Journal

For many Americans, life in these United States is pretty good. Though I might fancy living in Italy or France, both of which offer far superior coffee and food than we can get here, I feel somewhat blessed that my parents chose to have me stateside.

Though about as far from wealthy as one in the upper echelons of the lower classes can be, I’ve not wanted for much. I have a wonderful family for whose well-being I’ve worked hard to contribute, and my chosen career took me wide and far. I’ve met hundreds of influential and interesting people, and I even took nearly twelve years off to pursue a career as a chef/owner of a restaurant in my adopted hometown.

I’ve not traveled as much as I would have liked, but I’ve seen more exotic and wonderful places than many. Alaska is the only state I’ve yet to visit and as soon as Sarah Palin leaves, I’m booking my flight.

At 71, I have a limited number of goals yet to achieve; my bucket list, such as it were, is short.

First of all, I’d like to see all of the various news outlets honor a year-long moratorium on mentioning a certain former President by name unless it’s to report that his ass is finally in a smallish room on Cellblock C. That, we might all agree, would be newsworthy.

I’m realistic about that ever coming to pass. It won’t. The reason is that the left wing of the media has way too much fun vilifying the Orange Menace while the right wing gets its kicks by spreading the nefarious lies of his party’s supporting factions. The center just seems to go along for the ride. Intelligent discourse seems limited to the editorial pages of the Times, the Washington Post and Oregon’s Clatskanie Chief.

What’s clearly missing from today’s political climes is a sense of theater. To that end, I suggest that we all contribute to Marjorie Taylor Greene’s political war chest. Because she was stripped of any chances to sit on any committee, the University of Georgia’s dumbest graduate has only a single vote on any issue. She is, if nothing else, a sideshow of her own creation and I’d like to keep her around just for her entertainment value. From Jewish lasers to her seditious praising of Vladimir Putin, her marginal stances are (as the MasterCard commercial goes) priceless.

Speaking of Georgia… How about that Herschel Walker? With his Cracker Jack police badge, an abortion controversy, and an intellect on par with that of a brain-damaged reptile, he represents the chance to give the Republicans a much-desired (by them) Senate majority. Even the many-times-married Republican from Georgia, Newt Gingrich, couldn’t get his tongue out of his cheek when endorsing the former NFL running back. It is Gingrich who, when House minority whip, gave birth to the voter-fraud movement. Don’t forget that.

Next up is that kid from Illinois who traveled to Wisconsin to kill Black Lives Matter protesters. He showed all the chutzpah of the child who kills his parents and then asks for the court’s leniency because he is now an orphan. We need to follow his career path of selling T-shirts to extremist groups who believe that white is right.

There is no shortage of extremist organizations that need exposure by the investigative press: the Elks, the Rotary, the American Kennel Club, and the PGA. And why, I want to know, do the houses of worship of the Jehovah Witnesses have no windows? Inquiring minds want to know.

Everybody remember Jeffrey Epstein? The former hedge fund manager who was convicted of sex trafficking in 2008 and was found dead in his jail cell a couple years later was a member of the Trilateral Commission, a non-governmental international organization aimed at fostering closer cooperation between Japan, Western Europe and North America. Founded in July 1973, it lists among its members luminaries in the fields of economics, diplomacy, education, and banking. Some conspiracy theorists believe the organization to be a central plotter of a world government or synarchy. Still others believe the Commission orchestrated the 9/11 attacks to initiate the new world order, and increased overdraft fees banks can charge up to $37.

Why Epstein would belong to such an august group of governmental scholars escapes me. Maybe he was in charge of entertainment.

Another membership sought after by the rich and famous is to the Bohemian Club. Based in San Francisco, it has a 2,700-acre virgin redwood grove in Sonoma County, California. Called the Bohemian Grove, it is host to a summer camp each July when its members, in conjunction with the Shriners, plot to overthrow the government. William Randolph Hearst was a member, as was Richard M. Nixon, the latter of whom was rumored to enjoy peeing in the woods.

I can’t think of a single reason to re-elect Senator Tommy Tuberville (R-AL), who suggested that Black Americans are criminals who “want to take over what you got,” other than the fact is that his name is the most humorous in all of Congress. It’s like the last train to potato land.

And finally, who can forget Arizona? Gubernatorial candidate Kari Lake, a 2020 election denier, said that she would respect the election results as long as they were “fair, honest and transparent.”

Unless she loses.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Bohemian Sausage and Cabbage

This is a common dish throughout Eastern Europe. It is Old World comfort food that is easy to make and absolutely delicious.

1/2 pound smoked kielbasa or smoked Polish sausage, cut into 1/2-inch slices
2 tablespoons butter, divided
1/2 large head cabbage (2 pounds), coarsely chopped
1 medium onion, chopped
2 cans (8 ounces each) tomato sauce
1/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon paprika
2 large potatoes, peeled and cubed

In a large enameled cast-iron or ovenproof skillet, brown the sausage in 1 tablespoon butter; remove and set aside. In the same pan, sauté cabbage and onions in remaining butter until onions are tender.

In a small bowl, combine the tomato sauce, sugar and paprika; pour over cabbage mixture. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the potatoes and reserved sausage. Cover and simmer for 30 minutes or until potatoes are tender.

Although it’s perfectly fine with me to blame Trump for everything from our diminished stature on the world stage to the clogged sink we had the other day in our kitchen, it does seem that he has contributed greatly to the decline of simple decency in our interactions with each other.

There is no argument that the former president was (is) an ill-mannered boorish lout who demonstrated his frustrations with yelling matches and food fights he engaged with the walls of his private dining room. His lack of civility was matched by an ill-fitting wardrobe. Although I’ve never seen him dine, I can only imagine that his dietary choices might befit a man unsure of which fork to use at a formal dinner.

The golf course, in spite of all odds perhaps, is one of the last vestiges of gentlemanly behavior. “Etiquette,” a former golf pro answered when I asked him what I might teach about the sport to my young son. Etiquette, from all I’ve heard, eluded the former president as he routinely cheated his way around the links. The game of golf would demand an opponent to report a score, a lie, an infraction. These things the Donald did not do.

In a sense, Trump encouraged the bad behavior of his base and created for a segment of our society whose members felt comfortable in their expressions of racism and hatred.

Preceding him in this growing erosion of common decency was much of the world of sports television. Gone were the days of simple reportage and interviews, replaced by panels of loud-mouthed men whose reporting consisted of leveling criticism in uncomfortably loud voices. Halftime shows became scream fests.

Screaming and boorish behavior became the stock-in-trade of radio hosts like Rush Limbaugh and the recently disgraced Alex Jones. Both promoted far-right conspiracy theories in voices loud enough to convince their under-educated audiences of their veracity. Gentlemen, I should note, do not create sprays of spittle in common discourse.

Etiquette is defined as the “customary code of polite behavior in society or among members of a particular profession or group.” It is a code that is gradually refined as societies change. When Emily Post wrote her landmark book, Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home in 1922, she could not have anticipated a culture that would one day bring telephones to the dining room table.

The Emily Post Institute has for 100 years monitored behavior among civilized people, offering new guidelines and changes in behavior—most notably in dining.

Table manners have evolved over centuries to make the practice of eating with others pleasant and sociable. With so many table manners to keep track, keep these basic, but oh-so-important, table manners in mind as you eat:
1. Chew with your mouth closed.
2. Keep your smartphone off the table and set to silent or vibrate. Wait to check calls and texts until you are finished with the meal and away from the table.
3. Hold utensils correctly. Don’t use your fork or spoon like a shovel or stab your food.
4. Wash up and come to the table clean. Don’t groom or attend to hygiene at the table.
5. Remember to use your napkin.
6. Wait until you’re done chewing to sip or swallow a drink.
7. Pace yourself with fellow diners. Cut only one piece of food at a time.
8. Avoid slouching and don’t place your elbows on the table while eating (though it is okay to prop your elbows on the table while conversing between courses, and always has been, even in Emily’s day).
9. Instead of reaching across the table for something, ask for it to be passed to you.
10. Bring your best self to the meal. Take part in the dinner conversation.

Geri and I enforced dining rules as our children were growing up. There’s nothing in this brief list from the institution bearing Mrs. Post’s name with which we would find any objection. Geri’s admonishments were frequently prefaced by the possibility of sharing a meal with the queen. It would be tantamount to sin to break one of the cardinal rules of dining in the presence of the queen.

Some things backfire.

When our 14-year-old grandson was reminded to remove his elbows from the table and put down his fork between bites, he countered that the chances of the queen dropping in for tea were pretty slim since she was dead.

This did not go over well. Although it was pretty damn funny, it was clearly a violation of rule #10.

Expressions of civility reflect our respect for others and reactions to situations.

It’s odd that in men’s fashion there is a growing sense of what one shirt designer calls “business casual.” I once worked for a marketing company. I rarely saw any clients and I mostly sat in a private office writing marketing things. It was rare that I even had any contact with my fellow workers. One day, instead of wearing a suit, I wore a blue blazer with chinos and a club tie. The president of the company passed me in the hallway and offered this comment: “Going sailing, are we?”

I wore suits for the rest of my tenure.

My parents insisted that my sister and I follow the standard rules of etiquette. My father became an officer and a gentleman during his 11-year stint in the U.S. Army. Some of the rules came under attack during the feminist movement when some women believed that any act of cordiality was an afront to their independence.

I disagree. I will continue to open doors for women (and men). I believe that dinner service should start with the hostess and then the dishes be passed to the right. I will hold a chair for anybody who might need assistance. And I hate seeing condiments in their packaging on the table.

What we need now is some advice about eating in one’s car.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Joel Robuchon’s Mashed Potatoes

One of the most celebrated French chefs, Joel Robuchon’s attention to detail is witnessed in this recipe for mashed potatoes. This is the way I like them.

2-1/2 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes
250 G chilled butter, cut into small cubes
250 ml Milk
Salt and Pepper as needed

1: Boil the potatoes in salty water for 25 minutes – keep the skins on and stop when tender.
2: Leave potatoes to cool before peeling the skins.
3: Rinse a saucepan but leave a small amount of water in the bottom. Add milk and slowly warm.
4: Run the peeled potatoes through a food mill on the smallest setting into a pan.
5: Heat the potatoes on a medium heat for around five minutes to remove excess moisture. You want to dry them out.
6: Turn the potatoes to a low heat and slowly start to add small cubes of the chilled butter as you stir. You have to stir the potatoes a lot and fast to give them a perfectly creamy consistency.
7: Once the butter is mixed well, add the warm milk and whip quickly and energetically to make them smooth.
8: Taste and season.

Early one morning. There’s only the morning gloaming, sunrise scheduled for 7:30. It doesn’t matter what time it is, or even what day. I’m retired and one day is just like the other, with no reason to get up much before whatever doctor’s appointment I may have scheduled for the afternoon.

7:30. The dog, Romeo, has been happy to sleep against my thigh as I contemplate why I’ve never had a job that required my wearing a shirt with my name embroidered over the left breast pocket. I wish I had. I think I’ve been missing something in my life.

7:36. I’ve drifted a bit and Romeo turns to face the curtained window. From a guttural deep-throated growl to a shrill bark, he arouses me from my twilight to inform me that at least three children are walking by the house on their way to school. I miss school, though not at this hour.

7:50. I’m up now, wandering about the house in search of I don’t know what. It’s too early to awaken my gut, and so will settle for cranberry juice. I use it to direct the 13 pills I take each morning into said gut.

9:00. I’ve completed the Los Angeles Times crossword in 19:06 minutes and finished Wordle on the third guess. Not bad since my first guess provided no particularly useful clues. I’ve checked my Facebook feed and wished happy birthday to three of my “friends.” An email informs me that my book club selection for October is Hamnet, by Maggie O’Farrell. It’s a non-fiction novel about the life and times of Shakespeare’s wife. Last month we read “The Grand Inquisitor,” the fifth chapter of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s 1880 novel The Brothers Karamazov. It was a vigorously cheery discussion with a bunch of men from Nashville whom I don’t know.

10:16. My gut needs food. Refrigerator repair guy has the fridge in pieces. No access to food, cranberry juice or ice. Remember when as kids the water from the bathroom was somehow inferior to water from the kitchen. Found a root beer in the pantry. It was warm.

11:30. Last chance to have anything to eat or drink, except for clear liquids which I assume doesn’t include vodka. (It’s already too cold for gin.)

12:30. Begin the trek over the hill for yet another CT scan, with contrast. New computer program at the hospital and I spend twenty minutes telling the young woman the most revealing of possible entries to the program. How, I wonder, if they have my name and birthday do they not have everything else. My only known allergy is to country music, which the young woman does not find amusing.

1:40. Lying on a hard bench, my britches pulled down to my knees, I slide effortlessly in and out of the donut that contains the X-ray stuff that makes pictures of my kidneys and bladder. Everybody hides behind a formidable wall as I am exposed to a whirligig rotating around my midsection.

2:10. Load up for the trek home. Forgot to use the bathroom and I feel the contrast building up in my bladder. (At least I think that’s what it is.) There is a growing sense of urgency as my driver seems to be driving slower. I’m getting desperate. I try to think about something important. Suddenly, I remember that I was curious about people who refused to evacuate from hurricane Ian.

2:17. I am not a scientist, but I believe in science. I know nothing about hurricanes, though they don’t seem to offer winds much greater than those we get in Montana. If, however, I’m sitting around watching “Jeopardy” and a bulletin comes across the screen telling me to evacuate, I’m gone. I’ll grab a bag of medical supplies, a few of my favorite pictures and a bottle of scotch and wait in the front yard for a helicopter to come take me away. It’s that simple. And it’s because I believe in science.

2:49. Home and quite relieved, so to speak. I notice on Facebook that a cat’s age to a human’s age is 14:72. I think one of our cats might be 14. This is not comforting.

3:03. I decide to watch some baseball, now that the regular season is over, and the new rules that will forever ruin my idea of the game are instituted next season. It killed me (figuratively) when the National League adopted the designated hitter rule. I want to see the pitchers bat. And the pitch clock to hurry up the game. I don’t want the game to end early. The longer it lasts, the better.

3:11. I want football to end earlier. The four-hour average football match could be shortened by getting rid of advertisements for luxury automobiles and gummy digestibles that require supplemental penile stretching and strengthening exercises. I think we know those by another name. It could also be shortened by eliminating the extra-point kick. The last time that one-point score was missed was during the Great Depression. Take 15 seconds off the clock, tack on the extra point, and get on with it.

5:00. It’s the cocktail hour. A friend has sent me news about Sonny Rollins, the jazz tenor saxophonist who is widely considered to be one of the most important and influential jazz musicians in history. In a seven-decade career, the 92-year-old Rollins has recorded more than sixty albums as a leader. Here’s the news. He’s been a longtime subscriber to MAD magazine. Is that cool, or what?

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Marinara Sauce

Nothing is more comforting than a bowl of al dente pasta with a clean and simple marinara sauce. This is how I’ve made mine for 30+ years. Buon appetito!

Extra virgin olive oil
1 large onion, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
2 small carrots, diced
Salt & pepper
6 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup red wine
2 Tbs. dried oregano
2 large bunches fresh basil, chopped
2, 28-oz. cans crushed tomatoes
2, 28-oz. cans diced tomatoes
3-4 dried bay leaves

Heat the oil in a large sauce pan and sauté the onion for 5-6 minutes; add celery and carrots and cook for 2-3 minutes more. Season with salt and pepper. Add garlic & sauté one minute. Add wine and oregano. Mix with tomatoes, basil and bay leaves. Simmer uncovered for at least 45 minutes.

It didn’t occur to me to check the calendar until it was too late: I missed National Sons’ Day. I have a wonderful son who I think about fondly and often. Along with his older sister, I’m equally proud and I meant to show no favoritism in wishing Courtney a happy National Daughters’ Day.

To be honest, I hadn’t heard of either of these days of celebration until last Sunday (NDD) and last Tuesday. You have to admit that Tuesday is a pretty lousy day to celebrate anything other than tacos but there was Facebook flooded with congratulatory notices—none of which I saw until Wednesday. I don’t do the whole belated thing because I don’t wish to appear to others as being forgetful or out of step with things.

I wonder who makes up these holidays.

Mother’s Day has a rich history dating back to 1907 when somebody named Anna Jarvis was so distraught over her mother’s death that she thought everybody in America should share her grief, even though few of us knew her or cared. What started as a simple celebration in a Methodist church became a national holiday in 1914 when President Woodrow Wilson, who presumably also had a mother, did whatever it is that presidents do to make something official. (Actually, Mother’s Day dates back forty years earlier that pushed an anti-war sentiment loosely based on “Lysistrata.” It never caught on.)

In fewer than six years, Hallmark Cards began selling greeting cards and See’s Candy started packaging chocolates in honor of mothers. The flower industry began pushing carnations as the flower of choice, restaurants doubled their prices on that second Sunday in May, and Anna Jarvis went nuts. Obviously forgetting that she lived in America, she protested the crass commercialization of what was essentially meant to be a somber day honoring mothers who regularly went to church. Or something like that.

Father’s Day, of course, predates Mother’s Day by some six centuries and was focused on the Feast of Saint Joseph who, if you’ll remember, wasn’t a father at all. (There’s probably a Stepfathers’ Day somewhere on the calendar.)

In America, Father’s Day is not as big a day as Mother’s Day for a variety of reasons. Men generally don’t care much about greeting cards, especially those that today cost in the neighborhood of thirty-eight dollars; also, chocolates and flowers don’t really do much for many of us. Most of us don’t need any more neckties. What we’d really like is a single-malt Scotch and the day off to play golf or watch NASCAR races for six uninterrupted hours or so.

In all likelihood it seems that if you can name a family member’s rank there is a national holiday at the ready.

Siblings, grandparents, in-laws, cousins, aunts, and uncles are all celebrated in the Hallmark spotlight. It is for those reasons that I’m happy to be relative-free…except for Geri and the kids. Now that I know about the holidays honoring my children, I can avoid the cost of a Hallmark card and merely mention them on Facebook. And I promise to continue to make Eggs Benedict for Geri on Mother’s Day.

It took Congressional action to help pick the days on which Mother’s and Father’s days fall. There are several more significant holidays whose designated dates are a mystery. Christmas, for instance.

There was a pop song declaring that Jesus was a Sagittarius. If one was born on December 25th, that person is, I believe, a Capricorn, missing the Sagittarius deadline by four days. Christmas, a holiday celebrating consumerism at untold heights, was chosen by popes and cardinals and other church officials, to coincide with the winter solstice—a holiday favored by pagans and heathens whom the Church needed to donate to the Church. By combining the holidays, the cash poured in while the Church adopted just enough unholy traditions to keep everybody happy. The Christmas tree, for instance, is made from a pine tree that doesn’t grow in the Middle East. As for snow? The last time it snowed in Bethlehem was centuries before Mel Tormé wrote “The Christmas Song” (“chestnuts roasting…” etc.).

For the Christians’ other most celebrated holiday, Easter, it falls sometime in what we Westerners call the Spring.

Using a mathematical formula that would confound Galileo, some committee or cabal meets annually to pick the next date of celebration based on the arbitrary position of left tackles in college football. Then they get the news to the calendar folks who are careful to print them on the pages opposite of naked firemen or cute puppies.

Jewish holidays are even more complicated, mostly because they’re in Hebrew. Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Passover, and Hanukkah are each calculated to fall on dates that are expressed each year—this year it’s 5783—that requires mathematical skills to determine. Most of the calendar folks ignore the dates altogether, opting to remind us instead of important days on the Rotary Club datebook.

This past week was a banner week for national not-quite holidays. Just yesterday, it was Pumpkin Spice Day, International Coffee Day, and National Black Dog Day. And last Wednesday, it was National Drink a Beer Day, a day honoring the memory of André the Giant who, allegedly, consumed 119 12-ounce glasses of beer in six hours.

I’m still waiting for National Hostility Day and Post-Punk Disco Day, the latter of which should be celebrated with disco balls made with tinted mirrors.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Sausage, Leek & White Bean Soup

With each passing day, we move deeper into soup weather. Enjoy!

1 pound mild Italian sausage
1 large leek, cleaned and sliced
2 clove garlic, minced
2 large carrots, washed and sliced
2 stalks celery, cleaned and sliced
1 (14-ounce) can navy beans, rinsed and drained
1 (14-ounce) can chickpeas, rinsed and drained
2 quarts chicken stock
2 sprigs fresh thyme
Salt and pepper

Heat a large soup pot over medium heat.
Slice the sausage into medallions and place directly in the pan.
Brown for about 3-4 minutes per side, stirring to break up the sausage slightly.
Add the leek and garlic and stir to combine.
Cook for 4-5 minutes until the leek starts to soften.
Add the carrots and celery and cook another 4-5 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Add the beans, chicken stock, thyme, salt and pepper and bring to a boil.
Reduce heat and simmer for 20-30 minutes until the carrots and celery are tender and the sausage is cooked through.

This is a re-posting of an essay I wrote four years ago. It is a quiet appreciation of our natural world, a celebration of faith, a respect for worship, the sadness of loss, the hope for the future. My little dog, Buddy, has left us, but his memory—like those of so many—is for a blessing that sustains me. Yom Kippur for Hebrew Year 5784 begins at sundown today and ends at nightfall on Monday, 25 September 2023. L’Shanah tovah. Stay well. Stay safe. Have a sweet New Year and an easy fast. Shalom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A morning walk seems in order.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

I’m worried about my son Daniel, who is currently facing an existential crisis involving knives.

He and Pauline are spending the month of September vacationing at his wife’s family summer home on the Normandy Coast. It’s a multi-story home with serpentine stairs reaching to the top floor. The view to the ground floor is unobstructed as one makes his/her way to the top, which is why I chose to stay off the staircase during my brief visit some ten years ago. Those stairs, as I recall were, in part, designed by the same guy who built the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Gustave Eiffel was his name and he summered in Mers-les-Bains. He must have had an affinity for acrophobia.

Accommodations there were far different from the three-room clapboard cottage on Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, that my family would rent every year for two weeks.

Mers-les-Bains translates roughly to a “place where one bathes in the sea.” Although I was there for the frigid weather the English Channel delivers in November, I understand that it is a summer place where some people actually bathe. Others play Marco Polo in French.

But my son’s quandary stems from his having left his favorite knife at his home in Washington. His defiant use of a single knife for every cooking chore brings the concept of minimalism to a new level. Philip Glass would have been proud. Daniel is a fine cook who is putting together what I assume are excellent meals of fresh seafood and vegetables for family and friends, sans his favorite knife.

Apparently, the knives of Mers-les-Bains are substandard, thereby adding a level of difficulty to the task of food preparation in a kitchen that is not his own.

While I commiserate with the challenges of cooking in somebody else’s kitchen, I don’t quite understand how one could use a single knife for every kitchen task.

I have no fewer than fifty or sixty (you don’t think I’m actually going to count them, do you?) knives. I use only a few of them. My preferred knives are made by J.A. Henckels. That company’s cutlery has been made in Solingen, Germany since 1731. I’ve only seen some Japanese sushi knives that would compare.

My Henckels knives never saw the inside of my restaurant kitchen. I provided knives to all but three of my employees over the twelve years I owned Adagio, and I taught most of them how to make the best use of the various knives I supplied. A knife kept sharpened makes any task easier. It also hurts less if one happens to slice open a part of one’s body.

Nothing hurts more than being cut by a dull blade.

From what I can tell, Daniel likes the Santoku-type knife. Seven inches in length and slightly rectangular, it is one I’ve only used when I studied sushi at a school in Santa Monica, California. I liked it, but not enough to spend the money it took for a really good one.

Like most experienced cooks, I prepare for the day by selecting the knives I will need for service. I still do this at home. I place three sharp knives and a sharpening steel on my workbench. The ingredients for whatever dish I am making are arced over the top of my cutting board. Almost everything I make involves my chopping and dicing the vegetables that will become my mirepoix. For that job, I use an 8-inch chef’s knife. It is sturdy, comfortable, and wide enough to smash garlic to a mince.

Next to the 8-inch knife is a 6-inch chef’s knife that will do the duty of deboning chicken, removing the skin from a piece of fish, or taking off the silver skin from a pork tenderloin. My third knife is a paring knife that performs many of the small tasks on the workbench.

But there’s more!

I have an EKCO vegetable peeler that I bought on the very day I signed a lease on my first apartment in 1970. I still don’t know why I bought it that day, but I’m glad I did. It has served me well for lo these many years.

Close at hand is a 9-inch bread knife, a boning knife and a 7-inch cleaver.

I bought the cleaver at a hardware store in San Francisco’s China Town. It hung on a rack close to the store’s checkout counter and the clerk offered no packaging for me to encase the potentially vicious utensil. For five or six hours that sunny day, I walked about the city with my two small children in tow, cleaver held menacingly in my hand.

The Henckels’ serrated bread knife makes cutting through bread fast and easy. I seem to use it mostly for cutting stale loaves of baguettes into croutons for salads and soups.

My boning knife provides easy scaling of fish or easy trimming of any other animal protein.

At last, we come to my favorite knife—one rarely used but frequently admired for its simplicity and sleek beauty. It is a prosciutto knife, its blade 12-inches long and barely a half-inch wide, sharp as a razor to deliver paper-thin slices of the precious ham from Parma, Italy.

Someday, perhaps, I will get to revisit Mers-les-Bains. I will bring three knives and my vegetable peeler, just in case.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

French Onion Soup

Both elegant and rustic, French onion soup is easy to prepare and delightful to eat. Be generous with the cheese.

3 Tbs. unsalted butter
3 to 4 large yellow onions (about 3 pounds), peeled and thinly sliced
3/4 tsp. kosher salt
2 quarts (8 cups) beef stock
1 cup dry white wine
1 Tbs. dry sherry
1 Tbs. all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp. black pepper
French bread cut into 8 to 12, 1/2 inch slices
1-1/2 cups grated Swiss or Gruyère cheese

Melt butter in a Dutch oven over medium heat. Add onions and 1/2 tsp. salt, stir and cover, letting onions soften for about 5 minutes. Remove lid and let onions caramelize until golden brown over medium heat, stirring occasionally, for 45 to 60 minutes.

Meanwhile, warm broth in a saucepan over low heat.

Once onions caramelize, add wine and sherry to the pot and allow mixture to come to boil. Stir in flour and let thicken for a minute or two.

Slowly add warm stock, 1/4 tsp. salt and the pepper to the onion mixture and boil uncovered for 10 minutes. Add more salt and pepper to taste.

Heat the broiler, and arrange individual ovenproof casseroles on a baking sheet. Ladle soup into casseroles, and cover top with croutons. Sprinkle each casserole generously with the cheese. Broil for a minute or two, watching carefully, until cheese melts and browns.

It’s been said that there are two kinds of people in the world: Those who eat to live, and those who live to eat. I am clearly in the latter group. Geri lives happily in the first. By assumption, those who eat to live will settle for any old food that fuels the body; my group is comprised of people who care less about energy than they do about savoring what should be nothing less than an experience worth writing home about.

Oddly enough, the eat-to-live group tends to be picky; my group is not, notwithstanding the snob factor.

Geri could live on a diet of PBJ sandwiches and bread with a good butter. Like many of us in our age group, our appetites for animal protein seems to be waning. Geri never had an appetite for some of the most delicious four-footed protein: lamb, veal, game. She also won’t eat quail, duck or goose. In the world of seafood, she will eat halibut and, if she’s at a wedding or an after-memorial service reception, boiled shrimp with cocktail sauce. She likes clam chowder, but not linguine with clams. She used to like fish sticks until she found out what was in them.

Basically, she has yet to meet a processed food that she didn’t love. She could build an entire diet regimen from the grocery store’s freezer section and whatever aisle it is that has re-fried beans and salsa.

To accompany her disdain for many foods, Geri hates to cook. The few things she does make, however, are delicious. While most of her culinary creations involve ground beef, onions, and cream of mushroom soup, they are just fine.

People who are aware of my culinary habits, know that there are few foods I don’t like. I’ve yet to meet a food I won’t try.

My Uncle Joe, the gourmand and physician, told me that the more unusual something was to stick in your mouth, the greater chance there was for a celebratory experience. It was at that moment—I was ten—that he stuck a piece of octopus in my mouth. After a few minutes of chewing, I asked if I should swallow it or stick it under my chair like a piece of contraband chewing gum.

I have since had octopus on several occasions. It’s far from my favorite, but I’ll gladly eat it again.

Some people like to refer to my kind of eater and others as “adventurous.” I’m not so sure. I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten something that nobody else has, unless you count the occasional clump of mud I might have tasted as a two-year-old. I love to contemplate how people discovered things that, after a brave consumption, were deemed to be food.

Milk comes to mind. We’ve been consuming cow’s milk for millennia and most of us don’t think twice about it. But what about the first person to drink it? Was it curiosity about the udder that drove that first person to have a sip? Or was it merely noting that since the baby cows seemed to like it, we should too.

And then there are those who felt ill after drinking it. Did they create a demand for almond milk? And how, exactly, does one milk an almond? Where are its teats?

On occasion, I like milk. I also like oysters—another foodstuff that might have posed a challenge to its discoverer.

“Hey Marty,” the caveman said, “look at this snot-like thing on the half-shell. I think I’ll eat it!”

Within weeks, there were oyster bars up and down every coast in the world.

The most profoundly adventurous food experience must have involved an egg—chicken, duck, quail—it doesn’t matter. Think about the general egg-delivery area and you’ll get my point.

Things that grow wild present a plethora of questions. Walking along a wooded trail, are the plants sticking up out of the ground edible? Are they tasty? Are they deadly? I know how to identify morel mushrooms; the others I will leave to the experts. I’ve also identified and consumed wild asparagus, ramps, and fennel. But I’m always worried that I might mistake a ramp for a bulb of death camas. The name tells us all we need to know.

Although I hate the word “foodie,” I’ll admit that I buy into the exclusivity that the name implies. Taste defines any dietary regimen I might adopt and, therefore, there are foods I prefer not to eat.

Just a couple of weeks ago I ate a corn dog. For seventy-one years I had avoided this abomination that seems most at home at county fairs and gas stations, places I don’t usually considering as dining choices. But it was what was for a dinner I hadn’t planned or prepared. It wasn’t exactly horrible, although I could easily have gone another seventy-one years without eating one. Give me a kosher hot dog with mustard, relish, sport peppers, onions, tomatoes and celery salt on a poppy seed bun any day of the week.

Although I’m in that minority of diners who likes Brussels sprouts, I could easily pass on ever having broccoli again. It goes from woody at the stem to mushy at the floret. And it’s almost impossible to deliver a serving to the table and keep warm.

I find kale to be disgusting, although I love Belgium endive, watercress, escarole, and frisee.

Let’s save a discussion about okra for another day. And peanut butter. And tofu. And…

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chocolate-Almond Torte

This was a popular dessert at my restaurant, Adagio, for my entire 12-year run. It’s gluten-free and not too sweet.

4 oz. unsalted butter, cut into pieces; more softened for the pan
6 oz. bittersweet chocolate (60% to 70% cacao), coarsely chopped
1-1/2 cups almond flour
3/4 cup granulated sugar
2 Tbs. dark rum
1 tsp. pure vanilla extract
6 large eggs
1/4 tsp. kosher salt

Position a rack in the center of the oven and heat to 350°. Butter the bottom and sides of a 9-inch springform cake pan.

Combine the chocolate and butter in a large bowl set in a saucepan over barely simmering water. Stir occasionally until melted and smooth, about 5 minutes. Remove the bowl from the skillet and set aside.

Mix the almond flour and 1/4 cup of the sugar. Stir into the chocolate along with the rum and vanilla.

In a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment (or in a large bowl using a hand-held electric mixer), combine the remaining 1/2 cup sugar with the eggs and salt. Beat on medium-high speed until tripled in volume and the lifted beater leaves a ribbon on the surface of the mixture, about 5 minutes.

Using a rubber spatula, fold the chocolate-almond mixture into the eggs until no streaks remain.

Transfer the batter to the prepared pan. Bake until the top is set, 25 to 30 minutes. Check with a clean toothpick. Cool on a rack for 30 minutes. Run a knife around the edge of the pan, and remove the side. Use a large, lightly oiled spatula to carefully transfer the cake to a serving plate. Cool completely before slicing and serving, topped with whipped cream and/or a fruit compote.

The results of my poll judging what role movies play in our lives are in and the results aren’t pretty. One half of the respondents believe that movies are important; the other half disagrees. Because the survey asked the question of only two people, its results, admittedly, are probably skewed. At the very least, the results are biased and unreliable.

This leaves me with being the reluctant tiebreaker. I wholeheartedly believe that movies are not only important, but are essential to our very lives. Unlike water and air, we can survive without cinematic experiences, but who would want to?

Movies are important to society on several levels. They reflect culture(s) and have the ability to change culture(s). Cinema is a reflection of its own time. Even those so-called period pieces reflect current reflections of the past.

Besides offering entertainment to their viewers, films have inspired social change due to their ability to teach viewers about experiences outside their own perspective. They typically inspire empathy in their asking viewers to indulge the lives and actions dictated by a writer’s words, a director’s vision, and the cast’s interpretation. They inspire us to care about what a character is going through and develop the ability to care about the real life people they represent.

Movies as an art form do a few things pretty incredibly. For one, when done well, they facilitate the development of empathy. They can educate through their artistry. A family, school, church, village, culture, city, government can develop false narratives and myths about a people, place, or time period for all kinds of agendas. A fictional movie can be anything from riveting to hilarious because of the factual basis of its focus, and it can spark the imagination of millions.

Einstein once said that imagination is more important than knowledge; movies are indispensable for developing imagination in today’s culture.

Top Ten lists of movies are remarkably the same because each of the inclusions seems, from one view to the next, to accomplish most of what is mentioned above.

My Top Ten list follows. For the sake of ease, it does not include any foreign films, silent movies, comedies, sci-fi, fantasies or musicals. Clearly, a Top Ten list could be created for each of those genres. The point is that while Happy Gilmore is a hilarious diversion, it doesn’t meet the standards of cultural reflection or empathy, unless you feel badly for Bob Barker in the fight scene.

And as might be reflected in a Top Ten list of favorite foods, a film list shows favoritism and bias. Here’s my list—in no particular order.

The Godfather is a 1972 American crime film directed by Francis Ford Coppola, who co-wrote the screenplay with Mario Puzo, based on Puzo’s best-selling 1969 novel of the same name. The film stars Marlon Brando, Al Pacino, James Caan, Richard Castellano, Robert Duvall, Sterling Hayden, John Marley, Richard Conte, and Diane Keaton. The story, spanning from 1945 to 1955, chronicles the Corleone family under patriarch Vito Corleone (Brando), focusing on the transformation of his youngest son, Michael Corleone (Pacino), from reluctant family outsider to ruthless mafia boss.

From Here to Eternity is a 1953 American drama romance war film directed by Fred Zinnemann and written by Daniel Taradash, based on the 1951 novel of the same name by James Jones. The picture deals with the tribulations of three U.S. Army soldiers, played by Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, and Frank Sinatra, stationed on Hawaii in the months leading up to the attack on Pearl Harbor. The film won eight Academy Awards out of 13 nominations.

Sophie’s Choice is a 1982 American drama directed and written by Alan J. Pakula, adapted from William Styron’s 1979 novel. The film stars Meryl Streep as, Sophie, a Polish immigrant to America with a dark secret from her past. She shares a boarding house in Brooklyn with her tempestuous lover and a young writer. The film received five nominations at the 55th Academy Awards, with Streep winning the award for Best Actress.

Schindler’s List is a 1993 American epic historical drama directed and produced by Steven Spielberg and written by Steven Zaillian. It is based on the 1982 non-fiction novel “Schindler’s Ark” by Australian novelist Thomas Keneally. The film follows Oskar Schindler, a German industrialist who saved more than a thousand refugees from the Holocaust by employing them in his factories during World War II. Often considered as one of the greatest films ever made, the black-and-white film received universal critical acclaim for its tone, acting, atmosphere, and direction. It was nominated for twelve Academy Awards, and won seven.

Scent of a Woman is a 1992 American dramatic film, produced and directed by Martin Brest, that tells the story of a preparatory school student who takes a job as an assistant to an irritable, blind, medically retired Army lieutenant colonel. The film stars Al Pacino and Chris O’Donnell, with James Rebhorn, Philip Seymour Hoffman and Gabrielle Anwar in supporting roles. Pacino won the Oscar for his performance.

On the Waterfront is a 1954 American crime drama, directed by Elia Kazan and written by Budd Schulberg. It stars Marlon Brando and features Karl Malden, Lee J. Cobb, Rod Steiger, Pat Henning, and Eva Marie Saint. The musical score was composed by Leonard Bernstein. The film focuses on union violence amongst longshoremen, while detailing widespread corruption, extortion, and racketeering on the waterfronts of Hoboken, New Jersey. It received twelve Academy Award nominations and won eight, including Best Picture, Best Actor for Brando, Best Supporting Actress for Saint, and Best Director for Kazan.

Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf is a 1966 a shocking black comedy, based on Edward Albee’s critically acclaimed play.The searing film exhibits a fine sense of pacing, comic timing, and gripping buildup in a series of emotional climaxes. It stars Elizabeth Taylor, Richard Burton, George Segal and Sandy Dennis in a late-night, alcohol-driven soiree. The film received thirteen Oscar nods, with each of the characters being recognized for their roles.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner is a 1967 American romantic comedy-drama film produced and directed by Stanley Kramer, and written by William Rose. It stars Spencer Tracy (in his final role), Sidney Poitier, and Katharine Hepburn, and features Hepburn’s niece Katharine Houghton. The film was one of the few films of the time to depict an interracial marriage in a positive light, as interracial marriage historically had been illegal in many states of the United States.

Taxi Driver is a 1976 American film directed by Martin Scorsese, written by Paul Schrader, and starring Robert De Niro, Jodie Foster, Cybill Shepherd, Harvey Keitel, and Peter Boyle, Leonard Harris. Set in a decaying and morally bankrupt New York City following the Vietnam War, the film follows Travis Bickle (De Niro), a taxi driver and veteran, and his deteriorating mental state as he works nights in the city.

The Deer Hunter is a 1978 epic war drama co-written and directed by Michael Cimino about a trio of Slavic-American steelworkers whose lives were changed forever after fighting in the Vietnam War. The three soldiers are played by Robert De Niro, Christopher Walken, and John Savage, with John Cazale (in his final role), Meryl Streep, and George Dzundza playing supporting roles. The story takes place in Clairton, Pennsylvania, a working-class town on the Monongahela River south of Pittsburgh, and in Vietnam.

Photo Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Fettuccine ala Toscana

1 lb. fettuccine
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.

As summer draws to a close, children are gearing up to return to school—this year to be essentially 100 percent in-classroom instruction.

Now if we can just find teachers.

While teacher shortages are being seen nationwide, Florida reportedly has nearly 8,000 vacancies. Pay certainly plays a part in why many teachers are looking to find new professions. The national average for teachers’ yearly salary was $65,090 in 2021. Two years earlier, it was $48,359 in Florida.

But pay isn’t the only issue. Teachers, it would seem, like to teach, and they are willing to reach deep into their own pockets to provide classroom materials for which school boards won’t budget. School boards are problematic nationwide, and I’m convinced that they are responsible for a decline on almost every conceivable educational front–from the availability of teachers to their roles in and outside of the classroom.

While well-meaning in their participation on behalf of their districts, few school board members have educational backgrounds, and many have personal agendas that might well best benefit their own children. After all, school boards make decisions on everything from curricula to sports and arts funding. Much of what drives a school district is money, with board members left with deciding what programs go and which ones stay based on budgetary considerations.

As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, school boards, goaded by various factions within their communities, frequently bow to suggestions of which books are considered tame enough for students to read. There has always been somebody who wants to control sources of information and ideas. It’s doubtful that censorship will ever be replaced by an open willingness to have the intellect of students challenged.

As a nation, the United States is woefully deficient in our reading abilities: 16th among 33 OECD (Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development) countries. Programme for the International Assessment of Adult Competencies (PIAAC) defines five levels of literacy proficiency, with Level 1 as the lowest. Nationally, more than 1 in 5 adults have a literacy proficiency at or below Level 1.

Literacy in the United States was determined by the National Center for Education Statistics to be at a mid to high level in 2019, at 79%, with 21% of American adults categorized as having “low level English literacy,” including 4.1% classified as “functionally illiterate” and an additional 4% that could not participate.

According to the U.S. Department of Education, 54% of adults in the United States have prose literacy below the 6th-grade level.

For an international super-power, it seems something of an embarrassment that more than half of all Americans would have trouble reading “Black Beauty” by Anna Sewell or “The Call of the Wild” by Jack London.

Without advanced reading skills, it would seem impossible that those could participate effectively in any exercise of critical thinking. Faced with the challenge of selecting plausible answers to a question, the reading challenged is likely to accept an answer without going much deeper than the first choice.

Children like to be challenged in any number of activities. And given proper instruction and needed information, they will excel. Sadly, teachers are so busy with other distractions that the challenge to present new ideas and several ways to understand them is difficult. I’m confidant that teachers, unbridled by busy work and unconcerned with national testing scores, would rise to the challenge and soar with their students to new educational heights.

My father always told my sister and me to not bother with those things one can look up. Albert Einstein reminded people to “never memorize something that you can look up.” Ostensibly, it was all they shared in common.

The fact that in the 4th grade I had to memorize the capitals of all the states is an example of how America’s educational system focuses more on indoctrination than thinking. If, after all, I need to know the capital of Illinois, it is probably because I’m interested in learning something about Springfield. Knowing that Springfield is the capital of Illinois is, by itself, pointless.

Missing from today’s educational curriculum is a one-semester course called “Civics.” It, along with a semester’s worth of debate, were required courses during my freshman year of high school. Debate was taught in the classic Empirical style, with two sides represented on a single topic. Preparation for the debate included research and a formal presentation of one side of the argument. It was fun and challenging and nothing like the presidential debates of today.

Civics was a social science class dealing with the rights and duties of citizens. With little or no sense of patriotism, we read and spoke about what it takes to be a citizen. We learned about the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, the three branches of government, and case work in civil rights. This was during the Cold War, and we learned about the government of the USSR in a comparative manner.

Civics seemed to have faded after my generation learned enough about our country and its institutions to shut things down periodically. We ended the Vietnam War and made significant contributions to Civil Rights and Voters’ Rights. We behaved like the Constitution said we should, which scared the hell out of the powers that be.

Civics needs a revival.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Pasta and Beans (Pasta e Fagioli)

Italians love beans—like chickpeas, favas, and lentils, as well such varieties as borlotti and cannellini. I make this famous dish with cannellini or even small red beans.

1 can of cannellini beans
2 oz. pancetta, minced
1-1/2 cups extra-virgin olive oil
1 yellow onion, peeled and minced
1⁄2 celery stalk, minced
3 sprigs parsley, trimmed and minced
2 tbsp. tomato paste
3 cloves garlic, crushed and peeled
2 small sprigs fresh rosemary
3 fresh sage leaves
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
6 oz. penne

Drain beans and put in a large heavy pot. Add pancetta, 1 cup of the olive oil, onions, celery, parsley, tomato paste, and 6 1⁄2 cups cold water. Mince 1 clove of the garlic and 1 sprig of rosemary and add to pot. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, stirring occasionally, for 1⁄2 hour.
Meanwhile, heat remaining 1⁄2 cup oil in a medium skillet over medium heat. Add sage, remaining 2 cloves garlic, and 1 sprig rosemary and cook until garlic is golden, about 3 minutes. Remove sage, garlic, and rosemary from oil and discard, reserving flavored oil.
Transfer half the soup to a food processor and purée until smooth. Stir back into pot, then stir in flavored oil and season to taste with salt and pepper.
Add pasta to soup and cook, stirring often, until tender, about 15 minutes. Garnish with parsley and a drizzle of olive oil.