Journal

Like a tennis ball launcher gone amok in an enclosed space, the barrage of challenges to our everyday lives can be annoying at the very least. How many days has it been since I didn’t take a direct hit to the senses? It was just two days ago, actually, that I again uttered “what the hell is going on?”

The state of Texas never disappoints. A few weeks ago the Lone Star State decided to strip women of owning control of their own bodies while legislating against any abortion for any reason after the first six weeks of pregnancy—a time during which most women don’t even know they’re pregnant.

All of this is being done in the name of saving the lives of babies without offering any remedy to the needs of said babies. (If it’s about rescuing children, Texans have to look no further than their own southern border.)

Banning abortion has been a rallying cry for Republicans since the landmark Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision in 1973. That case did less to allow abortions than it did to end dangerous abortions.

Elsewhere in Texas, in a town called Southlake, a school official has informed teachers that if they have any books in the classroom about the Holocaust they must also teach “other perspectives.”

Gina Peddy, the executive director of curriculum and instruction for the Carroll Independent School District, said in a training session addressing the concepts of HB 3979: “And make sure that if you have a book on the Holocaust, that you have one that has an opposing [view], that has other perspectives,” she told teachers.

I didn’t know there was another “perspective.”

Except for the rather disturbingly uninformed Holocaust “deniers,” none of whom would seem capable of writing a book, there seems to be no plausible suggestions of “opposing” views or differing perspectives. The Holocaust is well-documented. A differing perspective is merely an endorsement of the policies of Adolph Hitler and Nazi Germany.

But the reach of the Texas ordinance is far beyond the Holocaust; it extends to the teaching of racism in the public schools. There is a lot of confusion and no shortage of fear of reprisals for trying to teach important historical subjects to curious little minds.

“Teachers are literally afraid that we’re going to be punished for having books in our classes,” one elementary school teacher told NBC News. “There are no children’s books that show the ‘opposing perspective’ of the Holocaust or the ‘opposing perspective’ of slavery. Are we supposed to get rid of all of the books on those subjects?”

Conservatives across the nation have been attacking and threatening school boards over the nearly non-existent teaching of Critical Race Theory (CRT), and are demanding all teaching about racism end.

For good measure, new debates about which books should be allowed in the public schools, the arguments extend to LGBTQ issues as well. The efforts are to block new diversity and inclusion programs at Carroll, one of the top-ranked school districts in Texas. One can only imagine how horrible other districts might be.

Under Texas law, which eliminates the requirement of teaching “the history of Native Americans” as are also the requirements to teach about the writing of the founding “mothers and other founding persons” except founding fathers. It also eliminates from the curriculum Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” and the “I Have a Dream” speech, along with pages of other important historical documents.

Turning to Tennessee…

It is a violation of a newly enacted Tennessee “education” law to teach the same history in K-12 schools as that offered at the college level.

This past spring, Governor Bill Lee signed into law the anti-“Critical Race Theory” (CRT) Law. Prior to the appearance of a flurry of anti-CRT bills in more than two dozen states this past spring, few Americans had ever heard of CRT, and outside of law schools, it’s rarely taught, and not taught at all in K-12.

In Tennessee, the new law first makes it illegal for any public K-12 school to teach that one race is inherently superior to another; that people are inherently privileged or racist is determined by race or sex.

While it’s admirable that should Tennessee is finally outlawing the teaching of racial superiority in any form, that legislation should have been passed at least 60 years ago, when it would have meant something.

Public schools in Tennessee were segregated right into the 1960s. Whites in Tennessee openly and proudly characterized themselves as superior—even as they characterized Black people as lacking in morality, and as being lazy, irresponsible, criminal, over-sexed, and intellectually inferior.

Long after slavery and segregation’s overt white supremacy has been closeted, only now does the Tennessee legislature decide it must condemn the teaching of racial superiority.

This legislation’s real intent is not to prevent the state’s public schools from “teaching” the superiority of one race over another since no one is doing that. The real objective is to prevent educators from discussing nearly four centuries of white domination over Black people.

The legislature tries to cover this up by saying that its new law does not prohibit the “impartial discussion of controversial aspects of history” or “on the historical oppression of a particular group of people based on race, ethnicity, class.”

As relates to the Holocaust, what is an impartial discussion of Black history? Are there two sides, like the side of the slaves and the side of their loving masters? Or what about the side of the 5,000 and more lynched African Americans and the side of the noble defenders of white women’s purity?

But even here, a teacher dedicated to getting out the truth of this country’s history wouldn’t be safe. The law also enjoins educators from offering lessons in which an “individual should feel discomfort, guilt, anguish, or another form of psychological distress solely because of the individual’s race or sex.”

I always thought that those stressers were part of becoming educated. To Kill a Mockingbird wasn’t supposed to make the reader feel good; it was supposed to make one writhe.

Simply telling the truth of what happened should cause a certain amount of distress.

The anti-CRT laws being fostered in many states are desperately attempting to cut off this discussion.

Conservative leaders in more than half the states in the Union have deliberately raised a furor over the little-known doctrine of Critical Race Theory only because they fear honestly naming their real target: teaching Black History.

You cannot teach Black History–the history of this country from the perspective of Black people–without calling into question everything we know about ourselves and about our nation.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Beef Goulash

Baby, it’s cold outside. Here’s one of my family’s favorite wintertime comfort foods. The fresh lemon juice adds a bright finish to this Hungarian dish.

2 tsp. unsalted butter
2 medium onions, peeled and thinly sliced
2 Tbs. sweet Hungarian paprika
1 tsp. caraway seeds
1 pound beef stewing meat, trimmed and cut into 1-inch cubes
¼ cup all-purpose flour
2 cups beef broth
1 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
2 teaspoons salt, plus more to taste
¼ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

Preparation
Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring frequently, until wilted, about 10 minutes. Stir in the paprika and caraway seeds and cook 1 minute more. In a bowl, toss the beef with the flour to coat well. Add the beef to the onion mixture. Cook, stirring, for 2 minutes.

Add 1/2 cup of the broth, stirring and scraping the bottom of the pot. Gradually stir in the remaining broth. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a slow simmer. Cover and cook until the beef is tender, about 1 1/2 hours. Stir in the lemon juice, salt and pepper to taste. Serve over wide egg noodles or spaetzle.

Years ago I knew a man who taught kindergarten in a public school in an up-scale neighborhood in Ventura County, California. A significant number of his students arrived each day in chauffeur-driven limousines.

My friend was something of a populist—a left-wing Jewish man who revered the notions of justice and equality and despised the notion of privilege.

He was also a union man who, when sensing that a student’s parent needed to be taken down a peg or two for their ill-mannered or unreasonable behavior, would end the school day with rousing choruses of the ‘70s advertising jingle sponsored by the International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union (ILGWU).

“Look for the union label,” the children would sing, even after arriving home. (It was a catchy tune if you’ll remember.) His action usually would have its intended effect—pissing off the decidedly anti-union, well-heeled parents of his students.

His actions could have been taken from the Yippee! playbook of political antics, had Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin bothered to write such a tract. My friend’s actions made me laugh and smile.

Joe Biden, who has won the 2020 election so many times that he might now well be the 54th president of the United States, noted that in less than a year, he’s uttered the word “union” more often than the previous seven presidents, combined. In his Tuesday address at a training facility in Howell, Michigan, he uttered the word too many times to count.

Biden, who hails from a working class neighborhood in Scranton, Pennsylvania, knows from experience about hard work and the struggle of the working class. He is a strong union supporter because he recognizes that without organized labor, the American worker would still be struggling with poor working conditions, slave wages, long hours, and no job security.

Proudly, I come from a family of unionists. My paternal grandmother, after arriving to Ellis Island from Bohemia at the turn of the last century, found work in the sweatshops in New York City. She sewed in dirty factories with dim lighting and poor ventilation, and made pennies on the day, working piece-meal sewing garments. She found her way to Chicago, where she found more of the same work and married my grandfather, Josip, who could only use his Austrian education in structural engineering, to work as a laborer in the dangerous steel mills on the South Side.

My grandfather saved his money and opened his own shop to make steel grates and decorative railings. He grew his business slowly, adding employees and expanding his shop to handle the work that was steadily coming in. In 1931, my father was a 12-year-old schoolboy and when he arrived home one day, he learned that his father had had his back broken when a structural steel beam broke from a crane and landed on him.

This, of course, was at the height of the Depression. I can’t imagine the details of what the next few days or even weeks were like, but my grandmother sold her husband’s business and the family’s home. Being a woman, I doubt if she received fair compensation. She used the proceeds to buy a small corner grocery, turning a back storage room into a bedroom for her husband. She kept a sewing machine there so that she could sit with her husband and mend clothes for people. She also took in laundry, and served the U.S. government as a distributor—without compensation—of flour, sugar, and other foodstuffs to the neighborhood’s residents. The family lived in the three small rooms on the second floor.

My father quit school, taking a job driving a truck to deliver vegetables and ice. He also had a newspaper route and partnered with a friend to run a newsstand on Cermack Road.

Dad joined the Army five years later, eventually becoming a captain, going off to Europe and landing on Omaha Beach on D-Day. By the time his participation in the war was done, he came home and he and his father—both healed but forever scarred—started a steel business.

My grandfather told Dad that he wanted to unionize the shop.

Historically, business owners tend to be anti-union. My grandfather explained to his son that if his employees had their union cards, they would have an easier time to find work should something go wrong at J. Liska & Son. After all, he reasoned, it had happened before.

I joined the Chicago Federation of Musicians, Local 10 of the American Federation of Musicians, when I was twelve. I was playing in small combos in bars, restaurants, and social clubs in the western suburbs. A union steward appeared one evening to inform me that without a union card, I couldn’t play for money and that my bandmates would be fined for working with a non-union player. While there was a question about my eligibility to become a member based on age, there was no question about the union’s eagerness to collect money from me.

I wasn’t old enough to drive, but I signed on as a union member.

In a gigging economy, no union can effectively protect its members from the hundreds, if not thousands, of venues that provide work. The union will establish minimum payments to whatever venues it reaches and it’s up to the musicians to comply. But if you’re a cabaret musician and scale is $35, you’ll take $25 because you’re hungry and need the work.

In Cleveland, where I joined Local 4 in 1969, the union processed its members’ pay in the form of a payroll. If you worked under scale, you’d have to add your own cash to meet the scale requirements—or face hefty fines. When I joined 802 in New York, there seemed to be little difference.

It’s sometimes challenging to be a unionist. I was a long-standing member of the American Federation of Musicians and experienced nothing of much value. I helped unionize the production side—paste-up workers, camera operators, et cetera—of the Daily Illini, a privately held company with no direct connection with the University of Illinois.

At heart, I know the labor unions provide a lot of benefits to its members. It’s too bad that there is such avarice that unions need to exist to seek good wages, benefits, and safe working conditions in the first place.

And that is why the unions deserve our support.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

LINGUINE WITH CLAMS

This is one of my favorite meals. It’s easy to throw together and the flavors are absolutely fabulous.

Per serving

6-8 whole fresh clams
2 Tbs. minced garlic
1 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
1 small can whole baby clams, with juice
1/4 cup dry white wine
pinch fresh Italian parsley
pinch of red pepper flakes
1/2 cup cream
2 tsp. butter
4-6 oz. dried linguine, cooked per package instructions

Place a sauté pan over high heat and add the garlic and oil. Cook until fragrant.

Place the 6 whole clams in the sauté pan and add the can of whole baby clams including the juice. Add white wine, parsley, red pepper, cream, and butter and continue cooking until it thickens slightly.

Place the linguine in a shallow bowl. Arrange whole clams around the edges and pour the sauce on top.

My days as a betting man ended early in our marriage. Geri questioned why a substantial amount of my paycheck as a reporter—meager enough as it was—was being withheld to ostensibly pay a debt about which she knew nothing.

After a fair amount of hemming and hawing, I finally admitted that the payment was to make good on an arrangement I had made with three Las Vegas casinos to keep my knees intact. A bank served as the intermediary, my boss as the guarantor.

I’ve not gambled since. Not once. I can walk by craps tables at Caesar’s Palace where I’ve actually thrown the dice and not even blink.

If I were a betting man, however, I would put my money on the notion that within a year, COVID-19 vaccinations will be mandated by federal law. While the majority of Americans seem to do the right thing by protecting each other from a disease that brings nothing but pain and heartache, more than a handful seem to value their right to exercise what they perceive as personal freedom to outweigh the common good.

Ironically, the federal mandates will come from what the anti-vaxxer, far-right hates most: government action which translates, to their feeble little minds, to restrictive control. These ideas stem from (mostly) men in forest camo stalking their local Starbucks with semi-automatic weapons draped across their chests.

Though hardly a legal scholar, out of curiosity, I’ve been reading about some legislation over the past few weeks that seems of particular interest. My question is concerning the origins of the need for much of it.

Are the laws of our land reactionary, remedial, or anticipatory? I imagine that a combination of the three is the right mix, with the biggest ingredient being remedial.

I once worked for a cable network that targeted an older demographic. The owner, who has subsequently done significant stays in prison for any number of white-collar crimes, wanted to show his empathy to his target audience by supporting the development of what would become the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). His support was less than noble, but I took the task seriously. I wrote countless letters, wrote position papers, and contributed op-ed pieces to Los Angeles newspapers.

The ADA, which was enacted in 1990, demanded that Americans do the right thing to protect and serve those among us who, for instance, couldn’t access certain places and activities because of a disability. Prior to that, a person confined to a wheelchair, for instance, had no access to a baseball stadium. (An early exception might be Dodger Stadium, where the legendary catcher, Roy Campanella, was a fixture.)

Elevators became mandatory in new construction. Access ramps were required for entry to public properties. Handrails became the expected norm. The list goes on and on—amenities to facilitate the disabled to avail themselves of the pleasures and activities most took for granted.

The ADA was clearly remedial. As a country, we had ignored the needs of the few and it took government action to solve problems that should have been solved by a nation’s resolve to be kind and considerate. In another word, nice.

Modeled on the Civil Rights Act of 1964, the ADA served the same purpose.

Lyndon B. Johnson, reacting to the needs of Black Americans, designed legislation that would help guarantee what should have been unnecessary to even address. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation might have freed slaves, but it did little to ensure their rights. Almost a hundred years later, the CRA offered protections, but enforcement is on-going almost fifty years later—and it’s horribly ineffective.

I never believed that I would be an old man with gray hair, an oxygen canula in my nose, mottled skin with bruises and slow-healing abrasions, and peripheral neuropathy, but here I am—in all my muted glory. At least my knees are intact.

I need such conveniences as grab bars to steady myself in the bathroom.

I recently noticed that at my preferred grocery store, there were no such bars to assist a user.

Why? I wondered.

I endured an exhausting struggle, but I was quickly aided by fellow shoppers who took time from their own rounds to assist me. One found a chair, another stood to make sure I didn’t fall, a third to ask if I needed a 9-1-1 call. And yet another brought me one of the electric scooters to help facilitate my shopping. These might have been humiliating moments had not the participants been so kind.

Nice, actually. Just plain nice…the way most of us were raised to be. The way we’re all supposed to be.

What all this has led to in my thinking about is that at some point, the grocery store can either do the right thing by installing grab bars and a comfort toilet, or make things worse by being mandated to do such by local or federal governing agencies.

During the time I was working for the failed cable network, I attended a cable television conference in Anaheim, California. At issue was the so-called “must-carry” rules that required cable services to provide access to network programming without direct compensation from cable subscribers. I regret not remembering the name of the Republican U.S. Representative I was sitting next to, but his words of that afternoon resonate: “You’d all better figure this out before we get involved and really fuck it up.”

Even as an old school FDR Democrat (I offer no apology, it was how I was raised), I still recognize that kindness comes from the heart, not from government action.

Do the right thing before something or someone makes you do the right thing.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Cacio e Pepe

One of the grand dishes of Rome, this pasta with Pecorino Romano cheese is an elegant dish that takes mere minutes to prepare. It is best if you toast whole black peppercorns to grind. This is for 2 servings.

6 oz. spaghetti
3 Tbsp. unsalted butter, cubed, divided
1 tsp. freshly cracked black pepper
1/2 cup finely grated Pecorino Romano cheese

Bring 3 quarts water to a boil in a 5-qt. pot. Season with salt; add pasta and cook, stirring occasionally, until about 2 minutes before tender. Drain, reserving ¾ cup pasta cooking water.

Meanwhile, melt 2 Tbsp. butter in a Dutch oven or other large pot or skillet over medium heat. Add pepper and cook, swirling pan for about one minute.

Add ½ cup reserved pasta water to skillet and bring to a simmer. Add pasta and remaining butter. Reduce heat to low and add the cheese, stirring and tossing with tongs until melted. Remove pan from heat. (Add more pasta water if sauce seems dry.) Transfer pasta to warm bowls and serve.

It was many moons ago in Ireland that I learned an important lesson about American history—namely, that Americans of my age know far less about it than we might have thought.

I was having a pint of Guinness in a second-floor bar in Dublin overlooking Trinity College. On a vast expanse of lawn some white-clad young men were playing cricket, a bat-and-ball sport that makes about as much sense as astrophysics, unless, of course, you’re from the British Isles. A man sat down on the bar stool next to me, ordered a pint, and began telling me about cricket. I knew it was a lost cause, namely because his version of the English language sounded so much different than mine.

He could tell I was an American—probably because my version of the English language sounded so much different than his. Besides that, only in America is cricket not widely played, just one of the things American of which I wasn’t aware. He proceeded to tell me of many more.

I’m not sure if I ever got the man’s name, although I’m assuming it was either Sean or Seamus. He was well-versed in American history and politics, although he demonstrated that his grasp of the American population (the vast majority of which can trace its roots to the Auld Sod) or its geography was lacking.

I told him I lived in Los Angeles, to which he gleefully asked if I “might be knowin’ me cousin Mary Murphy in San Francisco.”

It was a ha-ha moment.

I’m not much of a history buff, as it were. Like most of my generation, I studied the required texts throughout my school years but not much more. It took my reading of Jim Welch’s Fools Crow (1986), a story about the U.S. government’s war against the Plains Indians, and Killing Custer: The Battle of Little Bighorn and the Fate of the Plains Indians (1994) for me to fully understand that General Custer was a no kind of hero. It was well after my school years before my coming to question that the “discovery” of America by Christopher Columbus was ridiculous since indigenous people were here to greet his landing parties.

The genocide of Native Americans was not merely glossed over in the public schools of the 1950s and 1960s, it wasn’t even mentioned.

Of course, what can one expect from a system that taught us that hiding under our desks would protect us from nuclear fallout? Or for that matter, taught us to buy into the Cold War theory that was our own government’s paranoid propaganda campaign?

I am an ardent history buff of the music of jazz and its origins, most of which are found in the history of African-Americans. My education has been an on-going, self-taught endeavor for well over fifty years. It’s difficult for me to imagine why jazz, this country’s original art form, is barely taught in the schools. And when it is taught, it’s mostly in the realm of performance—which provides little to no connectivity to its history or its creators.

I’m sure that Montana’s moronic U.S. Representative, Matt Rosendale, a real estate developer from Maryland who moved to Montana, bought a Stetson hat, and labeled himself a rancher, would find that the teaching of jazz in the public schools is a no-no. It violates his racist beliefs. He is, after all, vociferously opposed to the teaching of Critical Race Theory (CRT), which in simple terms he probably can’t grasp, is just history with an unfortunate name.

History has no prejudice or bias. It is pure and absolute, yet still worthy of critical thought and consideration. What has happened has happened, its representation adding prejudice and bias where there should be none. It can be revised—based, like science—on new information that comes to light. It also may be revised to suit a perceived need, or amended to do the same. It is an unacceptable practice. The New Deal programs of FDR, for instance, are demonstrated by statistical analysis, yet vilified by political biases.

I find myself to be drawn more deeply into history, perhaps because I have seventy years’ worth of my own behind me. I keep discovering things about which I never knew, and am constantly challenged by information about which I was misled.

I recently had the great privilege of writing the program notes for this season’s Bozeman Symphony. Although my interest has been jazz, I trained as a classical musician. A few of the orchestral pieces being offered this season I have performed. I discovered that while I might know their symphonic forms and structures, I knew little of the history or context of the piece and its composer.

At Interlochen Arts Academy, we were taught to focus on performance. There was little, if any, context explained regarding the composer or the times in which he lived. I guess I could have discovered such on my own, but I didn’t.

When the assignment from the BSO came, I blew the dust off my Grout’s The History of Western Music, consulted a bit with Google, and delved into history.

The experience opened an astonishing new world of wonder.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

GRILLED ROMAINE SALAD

This is a delightful salad that I frequently served at my restaurant, Adagio.

1 Tbs. minced shallots
1 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
5 tsp. Champagne vinegar
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
salt
Combine the ingredients listed above in a lidded jar and shake well to mix.

3 heads romaine lettuce
1 bunch small radishes
2 hard-cooked eggs
1/4 cup fresh breadcrumbs
olive oil
salt

Trim romaine and halve each head lengthwise, leaving enough root base to hold the halved head intact. Slice the radishes as thinly as possible and place in ice water. Finely chop the eggs.

Combine the breadcrumbs in a small saucepan with the olive oil. Stir to coat well, season with salt and place over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring constantly, until the crumbs have darkened and toasted, about 5 minutes. Remove from heat.

Grill the romaine on a stove-top grill pan over high heat, cooking just long enough to sear, 1 to 2 minutes to a side. (Char broiling is preferred.) The heat must be intense so as to char the lettuce but not allow it to wilt too much.

Arrange lettuce on a platter, season lightly with salt and spoon a generous tablespoon or so of dressing over the top. Repeat until all the romaine has been cooked and added to the platter.

Distribute the thinly sliced radishes over the top. Scatter the chopped eggs. Spoon over more of the salad dressing, scatter the toasted breadcrumbs and serve.

Consider, if you will, the hamburger.

A simple food that is nonetheless the quintessential American sandwich, despite its being rooted in Hamburg, Germany. It is rarely given quarter in fine dining establishments, but is readily available at most drive-thru restaurants, chains, and diners.

It is such a part of our culinary fabric that vegans and vegetarians crave them so badly that fake burgers are now available that have more chemicals than one can even imagine. Apparently, they taste like the forbidden meat. Go figure.

They are a staple—not the fake ones—at cookouts and picnics, where they are grilled over wood or charcoal. They are great fried or griddled and placed between slices of bread or a bun and topped with a variety of condiments, many of which stir the pot of preferences among the most ardent of those who believe their way is the only way to properly dress a burger. (Believe me, I get it. To me, there’s only one way to properly adorn a hot dog.)

As I’ve grown older, I’ve grown fonder of hamburgers. I don’t eat as much as I used to and a four-ounce serving of beef is about the most I can handle, assuming there will be fries and/or beans as accompaniments. I like the texture of ground or minced meat as much as I like well-crafted sausages. At this point in my life, I could no more face a 16-ounce T-bone than I could a pound of anything.

The quality of hamburgers run the gamut from “Are you kidding me?” to “Are you kidding me?” Inflection is everything. I recently had a burger that was two, two-ounce burgers smashed together before being placed on a brioche-style bun. The meat was dried out, the bun was too big, and the lettuce was wilted. But, hey, it was only $14.

The smash burger is trending these days and there’s even a chain of restaurants called Smashburger. Based in Denver, I had one of its burgers on my last day in the hospital a couple of years ago. After nearly five months of institutional cooking, it was one of the best meals I’ve ever had.

My family responded to their burgers with “meh.”

The hamburger can serve as a canvas for myriad ingredients, many of which disguise the taste of the beef. Cheese, bacon, avocado, and pineapple come to mind, as does McDonald’s Big Mac—an unsatisfying sandwich of Thousand Island dressing with bread and pickles. Then there are the burgers with various flavorings mixed into the beef that also alter the flavor of the meat. Garlic and oregano mixed and topped with mozzarella create an Italian burger, though actually it’s just a flattened meatball. Ground lamb, mixed with rosemary, garlic, and feta cheese, becomes a Greek burger. The French burger, if you believe Julia Child (which I do), is a blend of ground beef with minced onion and thyme.

I won’t waste my time with ground chicken or turkey.

The secret to a great burger is, of course, the meat. If you buy packaged ground beef in any of its fat-to-muscle ratios, you’re not having the best burger experience. I like to grind my own burger from a blend of two parts chuck, and one part each of brisket and short ribs. The beef should be graded Choice. I grind it first using the large holes on the grinder and give it a second grind through the medium disc. The amount of fat in those cuts is perfect to provide the juiciness I like in a medium-rare patty.

I baked all of my own bread at our restaurant, and I chose to use our ciabatta for hamburger buns. They were light and airy, buttered and quickly grilled on the char-broiler. The patty protruded slightly from the edges, which was just fine. I served them the usual host of condiments, along with crisp iceberg lettuce, sliced tomato, and sliced onion. I also served zucchini pickles on the side. Today, I buy generic hamburger buns that are soft, yet provide the grip necessary to eat a burger with one hand.

Condiments and adornments are up to personal taste. My son-in-law makes as good a burger as I’ve ever had. His secret, I think, is a splash of soy sauce at the end of cooking the patties on a flat-top grill. He won’t eat raw onion, so I believe he’s missing one the great elements of the flavor profile of a great burger. My daughter thinks lettuce is what food eats, so her burgers have nothing green on them.

Geri likes grilled onions on her burger, and I like raw Spanish onion with lettuce and tomato. I don’t much care for ketchup, which is Jacques Pepin’s condiment of choice for the burgers he serves on toasted English muffins. I like mayonnaise, which is also what I prefer as a dipping sauce for French fries. I don’t care for any of the bottled barbeque sauces—most of which are sweet enough to ice a cake.

I don’t usually have cheese on my burger, but when I do there are only two kinds: bleu or American. I never have bacon (kind of a mixed message of flavors) or pepperoni or mushrooms. When I crave a hamburger, I want it to be as simple as it was once meant to be.

I’m not much of a fan of fast-food burger places unless I happen to be in one of the few states where there are In-N-Out Burger joints. Stop the car! Gimme a double-double! And a chocolate shake!

Photography and food styling by Courtney A. Liska

Zucchini Pickles

During her ordeal with the cancer that killed her, I gave my mother the task of finding a great pickle for my restaurant. She found this one from an early edition of “The Joy of Cooking.” She might have tweaked it a bit. The pickles are delicious, and just in time for that moment in August-September when you need to lock your car doors lest somebody leave a box or two of zucchini on the back seat.

2 # zucchini
2 small yellow onions
4 Tbs. kosher salt
4 cups cider vinegar
2 cups sugar
3 tsp. dry mustard
3 tsp. mustard seeds
2 tsp. turmeric

Wash and trim zucchini, slice thinly. Slice onion. Place in iced water. Add salt. Combine brine ingredients and bring to a boil; simmer for three minutes. Cool completely. Drain vegetables. Add to brine. Let cool.

This is a re-posting of an essay I wrote two 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. L’Shanah tovah. Stay well. Stay safe. 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

While there is no shortage of events that one might find disturbing, I can’t imagine one more so than to think that one has been the target of a hate crime.

Hate crimes have special legal status at both the federal and state levels. That status is due to the fact that a hate crime has hatred as its motivation. Although we might find the commission of a hate crime as an act of violence, a hate crime may also be a symbolic gesture.

Without any actual proof, it would seem that we were the target of such a gesture.

Last Sunday morning, my son-in-law left to go to work. Sean is an unflappable guy who takes things in stride. When he came back into the house, he looked pale. At the end of our walkway to the street, he told me, was a pool of blood—lots of blood, deep red and deep. It was completely contained in a wide oval, with no signs of anything (like an injured dog or cat) having been dragged there. There was a faint human footprint heading away from the pool.

The police came and after a lot of investigating they determined that the evidence pointed to this incident as an intentional act.

We wear our politics on our sleeves and on placards on the front lawn. We support the concept of empathy and humanity as expressed by Chabad. We also support the Black Lives Matter movement, and we fly a Pride flag in support of the LGBTQ community. We display yard signs for candidates we support.

Our signage is meant to recognize and honor those who might walk or drive past our house. They are not there to be provocative or to inspire the hatred of those who might disagree with our simple values.

But we can think of no other reason why this intentional act of spilling blood at the foot of our walkway occurred.

I certainly don’t care to sound alarmist, and this incident could have been some kind of particularly unfunny practical joke. Either way, it seems that some kind of animal was sacrificed to harvest the blood to fill our walkway.

That’s sad and pathetic.

To my way of thinking, hate crimes are acts of cowardice. The anti-Semitic pamphlets and flyers we’ve found under our windshield wipers over the years were delivered by people who want no conversation. Those papers are threats meant to intimidate.

Since 1968, when Congress passed, and President Lyndon Johnson signed into law, the first federal hate crimes statute, the Department of Justice has been enforcing federal hate crimes laws. The 1968 statute made it a crime “to use, or threaten to use, force to willfully interfere with any person because of race, color, religion, or national origin. It seems limited to protecting those participating in a federally protected activity, such as public education, employment, jury service, travel, or the enjoyment of public accommodations, or helping another person to do so.”

In 1968, Congress also made it a crime to use, or threaten to use, force to interfere with housing rights because of the victim’s race, color, religion, sex, or national origin; in 1988, protections on the basis of familial status and disability were added. In 1996, Congress passed the Church Arson Prevention Act. Under this Act, it is a crime to deface, damage, or destroy religious real property, or interfere with a person’s religious practice, in situations affecting interstate commerce. The Act also bars defacing, damaging, or destroying religious property because of the race, color, or ethnicity of persons associated with the property.

In 2009, Congress passed, and President Barack Obama signed, the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act, expanding the federal definition of hate crimes, enhancing the legal tools available to prosecutors, and increasing the ability of federal law enforcement to support state and local partners. This law removed then-existing jurisdictional obstacles to prosecutions of certain race- and religion-motivated violence, and added new federal protections against crimes based on gender, disability, gender identity, or sexual orientation.

The Act is named after Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr.

Shepard was a student who was tortured and murdered in 1998 near Laramie, Wyoming. The attack was spurred by his being gay, and the trial employed a gay panic defense. Shepard’s murderers were given life sentences—in large part because his parents sought mercy for his killers.

Byrd was an African American man who was tied to a truck by three white supremacists, dragged behind it, and decapitated in Jasper, Texas, in 1998. Two of Byrd’s murderers were sentenced to death and executed in 2011 and 2019, respectively, while the third was sentenced to life in prison. All the convictions were obtained without the assistance of hate crimes laws since none were applicable at the time.

The murders and subsequent trials brought national and international attention to the desire to amend U.S. hate crime legislation at both the state and federal levels. Wyoming hate crime laws at the time did not recognize homosexuals as a suspect class, whereas Texas had no hate crime laws at all.

It could be argued that all crimes have an element of hate: crimes of passion and whatnot. But for an impoverished man shoplifting groceries to feed his family, that is a crime based on love.

There is no place in a civilized society for hate, which shows how far we must grow to become a civilized society.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Vegetable Lasagna

With summer near its end and vegetables are ripe and abundant, it’s time for this great lasagna. Substitute the suggested veggies with anything you have and like.

7 oz ricotta cheese
1/3 cup chopped pitted black olives (optional)
1 tbsp. chopped fresh thyme
2 Tbsp. fresh basil, chopped
1/2 tbsp dried oregano
2-3 cloves minced garlic
4 cups prepared pasta sauce
1 lb. lasagna pasta
Freshly ground black pepper
2 small zucchini, diced
2 small summer squash, diced
3/4 cup bottled roasted red pepper, diced
1/4 cup grated Parmesan

Preparation
Heat oven to 375°F. Mix goat cheese, olives (if using), thyme, basil, oregano, and garlic in a bowl; season with salt and pepper. Spread 1 cup pasta sauce on the bottom of an 8″ x 11″ baking dish. Add one layer of lasagna and season with black pepper. Add a layer of zucchini, squash, and red pepper. Dollop spoonsful of ricotta cheese mixture over vegetables and spread to cover. Repeat layers, finishing with pasta and sauce. Sprinkle Parmesan on top, cover with foil and bake 40 minutes. Uncover and bake 5 minutes or until top browns. Let stand 10-15 minutes; serve.

The grandkids are back in school, excited in their different ways about the challenges their course loads will present in coming months. And after a year of home schooling, their social interactions will return to great delight.

They’re also pretty excited about their first experiences of organized sports—Evelyn in volleyball, Sean Liam in football. I just may be more excited than they are.

I’ve always enjoyed sports and only wish that I could still play them. But age takes its toll, and I am sidelined to be an observer.

My favorite sport is baseball, followed by soccer and ice hockey. I’m not all that interested in football, though I sure seem to watch a lot it—only because I can’t pry Geri away from the screen on Sundays, and Monday and Thursday nights. I’m not much of a fan of basketball, although for a three-year stretch in the mid-80s, I went to dozens of Lakers games because I had free tickets.

That was the golden age of Lakers b-ball, and I sat comfortably in the senate seats, smoking a cigar, and imbibing a cocktail or two. But the real joy was in watching how the team actually played. Magic Johnson was particularly interesting in displaying true teamwork. His periphery vision seemed to encompass the entire court—side-to-side, end-to-end—and he’d methodically bring the ball into play and start looking for a teammate to assist. Once he delivered the ball to the shooter, he’d charge to the goal to rebound—if necessary.

He also scored a lot of points.

And of course, watching Kareem Abdul-Jabbar play was like watching an athletic ballet. His skyhook was the stuff of legend.

Being an urban kid growing up, we played sports. Mostly baseball, on vacant lots. We’d use pieces of cardboard as bases, and since there were never more than nine or ten of us, we’d improvise rules—reinventing the game to meet our needs. Some of us would have to go home to practice the piano for half-an-hour, but when we got back to the sandlot the game was still going.

They were marathons that ended with our arms around each other’s shoulders. We’d be home before dark—sweaty, roughed-up and hungry. We’d sleep with our mitts under the pillow, the Neatsfoot oil scenting the night air.

Most of us were in Little League, a concept, on paper, that was good. Unfortunately, fathers (mostly) with over-active thyroids would diminish the experience of organized ball because they feared their son would not gain a spot on the Yankees’ roster ten years down the line. It’s what inspired me to umpire youth baseball for 14 years: keep the parents quiet and let the kids play.

But here’s the deal. While there are inherent risks of injury, the rewards I believe are worth the risk. Sports provide vital conditioning of the body, which helps to feed an active mind. A flabby body cannot support a sharp mind. There’s a balance that is there for the asking.

And team sports teach us to respect authority (the coaching staff), to recognize that hard work will lead to success, that practice approaches perfect, and that teamwork is what leads to victory.

Not that winning is the only thing. I disagree with Vince Lombardi on that score. Doing one’s best is perhaps all that is needed or should be expected.

Most of us have had careers or jobs that require a cooperative effort. Teams build cars, create movies, play music, accommodate car racing, issue newspapers and make restaurants work. In the twelve years I had my restaurant, I found that among my best employees were high school students who played team sports. It was actually a question on my rather odd employment application. (Trying to eliminate the self-centered with no respect for authority, one of the questions asked was about wearing seat belts.)

The worst employee I ever had was a server who turned his nose up at team sports and proudly announced he was a snow boarder.

Sports also have the ability to inspire each of us to do better in any given activity, and provide glimpses of stunning excellence. To watch Messi’s ball handling on the pitch, a double play on the diamond, or a wide receiver snag the football in the midst of a crowd of defenders in the end zone—those are moments of athletic prowess that few will attain.

All the more reason to keep trying.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken and Mushrooms in a White Wine Sauce

This is a no-brainer weeknight dinner that is perfectly wonderful.

4 Tbs. butter, divided
¼ cup flour
2 cups chicken stock, lukewarm
½ cup dry white wine
4 Tbs. heavy cream
1 tsp lemon juice
Salt and pepper
1 lb chicken or turkey breast, cut into chunks
8 oz. button mushrooms, sliced
Handful of finely chopped tarragon or parsley

Melt 2 tablespoons butter in large pan over medium heat. Add flour and beat hard until you have a smooth paste (called a roux). Continue to beat until roux begins to have a golden color. Take off heat and gradually add stock, whisking constantly.

Place pan back over medium heat and simmer gently for 10 minutes, whisking frequently to ensure none of the sauce burns on bottom of pan. If sauce becomes too thick, whisk in a little more stock.

Add wine and continue simmering for 10 minutes, then take off the heat and whisk in cream and lemon juice. Taste for salt and pepper.

While sauce is simmering, melt 2 tablespoons butter in large frying pan until sizzling. Add chicken and fry for a few minutes until golden. Add mushrooms and fry for another 5 minutes or until chicken is cooked through.

To serve, mix sauce with chicken and mushrooms and sprinkle with some fresh tarragon or parsley.

There seems to be no shortage of inspirational messaging on the internet, though I find little of it to be very inspirational. Most of it strikes me as insipidly trite drivel. I mean, really, who needs to be reminded of the industriousness of ants, the busyness of bees, the delicate gentleness of a butterfly?

While I might appreciate and be thankful for all of the goodness of insect life, I certainly don’t care to emulate it—especially at my age. Industry is what others do. So is busy. I try to be gentle.

There is also a lot of poetry—or, at least, poetic sentiment in all of this. Most of it rates as being prepubescent at best. “Ode On a Demonic Cirrus Cloud” just doesn’t quite make it in the world of odist John Keats, although it should be noted that many poems by Emily Dickinson have the same metric structure found in the “Theme from Gilligan’s Island” or “The Yellow Rose of Texas.” Go figure.

A posting I saw last week intrigued me. Ostensibly it was about educating our children, although personally I should put that in the past tense. I thought it was going to be another inane diatribe about how high schoolers should be learning how to iron clothes and change the oil, both of which are tasks that I believe should fall to parents. Since I do not possess the skills to teach algebra or chemistry (it’s been 55 years since I had to find the value of x; I never studied chemistry), I figure that the schools might do a better job to undertake that task than me.

While I might be on the short side of oil change instructions, I do know how to iron. I can also teach the kids to cook, which I did, and could probably do a decent job of teaching literature and writing. Our family meals (every night, almost) frequently involved talking about the books we’d read or were reading.

Nothing beats a lively discussion about Horton Hears a Who while dining on spaghetti and meatballs.

Our kids are grown now, and Geri and I are quite proud of them. I think we did a good job of raising them, instilling senses of responsibility, kindness, manners, and a playful approach to good trouble.

If there is injustice, they fight against it. Courtney just has a fouler mouth. (Do not approach her in public without a mask to avoid witnessing her swears-like-a-sailor act.)

We’re fairly progressive here at the house on 3rd Street. We stress fairness, equality, and justice within our modest walls. We deny hate, violence, and intolerance. We believe that Black lives matter.

Our ambitions for the kids were never expressed, although we encouraged and tried to support every ambition they might have expressed. At one point, Daniel aspired to be Alan Greenspan; Courtney wanted to be an Olympic equestrian.

I had a friend in California who expected his son to be a professional baseball player—a shortstop, to be exact. He had the kid’s life mapped out: Little League, Legion ball, college at Pepperdine, an early exit to the minors, advancement to the Bigs.

The father had followed that exact path, though he never made to the major leagues. His ambition became what he wanted for his son.

I questioned him about his son’s wishes and the disappointment that might come. How, the father wondered, could his son not relish such a future?

I suggested that he might have different plans, interests. And what if the kid wasn’t a good player? None of that mattered. John knew his kid was going to be great and enjoy the career the father never knew.

As it turned out, the kid was mediocre at baseball. He never played Legion or went to Pepperdine. He’s a chef now, cooking his way to happiness and a fulfilled life. His father, a successful state’s attorney who put criminals behind bars, suffers needlessly in disappointment.

I believe that most of us have our children’s best interests at heart. While we might wish for them lives as renowned attorneys, diplomats, doctors, dentists, research scientists, and corporate moguls, the reality is for something that might seem less worthy but, in fact, is just the opposite. Every job that needs doing is worth doing. Few of our offspring will ever become professional athletes, revered artists, or movie stars. And it doesn’t matter. Our son is a ship’s Captain for a cargo line in Seattle; our daughter, a homemaker and artist who devotes countless hours to working to fight the epidemic of human trafficking. They seem happy, and Geri and I couldn’t be happier, though their achievements are something we never thought about as we raised them.

We invested nothing in their future occupations, but everything in their futures.

What we tried to do (and I happen to think we’ve been successful) was make them into well-rounded intelligent adults who can think for themselves and who strive to do the right thing.

Geri’s grandmother, a bit of a nasty old woman, frequently reminded her that knowledge and manners were the two things that could never be taken away. She’s right, of course.

In the mid-1980s, graduates of Ivy League schools were being recruited left and right by Wall Street firms. But many of them had to first attend what were, for lack of a better term, finishing schools where they learned how to properly eat in public.

Setting a good example should be the first role of parenting because that is how we first learn: imitation. If a parent regularly holds the door for others, eats with their elbows off the table, and merely smiles when another driver fails to show a roadway courtesy, chances are good the kid will have the same approach.

If a child sees hatred in a parent’s eye, that child will grow up to embrace that same hatred.

We owe it to our children, ourselves, and the rest of humanity to teach kindness and love. And not define them by what they do, but who they are.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Deviled eggs

I have always loved deviled eggs—the simpler the better. Here’s a foolproof recipe.

6 large eggs
3/4 Tbs. mayonnaise
1 tsp. Dijon mustard
1 tsp. apple cider vinegar
Dash of Tabasco sauce
Sprinkle of paprika

After making a hole in the roundest part of the egg with a pushpin to release air pressure, lower the eggs into a pot of boiling water. Bring the water back to a gentle boil and let the eggs cook for ten minutes. Place the eggs in an ice bath to completely cool.

Peel the eggs, cut them half and remove the yolks to a mixing bowl. Mash the yolks and add the mayonnaise, mustard, vinegar, and Tabasco. Stuff the egg halves and sprinkle with paprika.

If I happen to wake up tomorrow—and there’s only mild speculation that I might not—I will be 70 years old.

That’s a relatively long time to have trod the earth on feet that have become numb by the onset of peripheral neuropathy. My treading has been reduced to a cane-assisted shuffle that gets me from room to room, house to car, car to the produce section at my local grocery store. And then repeated in reverse order.

How can a body part be numb and painful at the same time? I’m sure Doctor Google has the answer; I’ve just not bothered looking for it.

While this might be a good time to reflect on past accomplishments, I’d rather reflect on those things I chose happily not to accomplish, which are small accomplishments in and of themselves.

Skydiving, for instance, jumps to mind. I don’t see the need for such activity unless you must be dropped behind enemy lines to infiltrate enemy camps. It’s hardly a sport but it could be considered a death wish. I’m not particularly fond of flying, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to hurl myself out of a perfectly good plane with a parachute someone I don’t know has folded and packed. I’m not at all in that much of a hurry to hit the ground anyway, other than by using the ramp leading to the corridors of airports where food is more expensive than are automobiles.

Speaking of airplanes, I have never stood up before the plane has come to a complete stop at the gate and the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign. I’ve never understood the urgency to deplane. I’d rather sit for five minutes than stand in elbow-to-elbow aisle traffic.

Hot air balloons don’t do much for me either. I’ve never had the experience. My sister and I pooled some funds once to treat our mother to such a trip. When the gondola hit the ground, it tipped over, spilling the passengers onto the ground. Mom broke three ribs in what was an unhappy and awkward landing.

For similar reasons, I’ve never para-sailed. I’ve also chosen not to jump off a cliff and soar around as a human kite. Bungee jumping from a bridge over a river has no appeal. If I want a thrill, I’ll download some new music.

Unless inadvertently, I’ve never eaten bugs.

I’ve never gone ice fishing, which a dear friend once characterized as the “truly moronic sport,” that involves not eating bugs but keeping them warm nestled between gums and the lower lip.

Being claustrophobic, I’ve never ventured onto a submarine—not even the one at Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. It’s not submerged, but I’ve never been able to imagine how terrified I’d be if that puppy broke its moorings and started drifting toward Alcatraz. (I couldn’t even sit still while watching Das Boot; I paced behind the couch for the entire 2 hours and 29 minutes of the movie.)

I’ve never purchased pre-torn clothing.

I’ve never tried synchronized diving. Actually, it was only last week that I first learned there was such a thing. It looked mildly ridiculous.

Although I maintain a list and frequently update it, I’ve never killed anybody.

I spent twenty-six years writing for Playboy, but I’ve never had a subscription.

I have not offered an opinion about Simone Biles, other than to note that she’s a gifted athlete. It’s none of my business—or anybody else’s, for that matter—how she conducts her career or her life.

Riding bicycles is something I did to go places when that was my only option. I’ve never traversed countless miles of back roads or challenged any mountain. I’ve also never gone running unless something or somebody was chasing me.

I’ve never climbed a mountain or scaled a wall of ice. The simple fact that “because they are there” doesn’t require any activity or participation on my part.

I have never tasted Spam.

I’ve never driven a race car or a motorcycle.

As an adult, I’ve never lived in a new house in which everything worked.

I am woefully out of step with pop culture and must rely on people half my age to tell me about it.

I have never owned an Elvis Presley record.

I have never seen a James Bond movie. Not one. And I only ever saw the first Star Wars movie, which I found to be a monumental waste of time.

Try as I have, I’ve sadly never been able to read more than three or four pages of James Joyce’s “Finnegan’s Wake.” The same can be said about Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.”

While I’ve never cared much for celebrity, I do admire accomplishment.

Although I have apparently had twenty years of opportunity, I’ve never seen even a minute of whatever it is that the Kardashian people do. Why, I ask, would anybody possibly care?

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Italian Clam Soup

Long stands the argument about whether a savory liquid containing clams and vegetables is chowder or soup. If it were up to me (which it isn’t) I’d define a chowder as being cream-based—something a New Englander might crave for Friday lunch. For New Yorkers, who are inherently Italian without regard to their actual ethnic identity, it’s clam soup and its base is the quite ordinary tomato.

1 large can (51 oz.) SeaWatch clams
4 slices bacon, diced
4 cups chopped onions
2 cups chopped celery
1 cup red bell pepper
1-1/2 cups chopped carrots
3 Tbs. minced garlic
3-4 bay leaves
1 Tbs. dried oregano
1 tsp. dried thyme
1 tsp. red pepper flakes
2-1/1 lbs. potatoes, peeled and cubed
2 cups chicken or fish stock
3 cups diced tomatoes
1/4 cup chopped parsley

Strain the liquid from the clams and reserve.

Over medium-high heat, cook the bacon until crispy; add onions, celery, peppers and carrots, and cook for 10 minutes. Add garlic, bay leaves, oregano, thyme and red pepper, and cook another 2-3 minutes.

Turn heat to high and add potatoes, stock and reserved clam juice. Cover and bring to the boil. Cook at a brisk simmer until potatoes are tender (20 minutes). Add tomatoes and cook another 10-15 minutes. Remove from heat and stir in clams and parsley. Let sit for at least an hour and gently reheat to serve.