tarragon leaves
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup plus 2 tbsp. extra-virgin olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 24 oz. 2″–3″-thick rib-eye, strip, or porterhouse steak

Put the herbs and garlic on a cutting board and finely chop together. Transfer herb mixture to a small bowl and stir in 1/2 cup oil. Season herb sauce with salt and pepper, cover with plastic wrap, and set aside for at least 1 hour to let the flavors meld. Meanwhile, put steak on a plate; season generously with salt and pepper and rub with the remaining oil.

Build a medium-hot fire in a charcoal grill or heat a gas grill to medium-high. Cook steak, flipping once, until browned and cooked to desired doneness, 8–10 minutes for medium rare. Transfer steak to a platter and let rest for 5 minutes. Slice steak against the grain and spoon sauce over top.

Not counting the handfuls of OTC vitamins and probiotics I gulp down each morning to keep things with my body on the right track, I take eleven prescribed drugs. Recently, I had an infusion of something called Reclast to keep my osteopenia in check, hoping the condition doesn’t advance to become osteoporosis. Reclast, which must mean that the clast didn’t work and has to be tried again, is a once-a-year drug therapy whose main side effect is that your jaw may grow to resemble Jay Leno’s. (If your insurance won’t cover such therapy there’s a side effect called bankruptcy. The annual cost of the therapy is upwards of $12,000.)

Some of my meds are to keep my mood elevated, my heartburn to allow my consumption of andouille sausage, my hypertension lessened, and my blood pressure lowered. The mood thing is secondary to the meds I take for the much harsher bipolar disorder. That last symptom has been corrected to the point of my blood pressure actually getting worse, on the low end of the spectrum. A recent two-hour stint in the emergency room was time enough to get my blood pressure up with an IV of saline. (Life is a balancing act.)

To manage my anxiety, the docs all suggest that I not watch the Democratic National Convention tomorrow. One suggested I watch re-runs of “M*A*S*H” and “The Golden Girls” to replace the non-stop parade of ex-presidents and future wannabes there to remind the convention attendees that they are Democrats. I wished to attend the convention as a way to commemorate the 56 years that have passed since I got lightly Billy Clubbed on Michigan Avenue by a policeman in full riot gear.

While there will be protesters demonstrating against America’s policies in Israel and every other country on the globe, those protests will be usurped by the high drama that will be on display as Trump trumps the Dems in prime time by announcing that J.D. Vance will be replaced on the Republican ticket by Sarah Palin.

President Biden is expected to spontaneously best Jack Palance’s Oscar performance of push-ups. That might be all the inspiration it takes to put him back on the ballot.

But back to drugs.

Despite their scope, none of my drugs made the Top 10 list that President Biden oversaw as he harangued Big Pharm to lower their prices. If I had diabetes or was a candidate for heart failure or blood clots, I’d be saving bundles by taking drugs that I still couldn’t afford.

Actually, the prices of the new drug act are the prices Medicare will pay provided you have Medicare Part D. Even then, Medicare can deny coverage based on criteria we will never know but which might seem to be a whim.

To put it simply, if you are not fully insured and/or not a billionaire, you’re looking at treatment you’ll probably not be able to afford. If you’re unfortunate enough to suffer from blood cancer you’re looking at drug therapy that will cost upwards of $9,340 per month, a 38% drop from nearly $15,000 per month.

The government says it will save roughly $6 billion off the Medicare prices paid this year for the same medications. The Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services (CMS) estimates that 8.8 million of the 54 million Americans with Medicare Part D were using the 10 medications in 2023.

There is some mystery to the math employed by whatever government agency it was that negotiated the price changes. It’s been reported that there are ten drugs on the list. Actually there are only nine drugs and two insulins on the list, unless you count Fiasp and NovoLog as interchangeable and lump it into the drug list. Either way, there seems to be some math challenges.

Three of the drugs—Januvia, Farxiga, and Jardience—are to treat diabetes, a disease that affects almost 35 million Americans (10.5% of the population). I have no idea of the efficacy of these drugs, but Jardience has television commercials that are like musicals in miniature. Song and dance make it seem like some diabetics are really having serious fun with their medicinal regimen.

Few drugs seem to do more than address one or two ailments. Enbrel (arthritis, psoriasis), Stelara (Crohn’s disease, colitis), Xarelto (artery disease) and Eliquis (blood clots) are second-tier drugs. The heavy stuff is Entresto (heart failure) and Imbruvica (the aforementioned blood cancer).

The sicker you are, the more money is spent by Medicare, private insurance or, God forbid, your own savings. The ideal, of course, would be to rid America of insurance companies and offer free medical coverage with no exception to our citizen population.

There are those who believe that universal healthcare is a prime example of socialism. Those same people don’t seem to mind having clean water, paved highways and public schools.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken Cacciatora

This is a family favorite for slightly spicy and bright flavors of red bell peppers and celery. Adding some carrots or green beans would be fine, as would green bell peppers. I like to serve this with linguine or spaghetti.

Olive oil
8 chicken pieces
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 onion, coarsely chopped
4 celery stalks, cut into 2” lengths
2 red bell peppers, seeded and cut into 1” strips
28 oz. can dice tomatoes
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
G lass white wine
Chicken stock to cover

Brown chicken pieces; remove and drain much of the oil. Sauté garlic, onions, celery and peppers. Add wine, red pepper flakes and tomatoes; cook for a few minutes. Add stock. Transfer to baking pan and add chicken. Bake at 400° for 35-40 minutes.

There are several theories that can be used to calculate the probabilities of success in the restaurant business. While I won’t pretend to know the efficacies of such studies, my gut tells me that if you want to be the chef/owner of an eight-table, 30-seat hole-in-wall joint, your interest in food far out distances any particular interest you might have in money. People who want to contribute to the six-trillion hamburgers that McDonald’s has served in the past few decades are prime candidates to enjoy the riches afforded to those who just don’t give a damn about food. They see the preparation and service of food as steppingstones to untold riches. They eagerly embrace new methods of preparation that will reduce payroll and give way to increased profitability and lower costs.

Without so much as ever opening a cookbook, these entrepreneurs in the food world know their ways through Samuelson’s Economics and can with ease apply economies of scale to whatever venture may be presented. The models that Samuelson and his cronies made little sense to me. When I was a student at the University of Illinois, I minored in economics and joined the small masses of young folks willing to sell their souls to gain take control of their fathers’ businesses upon graduation.

Not really.

I was not part of that group. I left the businesses of my father to him and started off as a journalist. I figured the economics background would serve me well. I’m not sure that it did.

My first foray into the business world came during my elementary school years when I collected discarded soda bottles and turned them into a corner dairy in my neighborhood for pennies and nickels.

It was about this time that McDonald’s opened its first franchise store in Des Plaines, a few miles away in that Chicago suburb. It was fun and the hamburgers actually tasted good, which is the secret behind fast-food outlets. Well, the real secret is sugar. To this day, I’ll have a Big Mac and fries every now and then. I’m in good company in that Julia Child also had that iconic sandwich every now and then.

Franchise restaurants are the product of focus groups and consumer surveys that, for all intents and purposes, guarantee success. The mid-level casual restaurants like Applebee’s are a bit riskier than those with drive-thru windows, but not by much.

The mom-and-pop restaurants are what I seek out when traveling. You don’t learn much about a town if your dinner was what you had in your town. Give me Lou’s Café or Mom’s Home Cooking on a small town’s Main Street any day of the week.

The small, independent restaurant has several each of advantages and disadvantages. In a franchise, your marketing is built-in to the business model. There’s shared advertising and most can be saved from the doldrums of a slow month with funds from the franchiser.

As jealous as I might have been of the franchised restaurants’ cash flow and other perks, I was, after twelve years as chef/owner of a thirty-seat Italian restaurant, pleased to have maintained my independence. Cash flow was a constant battle. I couldn’t afford advertising, so I relied on word-of-mouth. Hell, I couldn’t even afford a cash register that told the operator how much change was due to a customer.

My employees knew how to count.

Most of them—not all—knew how to cook or wait tables. A lot of my employees had drug or alcohol problems and they were savvy enough to know that I couldn’t afford to drug-test them. Unlike the uniformed robots delivering fries to the windows, my employees were rag-tag groups that in most cases cared more about the food than they did about whatever flavor-of-the-week narcotics found their ways into their bodies.

In a room full of sharp knives, I never felt threatened.

I had more than a handful of talented cooks go through the revolving door. I mean, really talented. They had learned their craft in small restaurants, patching together skills that were well-earned. I learned early on that cooks who had attended culinary schools had picked up a single skill or cuisine. My best employees tended to be high school boys who played team sports. I don’t think any of them used drugs, but they knew what teamwork was all about.

I learned early on not to hire snowboarders.

The restaurant kitchen is a unique workplace. There’s plenty of high energy and little room for error. A slip in the preparation of a table’s order can result in a bad dining experience. A table of four might be having its dinner prepared by three or four cooks. It can also result in entire dinners having to be tossed. Waste is the restaurant’s biggest enemy.

I miss the restaurant business and the customers who were appreciative of our efforts. I miss most of the people who came to work for me. I miss the heat of the char broiler and the range top; two ancient pizza ovens, barely insulated, chugged along at 475 degrees each.

And at the end of the day, as the hour would approach 11 or 12, we’d go outside, grab a smoke and a shift drink, and laugh at the train wrecks we had so narrowly averted.

We’d tell some kitchen war stories, snuff out the cigarettes and head back to a kitchen that needed an hour or so of deep cleaning.

Photo manipulation by Courtney A. Liska

Crostata di Marmellata

3 cups flour
3/4 cups sugar
1 tsp. baking powder
1 Tbs. grated lemon zest
12 Tbs. butter, melted
1 egg, lightly beaten
2 egg yolks, lightly beaten
1 cup blackberry or prune jam
1 tbsp. lemon juice

Sift together flour, sugar, and baking powder into a large bowl, add lemon zest, and stir to combine. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and add butter and eggs to the well. Using 2 knives, work mixture into butter and eggs until dough resembles coarse meal. Turn dough out onto a lightly floured surface, lightly flour your hands, and knead just enough to make dough smooth. Press dough into a rough ball and flatten slightly to make a flat disk. Wrap disk in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 1 hour or overnight.

Heat oven to 350º. Allow dough to sit at room temperature to soften slightly before rolling out onto a lightly floured surface to a 1/4″-thick round. Lay the bottom of a 10″ or 11″ false-bottom tart pan on top of dough. Using a small knife, cut around the edge, saving the scraps, then remove tart pan bottom and carefully transfer dough round to a parchment-lined cookie sheet. Gather dough scraps into a ball and roll out again on a lightly floured surface into a 1/4″-thick round. Cut eight 1/4″-wide strips, then, using the palms of your hands, gently roll each until edges are rounded. Discard remaining scraps.

Combine jam and lemon juice in a small bowl, then spread over center of dough, leaving a 2″ border around edge. Fold dough edge over to just meet edge of jam. Arrange dough strips on top of jam in a lattice pattern, trimming off any overhanging dough. Bake until golden, 35-40 minutes. Cool before serving.

There are several compelling reasons for supporting Kamala Harris’s bid for the United States presidency. She’s smart, she’s edgy, she’s accomplished, and she’s empathetic to those in need. The fact that she’s a woman of color shouldn’t matter, but until that highest of glass ceilings is shattered, I suppose it must. The flip side of her political wonkiness is the fact that she likes to dance. She knows not to clap on the one and three, and her moves easily keep up with the little kids with whom she’s often seen dancing.

She also seems to have a wide-ranging taste in music, from hip-hop and gospel to pop and African folk. She has expressed her admiration for Prince, Beyoncé and Lady Gaga, and recently said her favorite album was Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life. The album was released in 1976; Kamala Harris was 12 years old.

Like me, I assume Ms. Harris changes her mind about a favorite record on a weekly if not daily basis. There’s too much great music for one single record to sit atop anybody’s personal play list for any extended period. And like Ms. Harris, Songs in the Key of Life, has topped my list from time to time. I’m especially fond of Wonder’s “Sir Duke,” a jazz-inspired tune whose infectious rhythms dare the listener to not tap a foot.

And then came that magical moment when Madame Vice President was seen exiting the front door of Home Rule Records, a Black-owned purveyor of vinyl records in Washington, D.C. She had made a purchase of three LPs that she delighted in showing the small press gathering: Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s Porgy and Bess studio album from 1959, and Charles Mingus’ 1972 avant-garde Let My Children Hear Music. “Really one of the greatest jazz performers ever,” Harris said of the legendary bassist. Her assessment is spot on.

She also took home one of her personal favorites—Roy Ayers’s timeless 1976 album Everybody Loves the Sunshine.

If I’d pay closer attention to People magazine, I’d have known before this week that the Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff is a jazz fan. His admiration for the genre was great enough to borrow jazz names for his children from his first marriage: Cole, as in Coltrane, and Ella, as in Fitzgerald. I, too, wanted to name my son after a jazz great. Geri, however, thought that Thelonious, as in Thelonious Monk, was too much.

When Kamala Harris wins this November’s election, she will be known to me as Prez, the title bestowed on tenor saxophonist Lester Young. In the meantime I’ll share a list of some highly recommended recordings. Maybe she’ll want to share hers.

Titles are common in the world of jazz, from Duke, as in Ellington, and Count, as in Basie. Both have contributed greatly to that world in a variety of forms. From Ellington I would suggest his 1967 studio album …And His Mother Called Him Bill in the wake of the 1967 death of his long-time collaborator, Billy Strayhorn. A studio album by Duke Ellington recorded in the wake of the 1967 death of his long-time collaborator, Billy Strayhorn. It won the Grammy Award for Best Large Jazz Ensemble Album in 1968. And from the ever-driven blues-based Count, his 1983 88 Basie Street won the Grammy Award for Best Jazz Instrumental Performance.

I’m a big fan of big band music. I like the swing of the era that gave us Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw and the Dorsey Brothers. But I also enjoy the big bands that delivered what could almost be called concert music. Among that latter group come such examples as Oliver Nelson’s The Blues and the Abstract Truth with Freddie Hubbard, Eric Dolphy, Bill Evans (his only appearance with Nelson), Paul Chambers and Roy Haynes.

Following in those footsteps comes the Liberation Music Orchestra, the brainchild of bassist Charlie Haden. Its 1982 album The Ballad of the Fallen on ECM commented again on the Spanish Civil War as well as United States involvement in Latin America.

Politics came into play for many jazz artists in the 1960s, including Max Roach’s Freedom Now Suite, with vocals by his then-wife Abbey Lincoln and lyrics by Oscar Brown Jr. In 1962, he recorded the album Money Jungle, a collaboration with Mingus and Duke Ellington. This is generally regarded as one of the finest trio albums ever recorded.

A Genuine Tong Funeral is an album by vibraphonist Gary Burton featuring compositions by Carla Bley recorded in 1967. It features Burton with Bley herself on keyboards and conducting an expanded ensemble consisting of trumpeter Michael Mantler, trombonist Jimmy Knepper, tenor saxophonist Gato Barbieri, soprano saxophonist Steve Lacy, baritone saxophonist Howard Johnson, guitarist Larry Coryell, bassist Steve Swallow and drummer Bob Moses.

Politics notwithstanding, vibraphonist Terry Gibbs, today mere months away from celebrating his 100th birthday, started the Dream Band when he moved from New York to Hollywood in 1959. Swing was Gibbs’s religion, and the Dream Band kept the faith. In another example of unadulterated swing comes the Toshiko Akiyoshi—Lew Tabackin Big Band’s rendering of “Road Time Shuffle” from its Road Time release.

East Broadway Run Down (1966), which featured trumpeter Freddie Hubbard, bassist Jimmy Garrison, and drummer Elvin Jones, is a must-have recording from Sonny Rollins. So too is Benny Carter Meets Oscar Peterson, a 1986 album by alto saxophonist Benny Carter, featuring the pianist Oscar Peterson and guitarist Joe Pass.

Ms. Harris is probably familiar with many of the records I’ve mentioned here. But there’s one I’d like her to hear. It’s a record made in 1985 with bassist John Heard, pianist Tom Ranier and drummer Sherman Ferguson. Heard Ranier Ferguson, on the ITI label, is one of my favorite records—and not just because I produced it.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Vichyssoise

1 medium onion, coarsely chopped

1 to 1 ½ pounds leeks, white and light green parts only, chopped

2 pounds baking potatoes, peeled and cut into large chunks

Salt and Pepper to taste

4 whole garlic cloves

4 cups chicken Stock

¾ cup heavy cream

Sour cream, for garnish

Chives, for garnish

Basil Oil:

3 cups Mixed Green Herbs (Basil, Parsley, Spinach, Cilantro)

1 cup Grape Seed Oil

Sweat the onion in a pot until translucent.

Add the leeks and the potatoes and season with salt and pepper. Add the garlic and the chicken stock (just enough to cover the vegetables). Cook at a medium heat until the potatoes are tender and can be smashed with ease, about 45 minutes to an hour.

Use an immersion blender to purée the mixture until smooth.  Once blended, stir in 1 to 1 ½ cups of cream.  Allow the soup to cool and refrigerate for at least 24 hours.

Pour the chilled Vichyssoise into serving bowls. Garnish with a dollop of sour cream in the center, adding the basil oil to decorate.

Garnish with parsley or basil.

Basil Oil:

In a blender, combine basil leaves, Italian parsley, spinach leaves, and grape seed oil. Blend for about 2-3 minutes or until you achieve a vivid green color.

Transfer the mixture to a pot and heat to about 190°F (approx. 90°C). Maintain this temperature for 5 to 10 minutes.  Strain the mixture to remove solids, squeezing out as much oil as possible.

Store the oil in a squeeze bottle in the fridge for easy decoration. The oil will keep for 6 to 8 weeks in the fridge.

Fewer than five minutes—four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, to be exact—had lapsed since the shots pinged across a Pennsylvania afternoon sky before the internet was flooded with so-called “conspiracy theories” regarding the attempted assassination of former President Donald J. Trump. Topping the initial lists of wacky ideas of who was to blame was, of course, Joe Biden.

Biden’s alleged involvement ran the gamut from his actually firing the shots from a rooftop to his having sent a PayPal payment to the father of the alleged shooter (not Biden) to purchase the AR-15 type rifle used in the incident. Beyond those theories mentioning Biden, the next most popular theory was that somebody, somehow staged last Saturday’s event. An old friend of mine from California who really needs to get a grip, posted this rendition:

When news originally broke on Saturday about an attempt on Trump’s life, I immediately smelled a rat and suspected the whole thing had been staged. I kept right on believing that until word filtered down about one rallygoer being killed and two others critically injured. Then I thought, well, apparently it’s real, even though Trump somehow had the presence of mind in the moment to thrust his fist into the air and shout, “Fight! Fight!” repeatedly just before being hustled offstage. Ever the showman.

How, I want to know, can you construct such an intricate conspiracy theory without mentioning Joe Biden? It can’t be done, which negates my friend’s theory.

Because Trump survived the attack with only the loss of some part of his ear, the reigning theory involves it being an act of God, which negates any insurance claim the former president might make. Trump believes he was “spared by God,” which makes me respond with “spare me.” All we need (again) is to have some deranged halfwit in the Oval Office who thinks he’s got God’s ear. (Sorry.) Nonetheless, Trump thinks all of this has given rise to a new plan to “bring the country together,” which demands we all wear little white MAGA pillows on our right ears.

Pledging to use this gift from God as impetus to bring the masses together to act as a unified nation where Republicans and Democrats are interchangeable parts of a political whole, Trump gave a rousing 15-minute acceptance speech Thursday night at the National Republican Convention and Pep Rally in Milwaukee. At minute sixteen, or thereabouts, he started his interminable whine about the election steal in 2020. He blathered on for another hour-and-a-quarter about his ear and the relationship he’s developed with the Supreme Being. He ended his part of the evening much like a municipal fireworks display ends a July 4 celebration: gather whatever’s left and blow it all to hell.

Conspiracy theorists love those plotlines that are the most fantastic and convoluted. The deeper the story cuts into reality, the better. If any aspect of the story can be reasonably supported by any level of plausibility, the further the theory can be advanced on not-so-doubting Thomases.

“We are in the process of the second American revolution, which will remain bloodless if the left allows it to be,” Kevin Roberts, the Foundation’ president, told the War Room, a podcast founded by Trump adviser Steve Bannon. In response, the Biden campaign accused Trump and his allies of “dreaming of a violent revolution to destroy the very idea of America.”

Thus introduces Project 2025, a Republican game plan for America’s future created by the Heritage Foundation, a group of right-wing, hand-wringing extremists led by a Colorado-based brewer named Coors.

The think-tank’s output is nearly 900 pages in length. Much of it was composed by former Trump insiders. It calls for the sacking of thousands of civil servants, expanding the power of the president, dismantling the Department of Education, sweeping tax cuts, a ban on pornography, halting sales of the abortion pill, and a whole lot more. It proposes that the entire federal bureaucracy, including independent agencies such as the Department of Justice, be placed under direct presidential control—a controversial idea known as “unitary executive theory.”

Trump, of course, while claiming to not know anything about Project 2025, has nonetheless disavowed the document.

“I know nothing about Project 2025,” Trump posted on his social media website, Truth Social. “I have no idea who is behind it. I disagree with some of the things they’re saying and some of the things they’re saying are absolutely ridiculous and abysmal.”

But wait! There’s more.

The document describes the FBI a “bloated, arrogant, increasingly lawless organization.” It calls for drastic overhauls of this and several other federal agencies, as well as the complete elimination of the Department of Education. It proposes slashing federal money for research and investment in renewable energy, and calls for the next president to “stop the war on oil and natural gas.” Current carbon-reduction goals would be replaced by efforts to increase energy production and energy security.

But the economic advisers suggest that a second Trump administration should slash corporate and income taxes, abolish the Federal Reserve and even consider a return to gold-backed currency.

Clearly, Project 2025 is the most complex and intriguing of all conspiracy theories.

The problem, of course, is that it isn’t a conspiracy theory.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Although California kind of jumped the gun on seasonal wildfires this year, the fire season is just beginning in most of the American West. Contrary to popular belief, most of the residents of western states live in population centers, i.e., cities and towns. We’re mostly bothered by the smoke of wildfires that darkens our skies during tourist season. Flames seem to leap-frog towns to more forested lands.

How any of these environmental changes might take place as time marches on is anybody’s guess. Global warming or climate change has delivered record-high temperatures to most of the country, along with flooding in eastern states, reaching as far north as Maine.

Hurricane season started a month ago, with Beryl delivering its wrath to southeastern Texas before curling around the states of the Deep South and heading north to embrace New England, endangering both shrimp harvests and sap production.

The weather events of this year have caught many residents off guard and unprepared, even downright surprised. It’s important to you and your families that you are ready to face flames racing toward your house and outbuildings. Make sure that the kids and their mothers have packed emergency bags filled with those things you’ll either need or want to save. As you find space in emergency shelters, the men of the house will stay behind, climbing to rooftops with garden hoses to fight fires that may or may not reach said properties. It should be noted that this is about as effective as pissing on a campfire.

Preparing for emergencies involves recognizing four main considerations: 1) find out your risks, 2) plan your destination, 3) pack your supplies, and 4) access reliable information sources.

Step one will prevent your packing life jackets in areas where there is little to no water. The authorities will answer step two for you. Step three is completely up to you. Step four involves watching MSNBC—which has yet to report a single local story in its 28-year history-—while flames lap at the eaves of your house.

There are several things that are important to pack for emergencies. First and foremost is to pack heat: a quality firearm that will discourage anybody from trying to steal a few bottles of imported water from your private stash. There may be other uses for that .357 Magnum handgun that don’t jump to mind. Plan carefully.

When packing for the inevitable, don’t waste space on food or water, all of which will be provided by the Red Cross or, if you’re really lucky, by Chef José Andrés. If you have any special dietary needs dictated by diabetes (hard-cooked eggs, fruit) or snobbery (foie gras, duck confit), you’ll need to bring those foodstuffs. Don’t forget your meds, especially the recreational ones that will make the Big Disaster tolerable. Bring enough to share.

Many things that belong in an emergency pack are obvious. Your wallet, stuffed with all the cash you can find lying around the house (including the kids’ piggy banks), probably already contains a driver’s license, medical plans, and Medicare cards. It’s important to find the key to your safety deposit box and hope the bank doesn’t burn down. Since you can’t seem to drive around the block without yakking to somebody on your Smart Phone, I’m sure you don’t need a reminder to have it on hand as you flee a natural disaster. At least you’ll have something to talk about.

It seems like a good idea to have a flashlight and extra batteries, but I don’t know why.

It’s been said that when people have been the victims of home loss, it is the photographs they miss the most. In anticipation of this, take your favorites pictures and save them to your phone. I’ll survive with the pictures I already have saved. However, I’ll remember to grab my artfully framed, autographed photo of Ernie Banks. I’ll also grab the signed letter sent to me by Frank Sinatra and the framed front page of the Chicago Tribune the day after the Cubs won the World Series in 2016. “At Last!” was the headline.

One website I found about this very subject advised the reader to remember to bring your checkbook and any bills. This makes no sense. I haven’t written a check since who-knows-when, choosing to use the debit card the bank gave me and that I keep in my aforementioned wallet. And why, when the fires are delivering threats to person and property, would I possibly want to waste time locating my gas or cellular bill? I can do well to not being able to find them during non-emergency times.

Do not forget to pack the transistor radio you last used at a 1982 Dodgers game.

Toilet paper and beer. These are items that are first to fly off the supermarket shelves when any emergency is reported on AM radio. There is some wisdom in such inclusions to your survival kit. I would replace the beer with Scotch. There’s no substitute for toilet paper, unless your local evacuation center has bidets.

Once you have everything you need gathered and placed in something smaller than a carry-on, find a location in your place of residence to keep it handy for a speedy escape.

I tested this, placing my pack at the front door—which is my usual point of entry or escape. My dog only uses the backdoor.

This might be problematic in the case of an actual emergency.

Photo and canine styling by Courtney A. Liska

Aioli

Arguably the greatest cold sauce of all time, aioli is a simple sauce of olive oil emulsified into freshly crushed garlic, seasoned simply with salt and lemon. A pure, fiery sauce features an intense garlic flavor that is perfect for asparagus and green beans, eggs, and fish. It takes sandwiches to new heights.

4 large cloves fresh garlic, peeled and sliced
½ tsp. kosher salt, or other course-grain salt
1 tsp. fresh lemon juice
½ extra-virgin olive oil
1 tsp. water to adjust texture, or more as needed

Place garlic slices in a mortar with kosher salt. Mash with the pestle into a fine paste, 4 or 5 minutes. Mix in lemon juice.
Add a teaspoon of olive oil; stir and mash until oil is incorporated. Add another teaspoon and mix thoroughly. Continue incorporating olive oil, teaspoon by teaspoon, mashing and stirring until aioli thickens up. If the aioli gets thicker than you like, add a few drops of water.

Joe Biden had a bad night during the first Presidential Debate last week. From the coverage afforded those ninety minutes, one might think that nothing else had happened in the modern world. President Biden fumbled and stumbled his way through the not-so-vigorous series of questions posed to him and his opponent Donald Trump, the twice-impeached, convicted felon. Not to be immodest, but I find myself frequently fumbling and stumbling as I try to recall at least a few of the items on the grocery list I left on the kitchen counter. And I’m only days away from turning 73 and am currently not in the running for any political office. The latter of which is something for which we should all be thankful.

What hasn’t received much media coverage, oddly enough, is Trump’s being a participant at the debate. That might be because he didn’t say anything noteworthy. And he didn’t go off on too many tangents during the time afforded the candidates. On a daily basis, Trump is far more entertaining doing anything other than debating.

It could be argued that calling what millions of Americans tuned into is hardly a debate. There are defined rules to debate that allow each participant to pose a question, listen to a response, and counter with another response. What America witnessed was a platform that allowed each participant to answer questions posed by a third party, without the luxury of any responses. This was a dog-and-pony show in which Biden gave a “poor performance.” Performance is a show biz term. Its use should be limited to that field. Oh, wait. Maybe it was.

I was amused by something Trump said in the course of discussing the immigration problem that seems to be plaguing the nation. The media gave it short shrift while the internet went oddly berserk with its reactions for a few moments. Here’s what the former president had to say:

“They’re taking Black jobs and they’re taking Hispanic jobs, and you haven’t seen it yet but you’re going to see something that’s going to be the worst in our history,” speaking of migrants crossing the southern U.S. border.

I’m going to assume that “the worst in our history” refers to Trump’s first time being in office. There’s little doubt that a second turn in the Oval Office would open the doors for even more “worst.”

But that’s for a later date. For now, I’m curious about what “Black jobs” are. I also wonder what he means by “Hispanic jobs.”

Because the vast majority of migrants are Hispanic, the Hispanics might be taking the Hispanics’ jobs here in America. Then, of course, the displaced Hispanics will have to develop new skill sets to gain employment in fields otherwise devoid of any Hispanic workers, like accounting or proof reading. The reality is that migrant farm workers will displace other workers at just the right level to assure that the working poor remain the working poor.

Now, what’s up with Black jobs? The agrarian jobs held mostly by Hispanic workers have long not belonged to Black workers. The skill sets learned in the cotton fields of the American south were not needed to work the factory jobs that were made available to pre-union Blacks. The shacks of rural slaves were replaced by urban tenements. The jobs were just enough to keep them at bay, thankful for steady work and a weekly paycheck.

Like always, Trump is somewhat out of touch with what many of us might think is reality. He certainly is in this case. The majority of Blacks have given up farm work for factory work. Today, of course, most American Blacks are in the entertainment industry. From comedy to tragedy, it is the Black man who treads the boards and stands in the spotlight. I offer as proof the fact that most participants in jazz are Black. Many Blacks have made a name for themselves in the world of sports, especially basketball.

Trump does a disservice to the rest of Americans who have had to ply trades for which they are genetically predisposed. My paternal grandmother was Bohemian so, of course, she worked as a seamstress. Her husband, also Bohemian, tended a single Damson pear tree that provided enough fruit to make slivovitz—a vile alcoholic beverage—and survive both Prohibition and the Great Depression.

My maternal grandparents came from Scottish stock which seemed to offer less affinity for any job and led them to be quiet townspeople operating a weekly newspaper in rural Nebraska. My grandfather also spoke the gospel at various tent shows on Saturday nights. I don’t believe snake-handling was part of his shows, but I’ll never know.

A lot of the people I knew on the west side of Chicago were Irish. They were mostly cops, which was also true in Boston. Those who weren’t cops were drunks, which was also true in Boston. The Italians in my neighborhood were low-ranking wannabes in organized crime. The rest of them owned Italian restaurants that were fronts for organized crime.

Those of German heritage worked as factory foremen and train operators. A handful of them tried opening German restaurants but found that not too many people cared much for rouladen, a stuffed meat roll inspired by the Italian braciole.

Every bar on the west and north side of Chicago was owned by Polish people. They were depressing places except in the early morning when factory workers would drop by for a boilermaker—a beer with a shot of whiskey dropped in. Nothing says “good morning” like a shot and a beer.

Jews became concert violinists or physicists. A few members of the tribe became comics. Actually, a lot of us became comics. And that’s funny.

Photo manipulation by Courtney A. Liska

Braciole

1½ pounds top round
3 cloves garlic
½ cup breadcrumbs
8 ounces Italian sausage
½ cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese
4 tablespoons coarsely chopped fresh parsley
4 tablespoons olive oil
½ cup dry red wine
28 ounces peeled tomatoes, pureed or crushed
Salt and black pepper

Have your butcher cut the top round beef into thin slices.
Use a meat mallet to pound the steaks between two sheets of baking paper.
Combine the breadcrumbs, Pecorino cheese, sausage, parsley, and 1 chopped garlic clove in a small bowl. Season with salt and black pepper.
Lay out the pounded steaks on the work surface. Season with salt and pepper, then divide the filling mixture evenly amongst the steaks.
Roll up, folding the sides in as you go. Secure with cooking twine.
Heat the olive oil in a large frypan over medium-high heat. Cook the beef rolls for 3-4 minutes, turning, until browned all over.
Add the remaining garlic and when you can smell the garlic beginning to cook, pour in the red wine and let the wine come to a boil.
Then add the tomato puree, salt, and pepper and bring to a boil, spoon the sauce over the braciole, then lower the heat to a gentle simmer. Place the lid on and let it simmer gently for 1½ – 2 hours or until the meat is tender.
Halfway through the cooking, turn the braciole over and continue cooking.
Use the sauce to coat some pasta to be served alongside the braciole.

Standing in the evening shadows of Notre Dame cathedral, you can inhale the air wafting up from the imperceptibly flowing River Seine. Aromas of various forms of pollution mix with the overwhelming smell of diesel fuel, motor oil and sewage—each of which is a vile form of pollution. Barges and houseboats line the shores of the river while tour boats and push-tows navigate their ways to destinations unknown to the observer. An escape to a crepe cart helps provide olfactory relief, tastes of Cointreau, strawberries or chocolate that fill the delicate pancake.

In less than a month, Olympic swimmers will dive headfirst into the famous Seine as they remind themselves not to ingest any of the water.

This whole notion of using the 483-mile long Seine is a bad idea gone almost good. It was somebody’s vision of a spectacle that was tossed out during the initial planning stages of this year’s summer games. Nobody told him to sit down at the oval-shaped table and keep his bizarre ideas to himself. On his own, he pursued his idea—quietly outlining a plan that would pass muster with the Olympic committee and whatever group it is that runs France. The Olympic committee wanted money for its approval; the French just wanted cheese and cases of Czechian Viognier.

Officials are enthusiastic about holding swimming and diving events in the river and are confident that the use of the waterway—only a tiny portion of the river will be used in competition—will help add excitement to the otherwise boring swimming and diving competitions. Underfed competitors from around the world have been assured that while they might get a snout full of watery excrement, there at least won’t be that awful aroma of chlorine that fills indoor swimming pools.

Rest assured that the Paris Organizing Committee is confident that it will be possible to use the Seine, although events could be cancelled if pollution levels are too high. Pollution experts are busy keeping tabs on the river, recently noting that “pollution of fecal origin” was higher than permitted.

“Pollution of fecal origin” is the worst possible kind of pollution, said a committee spokesperson.

Cleaning up the Seine is a $1.5 billion “ambitious plan” to open it to public swimmers by 2025. It’s been illegal for 100 years to swim in the river because of high pollution levels. There have been cases of people growing extra limbs and suffering from norovirus and severe diarrhea from swimming there.

The E. coli is nothing to fool around with; it can actually lead to migraines, swollen ankles and death.
Rain is the enemy of those wishing to use the Seine as a swimming pool. The slightest amount could make E. coli show its ugly head, figuratively speaking.

A sample of water collected by the Pont Alexander III bridge, in the city’s center, showed E. coli levels two-and-a-half times the level considered safe for swimming. That, apparently, isn’t enough to keep French President Emmanuel Macron and Paris Mayor Anne Hidalgo from swimming in the river to prove its cleanliness. (Macron, it should be noted, might be ousted from office by then, thereby avoiding the challenge.)

Early testing was attempted by scientists using kayaks, boats that allow the occupant to be closest to the water. Made of polyurethane, they started to warp and melt when coming into contact with the water. Now, a year later, the boats no longer become disfigured when launched. “That’s significant progress,” noted one of the scientists, adding that they had gone through a few dozen boats while trying to collect data. Asked why they didn’t collect samples from the shores or bridges, he looked dumbfounded.

Paris, frequently called the “City of Bridges,” has several of them spanning the Right to the Left banks. The most famous of them all is Pont Neuf, which means “New Bridge.” Pont Neuf is actually the oldest bridge—oh, those French—its construction being started in 1578. All of the diving events will take place from eleven different boards and platforms scattered about the bridge. Yet to be constructed are the locker rooms where divers can wash the Seine off their bodies. The diving events will not be held until the locker rooms—whose builders have joined three other labor groups to go on strike—are built.

Cleaning the River Seine has been led by scientists from Cleveland, Ohio, who helped clean up the Cuyahoga River after it caught fire and Lake Erie, whose chemical contents were nearly half of total measures. Sadly, many of them could be characterized as doddering, but they have shown great interest in solving the biggest problems featuring swimming competitions: how does one divide the river into lanes and what does one use to mark them?

Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Steak au poivre

This is a classic French bistro dish that’s easy to make and full of peppery flavors. The sauce is a savory delight that will accompany the mashed potatoes that are a perfect accompaniment.

4 (3/4- to 1-inch-thick) boneless beef top-loin (strip) steaks (8 to 10 oz each)
1 Tbs. kosher salt
2 Tbs. whole black peppercorns
1 Tbs. vegetable oil
1/3 cup finely chopped shallots
1/4 cup unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces
1/2 cup Cognac or other brandy
3/4 cup heavy cream

Heat oven to 200°F.
Pat steaks dry and season both sides with kosher salt.
Coarsely crush peppercorns in a sealed plastic bag with a meat pounder or bottom of a heavy skillet, then press pepper evenly onto both sides of steaks.
Heat a 12-inch heavy skillet (preferably cast-iron) over moderately high heat until hot, about 3 minutes, then add oil, swirling skillet, and sauté steaks in 2 batches, turning over once, about 6 minutes per batch for medium-rare.
Transfer steaks as cooked to a heatproof platter and keep warm in oven while making sauce.
Pour off fat from skillet, then add shallots and half of butter (2 tablespoons) to skillet and cook over moderately low heat, stirring and scraping up brown bits, until shallots are well-browned all over, 3 to 5 minutes.
Add Cognac and boil, stirring, until liquid is reduced to a glaze, 2 to 3 minutes. Add cream and any meat juices accumulated on platter and boil sauce, stirring occasionally, until reduced by half, 3 to 5 minutes. Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter and cook over low heat, swirling skillet, until butter is incorporated. Serve sauce with steaks.

Louisiana wasn’t the only, but it was the first to find a way to bridge that narrowing gap between church and state.

It chose to enact Republican legislation requiring that the Ten Commandments be displayed in all of the K-12 classrooms of the state’s public schools, as well as at publicly funded colleges and universities. The size of the poster has been mandated and the font must be one that is “easily read.” I gather that the “Jokerman” typeface wouldn’t qualify, though if ever a font could reflect on the content in which it is used Jokerman wins hands down.

Louisiana is ranked forty-seventh in scholastic achievement. Acknowledging that, one might think the focus might be one of improving its failing educational standing by considering math, science and reading as important to scholarly achievement. But no. Apparently those blessed by an indoctrination of faith have little need for challenging the brain. However, it should be noted that the posting of the Ten Commandments could be a first step in the study of mythology. Religious zealots argue that the document is less a religious text than it is a historical one. They argue that the instructions handed down by God to Moses in the Book of Exodus are a major influence on United States law.

I worry about people who see the Bible as a historical document that has no precedent in reality. The Bible is, after all, a collection of stories and lore that promote views of a world guided and defined by myth. There is no proof that Moses ever existed, let alone God. But that won’t stop the true believers from foisting their beliefs on others. It’s lonely in those mostly empty pews and how, after all, can a religion exist without congregations willing to donate their hard-earned cash to whichever leader stands on the altar of submission.

As much as I enjoy the idea of commandments ordered by other religions that should accompany the Top Ten, there is a greater need to keep the whole bunch of them at bay. There is probably not enough wall space in a typical classroom to post Judaism’s 613 commandments, let alone posting the Five Pillars of Islam or the Five Precepts of Buddhism. Just for fun, we should lobby to post the Seven Tenets of Satanism. Balance, after all, should be represented in all scholarly pursuits.

But all of this bru-ha-ha is much for naught. Reasonable people with the funds will send Dick and Jane to private schools where traditional religions are replaced by the study of medieval thought in the Dark Ages. Others will shrug their shoulders. Still others will join protests of limited scope by carrying signs that say “Keep the Faith.” I’m siding with the ACLU which will quietly win the legal argument by reminding the Supreme Court of the First Amendment and its implied promise of the separation of church and state. The earliest inhabitants of white people from Europe, came here to practice religions not allowed in much of Europe. If only they had left it at that rather than trying to push their ideas of salvation on Indigenous Peoples. Combined, Native tribes had more gods than Jews have commandments.

Meanwhile, California’s Governor Gavin Newsom, a Democrat, has jumped feet first into the child-management pool by proposing legislation similar to that which Gov. Ron DeSantis, a MAGA Republican, foisted on the students of Florida. Newsom has proposed a statewide ban on using cellphones in classrooms. Such state overreach might be expected from DeSantis; it would have seemed unlikely from Newsom.

I would have thought that individual teachers would set the standards for cellphone use in the classroom. After all, there are students whose need to monitor Tik Tok is as profound as the need for air. The State won’t recognize that because it clearly states in the proposed legislation that air is more important than Tik Tok, though not by much. Oddly, there are actually teachers who don’t care if their students are more interested in playing Candy Crush than they are in memorizing the Periodic Table of Elements. Those are not considered to be good teachers and they deserve to be fired, replaced by much younger teachers who are similarly addicted to their cellphones but are willing to work for less pay.

The question of enforcement of this proposed law in California must be asked: “Who’s going to enforce this law?” The answer is simple: the teachers.

That won’t fly because most of the teachers are too busy teaching self-defense rather than Beowulf.

Clearly, the answer to this conundrum is to hire armed guards to be stationed outside every classroom. Like TSA, they will conduct searches of the students, looking for cellphones and guns.

They will also be forced to read Beowulf, an epic poem seen as a Christian allegory in which Beowulf, the champion of goodness and light, fights the forces of evil and darkness. It’s a first draft of The Adventures of Batman. It’s also the lead entry on the Why-do-we-have-to-read-this-crap list.

The Ten Commandments are much shorter to read, its message so easy to comprehend that it has been at the root of most of the wars we’ve declared on each other since Moses came down the mountain.

You can even download them to your smartphone.

Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

SCALLOPS

This dish is rich and savory, and easy to prepare. The sauce is velvety and should be sopped up with a crusty baguette. I would pair it with a dry rose.

12 large 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

Heat oil and butter in a skillet over medium heat. add garlic. When bubbling slightly, add scallops, turning gently until done (about 6 min.) remove scallops from skillet and keep them warm while finishing the sauce.

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.

Boil the cooking juices until reduced, then stir in the butter, cream and saffron. Pour the hot sauce over the scallops, garnish with parsley.