Journal

This week, President Joe Biden took out al-Qaeda leader Ayman al-Zawahiri, saw the heavily red Kansas say no to abortion restrictions, made a deal with Manchin and Sinema on a spending bill that includes funding for climate change, health care and tax increases, signed an Executive Order to help low income women pay for abortion services, and delivered a jobs report for July of adding 528,00 new jobs—twice what economists had predicted. He also saw the narrow passage of a bill that guarantees health benefits to veterans—a bill that says, in essence, you took care of us, so we’ll take care of you. Which only seems fair. And right.

All of that while struggling to overcome a rebound diagnosis of COVID-19 and gearing up for a possible prisoner exchange with Russia.

Wish I could have had such a “sleepy” week.

The execution of al-Zawahiri, though not as dramatic as President Obama’s taking out Osama bin Laden, was significant in that the death of the Number Two al-Qaeda leader was a serious inroad to limiting the effectiveness of the terrorist organization. It also signaled the end of the last of the organizers of the 9-11 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.

What strikes me as odd is that al-Zawahiri was shot while standing in plain view on a balcony of a house in downtown Kabul, Afghanistan. He wasn’t actually shot, by the way. He was diced by a six-bladed R9X Hellfire missile. And just to be accurate, the place he was staying was ironically called a “safe house.”

It’s not clear to me how or why the issue of abortion ever entered the political sphere. It has always struck me as something quite personal—the business only of a woman and her doctor. But privileged white men seem compelled to exert control over women.

They might claim their concern is over babies, but it’s not. It’s all about control.

So it was great to see the voters of Kansas recognize that women should be in control of their own bodies. And for President Biden, a devout Catholic, to help low-income women in pursuit of their own control is a breath of fresh political air.

It’s dangerous to comment on any issue that involves Joe Manchin until the votes are counted. The Senator from West Virginia is an opportunistic fellow who supports anything that will benefit him and his family. Let’s hope he nods off during the ensuing debates.

The Biden Administration has added more than 10 million jobs since taking office. Even if it wasn’t a record (which it was), it’s a great achievement that deserves recognition and appreciation.

Meanwhile, in Russia, Brittney Griner was sentenced to nine years for her “inadvertently” smuggling vape tubes and cannabis oil into that country. There is great uproar over the sentence and demands that she be returned to the U.S.

And while we’re at it, U.S. officials are saying we should obtain the release of accused spy Paul Whelan as well. The U.S. reportedly offered to swap the two for convicted Russian arms dealer Viktor Bout, and Russian officials have also asked the U.S. to include a convicted murderer and former Russian spy named Vadim Krasikov.

It seems an uneven swap, but most of them do. I, for one, hope the swaps all work out to everyone’s advantage. But I do question what Griner was doing in Russia. There are tremendous opportunities for women basketball players throughout Europe. And Russia, with its history of dictatorial control and poor record of human rights, I would have thought it would be at the bottom of the list. Furthermore, Griner should have known the rules of living in a place like Russia, where rights are always in jeopardy and never guaranteed.

But I do have a prisoner swap suggestion: You send us Whelan and Griner, we’ll send you Rand Paul and Jim Jordan. Deal? How about we sweeten the pot with “Moscow” Mitch McConnell?

Turning to the Sports Page: Soon after arriving in Los Angeles in the summer of 1976, I went to Dodger Stadium to see the home team play my beloved Chicago Cubs. I don’t remember much about the game, but I was taken aback by the number of attendees who played their transistor radios throughout the game.

I suppose it was the first time I’d ever heard or heard of Vin Scully, the consummate baseball broadcaster who died this past week at the age of 94. For a young man who had grown up listening to Jack Brickhouse announce Cubs games with all the enthusiasm of a Cardinal fan, Scully was pure magic. I found myself listening to Dodgers games at home and in my car. When I went to Chavez Ravine, a transistor radio I picked up at a pawn shop was my constant companion.

Scully spent 67 seasons in the Dodgers’ broadcast booth. He was there when Jackie Robinson joined the Brooklyn Dodgers and he called three perfect games (Don Larsen, Sandy Koufax, Dennis Martinez) and 20 no-hitters. He called 25 World Series, and was in the booth when Hank Aaron hit his 715th home run, breaking Babe Ruth’s long-standing record.

“A Black man is getting a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking a record of an all-time baseball idol,” Scully told listeners. “What a marvelous moment for baseball.”

Scully was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1982, received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame that year and had the stadium’s press box named for him in 2001. In 2016, he received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Barack Obama.

I last went to a Dodgers’ game in 1999. My radio was long lost, but my son Daniel was with me. There were plenty of fans around us with radios so we could hear Vin Scully work his magic as the game played out.

Thanks for calling the games with class, style and unbounded expertise. I enjoyed every one of them.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ham in Cider (Jambon braisé au cidre)

4 thick slices of smoked cooked ham
3 shallots, chopped
1 cup apple cider
1/2 cup fresh cream
4 Tbs. unsalted butter
Pepper to taste

Melt the butter in a saute pan. Add the shallots and cook for 2-3 minutes.
Add the ham slices and brown slightly. Pour in the cider and leave to reduce slightly.
Add the cream and simmer for 10 minutes.
Serve ham with sauce, boiled potatoes with parsley, peas and some crusty bread.

Although we might well leave in-depth discussions of enigma, conundrum and paradox to some future date, suffice it to say that, for our purposes herein, they pretty much mean the same thing. More definitive meanings are mostly typified by synonyms, which, obviously, mean pretty much the same things.

It may be, however, an appropriate time to carefully analyze whether the United States should abandon its representative form of government—modeled on cries of unfair taxation—and adopt a more populist form based on polls. Remarkably accurate—did anyone ever hear the Big Orange question the veracity of the Quinnipiac poll, the efficacy of Roscoe’s House of Chicken ‘N Waffles, or how to pronounce Quinnipiac?—opinion polls could provide a sampling that could be reduced to a singular set of data that would provide Congress with all the information needed to pass legislation that would reflect the will of the people.

For instance: The Senate’s belief that Roe v.Wade shouldn’t be the law of the land becomes enigmatic when noting that 61 percent of the voting public thinks Roe needs codification, not reversal.

Another instance has it that 83 percent of the voting public believes—contrary to Congress—that MediCare should be allowed to negotiate drug prices. This, then, becomes an example of a paradox.

See where I’m goin’ here?

Both legislative tidbits, when combined to accurately represent the will of the people but are denied by a self-serving Congress, offer up a conundrum. And quite a conundrum at that, I might add.

So that’s how our grand experiment in democracy is working out (thus far): The will of the people is being actively misrepresented by those elected to represent us. Legislation that was never written is nonetheless recognized to reflect the majority of voters, none of whom have access to the filibuster, which, I’m sorry to say, sounds like a piece of hardware from a Bill Murray movie.

My friend, who goes by the name of Mr. Politico, explained how governments work the other day. In India (I’m paraphrasing here) the Parliament has approximately 3,496 seats, all of which are filled by impoverished people who believe(d) in reincarnation and dream(ed) of vacationing in Bakersfield, California. Candidates are not allowed to solicit political funds, but once they are elected, it is a race to the top (bottom) of the Corruption Derby, an official event that includes pari mutuel gambling and over-priced concessions.

Mr. Politico might have said other stuff that I didn’t hear because of my preoccupation with other stuff.

In America, politicians are expected to be as corrupt as possible before even throwing their hats into the ring, a practice whose origins came from hats whose hatbands were sweaty enough to offend boxing enthusiasts.

There was a point to all of this. Something having to do with crime and the Lottery which, I presume, I didn’t win. But then how could have I won? I don’t play. I have, however, been in Des Plaines. Ordinarily, I’d just move along as if nothing happened, but I’ve got a couple of jokes that I thought were funny enough to derail the thought train to tell.

Here they are:

Funny, huh?

And just one more: Does anybody else find it disturbing that Jared Bernstein of the White House Council of Economic Advisors looks remarkably like Leslie Nielsen?

In 1999, I came in second out of three in a Kenny Rogers look-a-like contest in St. Louis. In New York, I wore tinted glasses and shoulder-length blond hair. While nobody thought I was John Lennon, more than a few did double takes as I wandered the West Village. And I was frequently mistaken for Martin Mull in Los Angeles, where we both lived and which thereby threw the odds greatly in my favor. Exponentially, one might say.

Speaking of odds…

Chances were somewhat slim that I would get COVID-19, but if I did, according to my infectious disease doc in Denver, the prognosis was “toast.” Once again, I beat the odds. Twice. I got covid and have yet to experience that sensation known as “toast,” with or without quotes.

And just when I think there’s a light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, along come two variations on a thematic disease. According to people who know about such things, there is something called “long covid” and its companion, “covid fog.” Though they occur at opposite ends of the covid spectrum, they are essentially the same thing.

“How can that be?” I asked a physician friend of mine. Before answering, the physician looked stealthily around the ED to guarantee that his oath of Hippocrates would not be violated.

“It’s because nobody knows.”

And as if that wasn’t confusing enough, the “long” version usually makes itself known before you get covid, unless you’ve already had covid, it which case it might be “fog.”

Long.01 and long.02 and fog share many things in common, not the least of which are symptoms generally associated with dementia and other conditions including dementia and other conditions.

I’ve been suffering with what is obviously “fog.” I’m forgetful, though no more so than usual. And besides that, I’ve already had covid.

However, I’m not sure that I didn’t have the “long” variant because, well, I’m just not sure.

Of anything.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Bellini Cocktail

If you ever find yourself in Venice, Italy, and have unlimited funds, drop into Harry’s Bar & Grill for the signature cocktail, the Bellini. In lieu of that, make your own. It’s refreshing and festive.

4 peaches for the puree * 1/3 cup of raspberries * A chilled bottle of Italian Prosecco * Peach slices for garnish

Skin, pit and slice the peaches. Puree in a blender. Puree the raspberries and push through a fine sieve into a bowl. Pour 2 oz. peach puree into a champagne flute. Add 1/2 tsp. raspberries. Add 4 oz. Prosecco. Stir. Garnish with peach slices.

My confession for today is that I never took driver’s ed. And to that I’ll add that I’ve never even taken a driving test or a written test. I’m not sure why I’ve been so lucky, although I’ll hazard a guess that the driver’s ed teacher at the public high school I attended for a couple years could just sense that I knew which side of the road to drive on and to keep circling the block to avoid having to parallel park.

I’ve held driver’s licenses in Illinois, Ohio, New York, California, and Montana. Not to brag, but each state has failed to test my driving abilities, let alone my knowing what the colors red, yellow, and green might mean.

I was eleven or twelve years old when my family moved to what we jokingly called a farm. All of a sudden, our 53-acre property was littered with a variety of farm implements, as well as a green Ford station wagon and a three-on-the-tree pickup truck. Because all of the vehicle uses were associated with work, I got to learn to drive on my own.

The driver’s ed teacher probably knew this and so he signed off on my license application. I asked him if there was any advice he could offer. “When you turn, brake in and gas out.” I must admit that I frequently repeat that phrase when making turns.

I honestly don’t remember my kids taking driver’s ed, but I’m sure they did.

Courtney was delegated to drive the family, including my mother, to Bozeman for a day of fun activities: lunch, a movie, and an amazing exhibition of the Lipizzaner horses that had come all the way from Vienna to leap in the air with grace and style. Courtney’s driving that morning was an amazing exhibition, not however, of either style or grace. She chose to drive over a pile of roadkill.

“Most people swerve a little out of the way to avoid hitting roadkill,” I said.

“But it made an interesting sound, didn’t it?” Courtney asked.

All I remember of my son’s early driving experiences was when he took my pickup truck for reasons I don’t recall.

“But you’ve never driven a stick,” I noted.

Daniel then told me that he had watched me driving that truck for years.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he said.

I felt only a little bit defeated. For reasons that escape me, sons are supposed to learn about manual transmissions from their fathers. Although I know how to shift manually, there are fathers out there who know a lot more about the mechanics of automobiles than me. In fact, most men know more about cars than I do. And besides that, there are significant numbers of women who know more about auto mechanics than me.

I think that destroying all the ill-conceived notions of superiority based on sex is a good idea. Show me the correlation between a torque wrench and a penis and I’ll consider changing my tune.

Our grandson is taking driver’s ed this summer. He says the classes are boring and in the couple of times I’ve been his passenger I’ve noticed a certain nonchalance about the whole activity. He’s confident and careful. He doesn’t seem to want to practice for a possible future in Formula One racing on the two-lane blacktop that stretches from home to Yellowstone National Park.

His father is one of those guys who can make anything work. I’m pretty sure that Sean-Liam will spend significant time bent under the open hood of a car or truck, his eyes searching the grease-covered engine for clues to whatever might be wrong. Big Sean will no doubt be by his side, passing down information and instruction gathered in his own lifetime of keeping things in good repair.

I wonder what the future of driver’s ed might be. Currently, there are countless dozens of on-line courses in driving, most of them promising to get future drivers ready to participate in on-road instruction. As of yet, virtual driving experiences must seem like some arcade game from the Seventies that deducts points for hitting pylons, running red lights, or mowing down virtual crowds.

The biggest focus of the automotive industry, other than finding ways to use iceberg lettuce as fuel, is the creation of a network of passageways to accommodate driver-less vehicles. Clearly, if no passenger in the vehicle is needed to drive the vehicle, then there’s no need for driver’s education. I mean, any idiot can get into an automobile and say, “take me to the mall.”

We need to create an educational curriculum that I propose calling Critical Racing Theory (CRT). Unlike The Times’s 1886 Project, which had as its objective to determine the depaint mechanisms of methylene chloride based paint removers for automobiles, CRT has as its focus the unbiased history of car racing beginning with the rum runners and moonshiners during Prohibition and the Great Depression that led to the onslaught of the redneck NASCAR and its impact on social theory and economic policy in post-Vietnam Era America.

And that is what the future of education looks like.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Bolognese

Like all Italian pasta sauces, no two recipes are the same. Bolognese is certainly one of them. This is the recipe I served at my Adagio Trattoria. Enjoy!

2 Tbs. olive oil
3 slices of pancetta, chopped
2 large onions, chopped
3 garlic cloves, crushed
2 carrots, chopped
1 stalk celery, chopped
2¼ lb. lean minced beef
2 large glasses of dry red wine
2 15 oz, cans chopped tomatoes
2 bay leaves
salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 lb. dried tagliatelle
freshly grated parmesan cheese, to serve

Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based saucepan and sauté the pancetta until golden over a medium heat. Add the onions, carrots, and garlic, frying until softened. Increase the heat and add the minced beef. Fry it until it has browned. Pour in the wine and boil until it has reduced in volume by about a third. Reduce the temperature and stir in the tomatoes and celery.

Cover and simmer over a gentle heat for 1-1½ hours until it’s rich and thickened, stirring occasionally.

Cook the tagliatelle in plenty of boiling salted water. Drain and divide between plates. Sprinkle a little parmesan over the pasta before adding a good ladleful of the sauce. Finish with a further scattering of cheese and a twist of black pepper.

It occurred to me recently that when one gets to a certain age one slowly forgoes many interesting subjects of conversation and begins to focus on the less interesting. Sadly, those things fall under the umbrella of ailments. That often leads to serious discussions about the hereafter, for which there is no single authority. Those who do believe in a single authority that threatens a fire-filled existence that is depicted as a series of blast furnaces tend to be really boring people who would trade all of the fun on earth for an eternity of cloud sharing with other goody-two-shoe types.

What I wonder about the most is what happens in the immediate aftermath of life, i.e., funerals, burials, cremations. These subjects seem to occupy the backburner. To many, it’s an uncomfortable subject to the one who brings it up—that person being the one asking if cremation hurts or what happens if you awake in a tight, dark place that bears little resemblance to life. Claustrophobia rules.

It’s at that moment, of course, that you remember that the Irish gave the recently buried a cord connecting to a little bell that the dead could pull to announce that the buried was still alive. Hence the saying, “Saved by the bell.”

I believe the buried alive at that point would begin a frantic search for that cord, all the while wishing that the coffin was a tad roomier. A light would be useful as well. And oxygen.

In any way one might choose to categorize people, there is a distinct sense of how death is handled. There are, after all, considerations that certain religions demand, with each religion being a construct of a broader culture.

And then there are the details of the reception: should it be potluck or catered? Should there be an open bar? How many will skip the burial to get to the reception hall and start drinking? Is there valet parking?

I remember being told that in Biblical times, Jews were to be buried before the next sundown. They should be bathed and wrapped in linen and buried in a grave, then topped with slate, upon which another body will be buried. It was the original concept behind Tupperware’s “Stackables.”

Times have changed, of course, and now we can be buried in a pine box and have our own column of dead people we wouldn’t mind spending eternity with. (Before you make any decisions about this arrangement, find out if they snore.)

Cremation and embalming are forbidden by Jewish law but the idea of being buried within the span of one day remains. There is no viewing of the body. Following the burial, the family is left to sit Shiva, which is a time of mourning that calls for all the mirrors to be covered in black linens, thereby lending a certain cheeriness to the event.

I know little about Hinduism, but I believe that cremation is common.

Embalming is a cruel practice that supplants one’s blood with formaldehyde, the very stuff biology-class frogs came in. Obviously, the blood-letting and the infusion of the chemical pretty much guarantee that you’ve lost the race.

A few years ago, I attended a party. The men were out in the garage, smoking cigars and swirling expensive Bordeaux. At some point, many of us pledged to each other that we wouldn’t let anybody embalm us. The idea was to make sure that our carcasses could be transported to the high country and be consumed by wildlife. That seemed reasonable. Embalming fluids maintain the state of the body, slowing its natural return to ashes and apparently tainting the flesh of said carcasses.

It’s a sad day when a magpie won’t pick the flesh off your bones.

What’s even sadder is if nobody comes to your funeral. In the Netherlands, such an occurrence is met with the government sending a poet, who reads a poem nobody hears. I’m guessing that haiku and limericks are probably okay.

For pure dramatic impact, there’s nothing better than being set adrift in a burning boat. Most cremations take place in an oven that can accommodate a human body and maintain a temperature of 1,800 degrees Fahrenheit. There’s nowhere near the drama that the Vikings once offered.

While I’ve not determined the method for disposing of me, I am struggling with what has happened to parts of me that have been excised. So far, I’ve lost parts of me in Billings, Livingston, and Denver.

But it was the nurse during pre-op for gall bladder surgery who asked me if I’d like to keep the soon-to-be removed gland.

“No thanks,” I answered. “Just send it over to the funeral home. I’ve got a layaway plan there.”

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

“Sufferin’ succotash!”

Succotash was introduced as a stew to North American colonists in the 17th century by indigenous peoples. Composed of ingredients unknown in Europe at the time, it gradually became a standard meal in the cuisine of New England. Because of the relatively inexpensive and more readily available ingredients, the dish was popular during the Great Depression.

2 slices bacon
½ cup diced sweet onion
1 teaspoon minced fresh garlic
1 (9 ounce) package frozen Lima beans
1 (12 ounce) package frozen corn kernels
3 cups chopped fresh tomatoes
¼ cup water
2 Tbs. salted butter
Salt and pepper

Saute the onion until crisp. Remove and set aside.
Add the onion and garlic to the bacon fat; cook, stirring frequently, until onion is translucent.
Add the Lima beans, corn, tomatoes, and water. Reduce heat to low and cook, stirring regularly, until vegetables are tender. Scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon as you stir the vegetables. Remove from heat.
Stir in butter; season with salt and pepper to taste. Crumble bacon over top and garnish with chopped herbs. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Every now and then it is a good thing to revisit the odds and ends, thoughts and observations that fill one of the notebooks that I stumble upon in a search for something else. This happens with books, as well. A search for one book leads to reading another and at the end of a page or two the title of the first book has escaped into the stratosphere. But that’s okay. There’s never a shortage of things to read.

Anyway, my list of head-scratchers is as follows.

There are all sorts of games on the internet for which one may earn points. What are those points for? Can I use them to buy stuff, or maybe they can only be used to buy more points? And who keeps track of these points, anyway? And where are these points kept?

The three largest makers of single-use plastic (mostly used to bottle sodas, fruit drinks and water) are placing their lack of responsibility into the laps of the consumer. That’s right. In a fairly modest television ad campaign, those companies suggest that it’s incumbent on the consumer to make sure to recycle those bottles. What would seem more prudent would be for those companies to create a 100 percent recyclable material. Or perhaps we should stop buying their products altogether.

Who knew? I read the following on a jar of peanut butter: Contains Peanuts.

The House select committee investigation of the 1/6 Capitol insurgency has drawn attention to our still-prudish use of the English language. Little progress has been made since 1972, when comedian George Carlin compiled his “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television” monologue. The words, in the order Carlin listed them, are: “shit”, “piss”, “fuck”, “cunt”, “cocksucker”, “motherfucker”, and “tits”.

I suspect the last four will still be whispered or bleeped for at least another generation or two. But now, we’ve heard members of the House pronouncing the first two, while a variant of the third word is still used as if the television audience is largely made up of holdovers from the Victorian Age. “F…ing” is barely whispered, with the whisperer lowering her/her eyes as if in shame.

Unprovoked shark attacks. Are there any other types of shark attacks? And, if so, what must one do to provoke a shark? More significantly, why would one do that?

Mesothelioma is a terrible disease that is the result of long-term exposure to asbestos. People who have worked in the shipbuilding industry and those who actually mined asbestos are most susceptible. Naturally, a cabal of ambulance chasers are soliciting those who might actually have the disease. There’s money in them thar hills, after all.

Part of their television campaign involves distributing a book about the disease. An elderly woman, pictured next to, presumably, her husband, pleads that the audience ask for the book.

“Call for a free copy of the book and receive so much more.”

I want to know what the “much more” part means. Do you get a box of Bit O’ Honey candy bars? Or a lifetime supply of amoxicillin?

These are confusing times we live in.

There’s a new hospital in Bozeman. It looks pleasant enough—lots of steel and glass. And the company, which has its headquarters in Billings, has a marketing department that is presumably spearheading its advertising campaign. What strikes me as odd is that it is typically up to the doctor to recommend any sort of hospital visit. At least I don’t think you can walk into the lobby and request blood tests or an MRI.

One of the idiots who remodels houses on HGTV while his brother stands around explaining how a $375 improvement can result in a $7,000 raise in property value. Here’s how he starts a commercial for ADT, a home protection company: “Fact: We all love video doorbells.”

Let’s be clear about this. I don’t love video doorbells because I’ve never seen one. We don’t even have a non-video doorbell. If there are people who want access to our house, their best bet is to knock on the door.

Then he goes on to talk about an imaginary woman who accomplishes such tasks as playing my favorite Jethro Tull tunes when I direct her to do so. Oops. We do not have any such technology. And I’m not sure I want to have such technology. I certainly don’t care to listen to Jethro Tull.

Another sign of aging was pointed out to me. I double space at the end of typing a sentence which, apparently, is something of a sure sign of my fast approaching dotage.

It is abundantly clear to me that warning labels need to be affixed to books. Placed somewhere on the back of the dust jacket—between the author blurbs and synopsis—these warning labels will serve to forewarn potential readers of the dangers that lie within: thought, challenges to the status quo, possible exposure to new ideas, laughter, tears, violence, sex, et cetera. In other words, stuff you might find in the Bible.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Black Bean and Corn Salad

It’s time start making refreshing side dishes for any number of outdoor dining events. This is one of my favorites.

2 cans, 14 ounces, black beans, rinsed and drained
2 cups frozen corn
1 small red bell pepper, seeded and chopped
1 red onion, chopped
1 avocado, chopped
1 Tbs. ground cumin
2 tsp. hot sauce
Juice of one lemon
2 Tbs. olive oil
Small bunch of fresh basil or cilantro, coarsely chopped

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Let stand at least 15 minutes for corn to fully defrost and flavors to combine, then toss and serve.

Things have been so surreal in the past couple of weeks that I decided to restart therapy. It’s been about two-and-a-half years since I last saw my shrink and I wondered if he might have changed any to adapt to what seems like a whole new, weird world.

“Verklempt,” the good shrink said, repeating the word in a softer voice. “Verklempt.” He gently swayed his head from side to side, his payos (sidelocks) catching the rhythm.

Knowing that verklempt is Yiddish for a state of wild emotion, he seemed his usual self. If he was choking back tears, unable to speak, or clenched from intense emotions, it could have fooled me. Dr. Günter Klaus von Grubersteingruber, who still works days as a diesel mechanic, refined his statement that the world was verklempt, not him.

Between the sidelocks and his liberal use of a single Yiddish word, I was left wondering if the Puerto Rican-born psychiatrist had converted to Judaism, Orthodox, no less.

“Everywhere you look, there is great sorrow, unspeakable tragedy,” Grubersteingruber said. “People don’t care for each other, unless it’s for political gain or a good parking spot.”

From out of nowhere, Grubersteingruber shifted his attentions to music.

“Remember the words of Albert Einstein,” he said: “Life without playing music is inconceivable for me. I live my daydreams in music. I see my life in terms of music; I get most joy in life out of music.”

“So, is there some shortage of music that is causing all of the strife in our lives,” I asked.

“How would I know?” he answered. “It’s just a cool quote from a cool guy,”

“Have you been following the 1/6 insurrectionist hearings on the attack on the Capitol?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“They’re boring as hell. Like watching water evaporate from a glass,” he said.

“Any insights you’d care to offer?”

“It became obvious that Trump, the orange idiot, is the creep who claimed to barely know Cassidy Hutchinson yet somehow knew her to be a “whackjob with mental problems,” Grubersteingruber said, stroking his grey goatee. “There were serious discussions about invoking the 25th Amendment to send him into obscurity at a funny farm, so who’s the whackjob? I think it speaks for itself.”

“Well, there have been other crises over the past couple of weeks, most of them emanating from the Supreme Court,” I said.

“Are you talking about Roe v. Wade,” he said.

“Well, that and concealed New York City handguns, the limits on how the nation’s EPA will be allowed to regulate the extractive (fossil) fuel industries, and that it’s now okay to say prayers on the 50-yard-line.”

The good doctor is a football fan and wondered aloud if Colin Kaepernick might now be allowed to take a knee on the sidelines.

“It’s a double-edged sword,” Grubersteingruber said. “Kaepernick is kneeling for justice. The coach from Washington is just a willing part of the white theocracy that is taking hold in the United States. Just try to place a Star of David on the 50-yard line and watch what happens.”

“The Supreme Court has limited the EPA in its oversight role, making more decisions to disrupt the balance of democracy,” Grubersteingruber noted. He thinks that as the climate becomes more unstable, so does our democracy.

“So,” I asked, “we have a society stymied by people whose petrified opinions couldn’t change for any amount of new information?”

“Yes,” he said. “Science is trumped by ignorance. And the odd role religion plays have created countless factions with remarkable differences. Yet they’re all riffs on various interpretations of the notion of Christianity, most notably the Bible.”

“In the wake of Roe v. Wade, do you believe the courts will challenge other personal freedoms gained over the past couple decades?”

“Of course,” he said, “and those challenges will find a welcome place on the Court’s docket. As long as the stupid six maintain their seats, the only ones marked safe will be those whose lives do not include any challenges to the powers that be.”

“Scary,” I said.

“Yes, and now I must return to the monster truck I’m working on. Your fee will be $300,” he said, smiling.

Photo montage by Courtney A. Liska

Roast Turkey Breast

It will never be clear to me why we tend to eat turkey during such a small window, Thanksgiving to New Year. It’s delicious and is easily prepared in a variety of ways. This, then, is one of my favorites.

3 to 4 pound turkey breast
2 Tbs. olive oil
2 tsp. paprika
2 tsp. dried thyme
2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. dried thyme
1 tsp. black pepper
1 tsp. onion powder
1 teaspoon garlic powder

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Place turkey breast skin side up on the rack of a roasting pan, or into a lightly greased 9×13 pan.
In a small bowl, stir together olive oil, paprika, salt, thyme, black pepper, onion powder, and garlic powder to form a paste.
Loosen the skin with your finger and spoon some of the spice mixture underneath the skin. Smooth it out to cover as much of the meat as possible. Rub the remaining spice mixture on top of the turkey breast skin.
Roast in the oven for approx. 20 minutes per pound, until the turkey reaches an internal temperature of 160 degrees.

It was just a few days after the 100-year, or 500-year flooding of the Yellowstone that the river broke its banks and ushered in the loss of a lifetime of dreams, promises and property for many of the areas defined by that river. The dog park—where my coffee mate and I like to visit while we sip our coffees, tell stories, and discuss those worlds most familiar to us—was under water, the road leading to it rutted and impassable.

We found a space a mile or so away in the parking area behind the civic center. A large pile of rocks and gravel guarded the two giant cottonwoods that towered over us, their lowest branches swaying in the morning breeze. Intermittent rain fell in mere drops, barely marking territory on the windshield.

To our left, a hundred yards away, were the city-managed ball fields—a complex of fields where the diamonds vary by size to meet the needs of players by age. There’s a cinder-block concession stand, an equipment shed, some grandstands, and on each field above-ground dugouts.

We couldn’t begin to fathom why those fields weren’t populated by kids with skinned-up knees, sweaty T-shirts and the equipment needed to play a made-up game of ball: a bat or two, some scuffed up balls, and everybody’s own mitts. The fields were empty. Completely. Nobody was shagging fouls, practicing sliding, playing a little pepper, or just having a catch with a pal.

It’s what I’d have been doing on any summer’s day sixty years ago.

And with all the on-field action, comes the fantastical narrative that each kid imagines: the play-by-play of heroes in pinstripes.

Back, back, back he goes! And he snatches it from above the outfield fence! What a play! What a catch!

The hero trots back to the dugout and awaits his turn at bat.

Today’s kids don’t know what they’re missing. The play, the outdoors, the name-calling, the shoving matches—each a part of the sandlot life. And the kids in my little town don’t even have to find an empty lot to mark with bases made from flattened cardboard boxes. From my casual observances of the fields here, nobody plays unless it’s a scheduled game or a practice. That level of organization is something I recall from my own youth. We couldn’t wait for the Little League game to end and our parents to go home from the single field we had in the back lot of a United Van Lines depot. That was when we could pickup the game from where we had left off that morning in a lot adjacent to an alley.

My coffee mate grew up in Upstate New York, in a town with a baseball diamond in the schoolyard. So did I, but when school let out for summer, the playground was fenced off, its gates closed and locked. But we had no problem playing on vacant lots, our imaginations wedded to turn those over-grown fields into our own Wrigley Field. By the end of the day, the grass had been trampled down and we were in baseball heaven. My parents never had to ask what I’d been doing all day.

Every now and then one of our sandlot fields fell to developers. The flat space was replaced by mounds of dirt next to the hole that would become somebody’s basement. We played on the hill and in the hole until it was time to find a new empty lot.

Baseball and reading and piano practice filled my days. On Friday and Saturday nights, I played drums in a trio that played the popular tunes of the days. Although I was being paid, I felt short-changed because I couldn’t play ball on those days. I’m not sure why.

When my father’s fortunes turned a bit, we left Chicago’s West Side for greener pastures—pastures that would one day be home to a few horses, which we rode across hill and dale. There was a creek nearby, and we would catch tadpoles and dap the surface for a sunfish or crappie.

But there was still baseball with my country neighbors. It was a constant.

In town, we’d shoot hoops on unforgiving concrete courts.

I’d like to say that I’m glad I didn’t have video games and devices that could take me to new worlds of information and entertainment. But I don’t know because it wasn’t an option. I had baseball and a rusted bike—freedom to a boy is represented by wheels. I can’t, however, believe that my childhood would have been richer for having had those electronic things.

Now, I can sit on my front porch for an entire afternoon without ever seeing a kid zoom by on a bicycle. The same is basically true about skateboards, although I understand that the skate park is well used.

We didn’t have skateboards in the Fifties; we had scooters. My dad made me my first one from a short length of 2×4, a wooden orange crate, handlebars fashioned from a piece of 1×2, and a salvaged roller skate. It took no particular skill to ride the thing. And we didn’t have a scooter park to practice death-defying acts of scooter skills. For us, getting across the four lanes of Roosevelt Road took all the derring-do any of us could muster.

Courtney, my daughter and partner-in-crime, told me the other day that she and her friends relied not on devices but on entertainment of their own device. She’ll be forty soon, falling neatly into that gap between board games and electronics. She regaled me with stories of misbehavior that had escaped me in real time. Much of her activity was borderline vandalism (I’ll apologize to anyone whose mailbox might have been a target) and all of it was with the main ambition to have as little to do with “grown-ups” as was possible.

That, she told me, was how she and her friends spent their leisure time.

It reminded me of my not wanting my parents to be anywhere even close to where I played baseball.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Greek Roasted Potatoes

I love Greek food and have always been impressed by their serving both rice and potatoes at the same meal.

2# Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and quartered
½ cup water
¼ olive oil
¼ cup fresh lemon juice, strained
2 tsp. dried oregano
2 cloves garlic, minced
Salt and pepper, to taste

Heat oven to 450°.
Place potatoes in baking dish. Add remaining ingredients and stir to combine. Bake uncovered for 50-60 minutes. During baking, toss and add more water, if necessary.

Greek Rice (Spanakorizo)

2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 cup long-grain rice
3 cloves of garlic, minced
8-12 oz. baby spinach, rinsed and roughly chopped
½ cup chopped fresh dill
½ tsp. ground cumin
2-1/2 cups water
Salt and pepper to taste
Juice and zest of one lemon, strained
1 Tbs. red wine vinegar

In a large skillet, heat the olive oil and sauté the onion until soft, about 2-3 minutes. Add rice, stirring over medium-high heat, 2-4 minutes. Stir in garlic. Pour in water and stir. Add spinach, dill, cumin, salt and pepper.
Over low heat, simmer, covered, until all liquid is absorbed. Add lemon juice 2-3 minutes before rice is cooked.
Transfer to a serving bowl and toss with lemon zest, 2 Tbs. olive oil and vinegar.

It occurred to me recently that it has been a long time since I last checked to see how the other Jim Liskas around the world might be faring. Actually, I’ve never checked on such a thing. Why would I? What would be the point?

Anybody with access to the internet has probably engaged in an activity known as “ego surfing.” Type in your name and see how many of you might be out there. Scroll down until you find yourself among the others and discover your ranking, number of hits, likes or, dislikes, et cetera ad infinitum. If you get to the third page of discoveries and you’ve not found yourself, give up. Pages four and beyond will only cause disappointment and heartbreak when it begins to dawn on you that you own no significant place in the computer universe.

The reason I have for checking into my namesakes is to get an essay for today; and the point being that it’s the kind of thing I do now that I have nothing better to do.

Not to brag, but I came in first in the great Jim Liska search. Actually, I placed first as A. James Liska.

Here’s a funny thing about names. My parents wanted me to have the same initials as my father, but not the same name. He was Arthur Joseph, affectionately called “Sonny Boy” by his less-than-doting mother. I got A. James.

Apparently given names beginning with the letter “A” weren’t known to my parents. While Alan, Aaron, Archibald and Archimedes jump quickly to mind, they stopped with the first letter. For people who couldn’t come with an “A” name, they certainly weren’t prescient enough to understand how difficult an initial is in normal, everyday life.

And then there’s the matter of James. I’ve known only two people who ever called me that—and they were married, to each other. Every now and then I’ll be called James by people who are really, really mad at me or are trying to sell me something over the telephone.

Why then, did they name me James when from day one they called me Jimmy or Jim? Where does that even come from? It makes no sense. Neither does Jack for John, Dick for Richard, Peggy for Margaret, Betsy for Elizabeth. I knew a guy whose name was Billy Ray. I asked him once if his complete name was William Raymond. Nope. Billy Ray was what his parents were going to call him, so that’s the name they gave him. He was, for the record, from the South.

When I signed up for Medicare, my name became “AJ,” as apparently the government’s computers—capable of creating any number of espionage scenarios and spying on pretty much everybody in the universe—couldn’t accept a letter as a first name.

My search for namesakes made me wonder what we all might have in common. Liska is a fairly uncommon name outside of the Czech Republic, which would make me think that each of these fellows has some sense of being Bohemian. There are several enclaves of Bohemian descendants in places like Chicago, Iowa and Texas. None of my discoveries were from any of those places.

The Jim Liska whose job title is Director, Product Operations at Globalization Partners, lives in Boston. He strikes me as one well-versed in business double-speak: Globalization Partners’ unique blend of global employment services provided through our Global Employer of Record Platform enables you to accomplish all of these goals…

But the graduate of UMass Boston was an Infantry Squad leader for almost 15 years in the New York Army National Guard. He was responsible for the welfare, fitness, morale, training and discipline of a nine-soldier Infantry Squad, and a first line leader and advisor in the matters of operations, tactics, personnel management, and junior leader development.

There’s a Jim Liska in Harbor Springs, Michigan, who is a State and Federally Licensed taxidermist. He won the MTA Best of Category (large game head) in 2011. He is also the event coordinator of the Michigan United Conservation Club, and he operates Expo Promotions.

James “Jim” Troy Liska of the Raft Creek community of Griffithville passed away at his home on Saturday morning, April 9, 2022.  James was the beloved husband of Betty (Smith) Liska for 57 years. It was an unexpected death. He was 86. During their marriage they lived in Mt. Grove, Missouri, Camden, Des Arc and Griffithville, Arkansas. He was a heavy equipment operator for Riggs Tractor Co, until his retirement. He was an avid hunter and fisherman.

Another dead Jim Liska was born on April 9, 1887, and passed away on April 6, 1968. He is buried at Sunrise Lawn Cemetery in Whittier, California.

James Liska is a graduate of the University of Arkansas Graduate Program in Blind Rehabilitation. His academic article, “Going Blind,” was published in The Journal of Visual Impairment & Blindness, the essential professional resource for information about visual impairment. The international peer-reviewed journal of record in the field, it delivers current research and best practice information, commentary from experts on critical topics, news, and events. The site has a paywall which I’m not about to subscribe to get through. I assume it was a great article.

There’s the politician Jim Liska in Live Oak County, Texas, who is seeking election as judge. A senior property tax consultant, he previously worked for the county’s Appraisal District. He said his dedication to helping others is what led him to run for county judge. “I have always wanted to be a public servant as my family taught me at an early age the importance of serving God, family and country,” he said.

More to my liking in the Jim Liska “Splinter” hitting a 49″ driver using the Mike Austin Method at the RMU Island Sports Center. Jim has competed in the REMAX World Long Drive Championship six times. His best finish is 5th place.

And somewhere in Arizona, a Jim Liska is petitioning the court to offer relief from his 56 years of imprisonment after a jury trial in 1982, in which he was convicted of one count of sexual exploitation of a minor and three counts of sexual conduct with a minor. So far, he’s losing. Good.

I guess every family has a black sheep.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Bread Dumplings

This is my Bohemian grandmother’s recipe for dumplings. They are a wonderful accompaniment for roast pork or chicken. Gravy and sauerkraut are a must!

1 pkg. (2-1/4 tsp.) yeast
1 tsp. sugar
½ cup milk, scalded and cooled
1 cup milk, warm
1 egg
½ tsp. salt
3 ½ cups flour
3 slices white bread, crumbled

Mix yeast & sugar in the ½ cup milk. Let stand for 10 minutes.
Mix warm milk, egg, salt, yeast mixture and flour. Add bread.
Knead on a floured board and let rise for ½ hour.
Shape into loaves (3). Cook in boiling water,

Although I’ve long been a believer in science, science itself has always eluded me. History, literature and music are well within my wheelhouse. Biology, chemistry and physics are complete enigmas.

This might explain which half of my brain dominates.

The schools are to blame for my not having excelled in science. My freshman year in high school I was required to take biology. The teacher had us watch films of little things floating around in little glass dishes, known to almost everyone as Petri dishes. We had to make a leaf collection that reflected the arboreal nature of our surroundings. What I got out of the leaf collection was $10 from an in-coming freshman. (Ten bucks in 1965 was a decent chuck of change.) We dissected frogs and watched worms grow back the parts of their bodies that we had cut off. It seemed, in retrospect, somewhat frivolous.

I then transferred to a private school for the arts where science pretty much took a backseat to, in my case, history, literature and writing, and music.

I can’t recall ever having been in a chemistry lab and the closest I got to physics was a college course called “Physics for Poets.” There were no labs involved, but we did learn about how ink flowed from a ballpoint pen, how toasters knew when to pop up the bread slice, and other such exoteric examples from everyday life. In the second semester, the professor acknowledged that while nobody understood the theory of relativity, that’s what he would be talking about for two hours, twice a week for the whole semester.

One could hear snoring.

But my lack of a scientific mind doesn’t keep be from being interested in scientific things.

For instance, just this week I found out all about repeating fast radio bursts (FRB) that have been discovered in a galaxy far, far away.

“Astronomers have detected a mysterious, repeating fast radio burst emanating from a dwarf galaxy located 3 billion light-years away,” CNN reported. “The cosmic object is distinctive when compared with other detections of radio bursts in recent years, according to new research.”

One explanation of FRBs is that these bright flashes come from magnetars — the strongest magnets in the universe and another type of supernova remnant.

“This explanation makes sense where young stars are common, but it’s trickier when it comes to M81,” some researchers said.

Just so you know, this FRB is closer to us than Proxima Centauri, the nearest star to our sun, which measures 4.2 light years. That’s equal to about 400 round trips from San Francisco to Hoboken. And M81 is a woodland camo pattern style of shirts and pants, much like what the Oath Keepers and Proud Boys don before going on their rampages.

Since everything about science is a mystery to me, I was lost after “Astronomers have detected a mysterious…”

There is no shortage of folks weighing in on this discovery. I believe I’ve heard snippets of the Beach Boys emanating from the “cosmic object.” Of course, I frequently wake up humming some of Gene Autry’s hit tunes.

Marjorie Taylor Greene, the freshman representative of Georgia’s 14th District, is best known for her operating as the leader of the MAGA Caucus, i.e., legislative bullies. But her verbal pratfalls are what distinguishes from her from most of her colleagues on Capitol Hill.

Upon hearing of the discovery of the FRBs, she gave new life to the Jewish space lasers starting forest fires conspiracy. She has denied saying what she said.

“I didn’t say Jewish space lasers were responsible, I said it was caused by focused beams of light fired from spacecraft operated by Jewish banks. See? Totally different.”

She’s singing a different song after hearing about the FBRs.

“I told you they existed. Now we know where they live.”

I revisited the site which has some pretty bizarre audio and what did I hear? Not the Beach Boys after all! It’s klezmer music—that Ashkenazi Jewish-gypsy sound with violin, accordion, cimbalom, clarinet and tuba. It was the music Jews heard during the pogroms of Russia and Eastern Europe, all of which were overseen by the Gazpacho Police, Hitler’s private army of Mexican cooks.

Serendipity is my favorite explanation of things that can’t be explained. For instance, what else could explain the discovery of a new FRB, the onset of the Atlantic hurricane season, and the end of morel mushroom season all happening at the same time? Serendipity!

The National Oceanic Atmospheric Climate Prediction Center (NOAA) released the hurricane season outlook for this year. They’re predicting an above-average season for the seventh-consecutive year, with 14 to 21 named storms. They predict that six to ten of those will become hurricanes, and that there should be between three to six major hurricanes with winds 111 mph (179 kph) or higher.

World Meteorological Organization (WMO) generates and maintains the list of hurricane names. This year the names are: Alex, Bonnie, Colin, Danielle, Earl, Fiona, Gaston, Hermine, Ian, Julia, Karl, Lisa, Martin, Nicole, Owen, Paula, Richard, Shary, Tobias, Virginie and Walter.

Fascinating, huh?

As for morels, I used to have unbathed foragers come to the kitchen door at my restaurant in their aged Subarus with freshly harvested morel mushrooms—which are only bested in flavor by chanterelles, which sounds like the name of a doo wop group.

Alas, the season has ended, and I’ve not had one morel. It saddens me.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Morels with Angel Hair

The nutty flavor and gentle texture of morel mushrooms can enhance most anything: crostini, a garnish for beef, pork or chicken, the base for a delicate pasta or a hearty risotto.

Carefully wash the morels and pat dry. Slice them into bite-size pieces and saute in olive oil and butter until slightly browned. Remove from pan. Add a clove of garlic and a splash or two of golden cream sherry. When the sherry has reduced, return mushrooms to pan. Add a splash of heavy cream and some Parmesan cheese. Serve with angel hair pasta.

From what I’ve been able to gather, Johnny Depp is an American film actor who has made several movies, including a series of prequels and sequels based on the lives of pirates depicted in a Disneyland amusement park ride. He’s been married a couple of times, his latest to an actress named Amber Heard.

Like many a Hollywood romance, theirs ended in divorce, preceded by scandal and followed by vicious rumors started by their Beverly Hills divorce attorneys. Ms. Heard alleges that Depp was abusive to her and wrote about it in an opinion piece for The Washington Post. The piece, for which she was paid a reported $35 for first reprint rights, doesn’t call Depp by name but refers to its author as a “public figure representing domestic abuse.” To be completely accurate, she should have referred to herself as the “victim.” But we all know how stars like to fight for top billing.

Depp was not pleased with how he was portrayed by Ms. Heard and sought $50 million in a defamation suit brought against her in the Commonwealth of Virginia. (Since he wasn’t named, doesn’t it seem a bit strange that he recognized himself in the article?) Anyway, Ms. Heard counter-sued for $100 million also, I assume, in Virginia.

According to some internet services that keep track of such things, Ms. Heard is worth somewhere between $2.5 and $8 million, far short of the dollar figure that would make the swashbuckling Depp disappear from the public spotlight. Depp is worth somewhere in the neighborhood of $150 million, according to some of those same sources. He claims his career, in the aftermath of all this drama, is kaput; hers, it should be noted, never got to the point where it even could be called kaput.

Simple math indicates that Depp is trying to extract blood from a turnip. Ms. Heard, on the other hand, is seeking just enough to leave Depp $50 million—the exact amount he sought in his lawsuit.

I’m no lawyer, but it would seem that by using the wisdom of Solomon both parties could part company by dividing the total dollars in question, thus allowing each of them to walk away with $75 million. Those figures do not include court costs and attorney’s fees which, when all told, leaves each of the parties with somewhere in the neighborhood of half-a-million. That figure would provide most Americans more than enough to live a life of relative comfort, provided that such a life didn’t involve yachts, the south of France or a few grams of cocaine per day.

Virginia is about as far from the celebrity spotlight as can be. But that hasn’t stopped such pillars of journalism as Court TV and Entertainment Tonight from providing their own spotlights. Gavel-to-gavel coverage has gripped many Americans irreparably. Inside Edition refers to the trial as being what everybody might find to be about as important as the high cost of milk.

Meanwhile, Depp was seen in London during jury deliberations playing rhythm guitar in a garage band at Royal Albert Hall. An ex-girlfriend, Kate Moss, was seen throwing articles of her clothing at him from the front row.

After six weeks of exhaustive—and exhausting—trial shenanigans, the seven-person jury basically reached a verdict of mutual churlishness on the parts of everybody involved, with the possible exceptions of the bailiff and the court’s stenographer.

When the verdict (which speaks less of the #MeToo movement than it does of plain and simple greed) was handed down this past Wednesday, Inside Edition led with more coverage of the Uvalde tragedy. ABC World News Tonight led with the Depp travesty. And in Thursday’s editions, The New York Times called the trial an event that “transfixed the nation.”

I, for one, wasn’t transfixed. At best, the whole shebang was but a blip on the who cares? radar of these challenging, yet sadly pathetic, times.

Turning to the world of sports, has anybody paid any attention to the controversy that is taking place in the world of professional golf? I didn’t think so.

It seems that a consortium of Arab nations is trying to launch its own series of golf tournaments. Played on vast, arid sand courses where there are actual grass traps, this new tour is threatening to undermine the PGA Tour’s dominance of the multi-millionaire boys club in which, if you make the weekend cut and finish dead last, your paycheck is still about what it would cost to buy a small town in Tennessee. Or Mississippi. You pick.

So how is this Arab entity threatening the PGA? How else but by giving the top names in golf more money to show up than if they had each won seventeen tournaments in a single season. That’s right, the top players go to Dubai or some such place, leaving the PGA to host tournaments where the top competitors are overweight duffers in ill-fitting plaid pants with, at best, a 23-handicap in a contest determined by a closest-to-the-pin final hole.

And speaking of sports, let’s see what’s new with the Royal Family…theirs, as in Sussex and Worcestershire and the Queen; not like ours, as in Kardashian and whatever Reagans might still be lingering about.

While it’s unlikely that many veterans of the Revolutionary War are still alive, one would have thought we’d at least have remembered what the point of the whole little skirmish was all about. Lemme guess now. Oh, that’s right, throwing the damn lot of the British off the land we were busy stealing from the Natives.

And lo these many centuries later, if one of the members of England’s biggest family of welfare recipients should so much as sneeze, there are Americans willing to take note and send off a bouquet of pollen-free flowers and a Hallmark card.

Today marks the last day of what will no doubt have been an excruciating, four-day celebration of Queen Elizabeth’s 70-year reign of inconsequential rule. (I snicker every time I hear David Muir refer to it as “70 years on the throne.”) There will be no shortage of matching horses ridden by matching men in furry hats. Many not-so-lucky men in furry hats will follow the horses which, it seems, was pretty bad planning. The Queen’s ball will feature line-dancing to rockabilly hits to drown out the bagpipes. The event will end with Her Majesty reading some of Winston Churchill’s most memorable quotes about alcohol.

But how does Lizzie’s brood of inbred royalty really differ from that of Americans on welfare? Glad you asked.

The Royal Family doesn’t have to explain its having cellphones and tattoos to the others in the grocery check-out lines who had to work for their food. Not only that, Liz and the kids don’t even have to cook it.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Mincemeat Pie

A shining star of the United Kingdom’s questionable culinary tradition, mincemeat pie is a sweet mixture of dried fruit and spices such as cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Typical of most British dinner fare, it needed the promise of something else—in this case, meat—to get the masses to even consider eating it. Sometimes called “Christmas pie,” it was the main reason Scrooge found the holiday so unbearable.

There is no formal recipe for this gooey concoction. To re-create traditions that predate Charles Dickens by five centuries, merely buy a frozen pie shell and fill it with such delectable things as apricots, raisins and pineapple—dried, of course. Season the whole thing with the aforementioned cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Add some sugar. Bake for an hour or two at a blistering 475° F. If it doesn’t combust, remove the molten mess from the oven, let cool, and then toss into an empty trash receptacle.

Next week: Yorkshire pudding, which isn’t a pudding at all. Not even close. What is up with the Brits and their misleading food labels?