Journal

Despite all of the oddness of this year’s Thanksgiving, it remains my favorite holiday. I like having a day devoted to just appreciating and being thankful for whatever it is that is our lot, especially those precious moments spent with family and friends. It is also a day to think about others who might not be so fortunate, who are lonely shut-ins or are homeless, or ailing in so many ways from this devastating virus that has so mercilessly gripped our nation.

It is also a time to wonder aloud how we might help, and resolve to act.

What I like best about Thanksgiving is that most of it takes place at a table that hosts our bounty—however meager or lavish—a place where we can linger for the better part of an afternoon or evening, enjoying our food and each other’s company, moaning all the while about having eaten too much. It’s a happy misery.

We did that this year. Courtney and her family, and Geri and I quarantined for fourteen days so we could share our first family dinner since an outdoor gathering early in the summer. It felt really, really good—the highlight of a ten-month drought of highlights. The dogs ran rampant, the cats aloofly recognizing the foolishness of it all; the grand kids babbled relentlessly, and we joined in the laughter, savoring moments that will change and grow more somber as they grow older.

We hugged, albeit briefly.

Evelyn played Fly Me to the Moon and Ode to Joy on the piano; Sean-Liam expressed his interest in zombies as he assessed the quantities of food each of us took and challenged our heights. I came in second in food; still first in height, although perhaps not for long. He’s growing like the proverbial weed.

Tucking in with a notebook, pencil and a glass of Scotch at home late Thursday, I started thinking about the great meals I’ve enjoyed here and abroad. A great meal is defined not only by the quality of the food but by the people with whom you share it.

Courtney complained that her mashed potatoes weren’t up to snuff, which to her somehow belied her being Irish. I said that her that the potatoes were fine and reminded her that she’s only half Irish. Had she relied on the other half of her ethnicity, the potatoes would have been boiled and tossed with butter and parsley.

(In two weeks’ time I will teach her my babi’s recipe for latkes, just in time for Hanukkah.)

If the potatoes had been forgotten on a back burner, dinner would have progressed with the gravy ladled onto other foods and a great time would still have been had by all.

One Christmas Eve, many years ago, Geri’s job demanded that she work at the admitting desk at what was then Livingston Memorial Hospital. When she took her meal break, the kids and I joined her in the basement cafeteria. We had mac n’ cheese, ham sandwiches and slaw…it was one of the most memorable meals of our lives. Like camping, one remembers best the one that was the worst.

I lived in New York City in the early ‘70s. One Thanksgiving, I found myself with no invite to any gathering. Feeling pathetically sorry for myself, I made my way to a diner on Avenue ‘A’ and St. Mark’s Place—a few blocks from my apartment in the East Village. I sat at the counter and ate an open-face turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes, peas, and cranberry sauce. It was terrible, but nonetheless quite memorable.

Before moving to the East Village, one of my band mates and I shared a two-room-plus-bath suite at a fleabag hotel at 74th and Amsterdam. The suite, which cost $35 a week, had three lights—bare bulbs hanging from single cords that were operated by pull strings. There was no refrigeration and only a single electric burner on which to cook. The cockroaches, who wandered about the space with abandon, were the size of my thumb. We were stone broke and dined frequently on canned smelt, a fish best known for its being food for other fish. A can of them cost 19ȼ. We fried them in oil and ate them with slices of white bread—the window wide open.

That fifty-year-old experience, memorable by any measure, prepared me for eating petit friture poisson avec frites one day in Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, the Paris suburb from which my beautiful daughter-in-law Pauline hails. What we thought was fish and chips—technically it was—turned out to be blanchaille, which, roughly translated, means “shiny guppies with bulging eyes.” They might also have passed for bait. But there were fries.

Near where I lived during those squalid times in NYC was Big Nick’s Burger & Pizza Joint, side-by-side operations on Broadway between 76th and 77th Streets. The place had been shown in Midnight Cowboy, the award-winning movie from 1969. When our band worked, I’d treat myself to a burger combo (fries and a Coke) that I remember costing less than $3.00.

A couple of miles south on West 52th Street, the venerable 21 Club served a hamburger a la carte whose price was in the neighborhood of $20.

Food and the dining experience have the potential to be transformative. For Julia Child, that moment came over a plate of sole meunière in a restaurant in Rouen, France, the very town in which the 19-year-old Joan of Arc was burned at the stake for heresy. By the dinner’s end she—Julia—had fallen in love with French cuisine—an affair that led to a career introducing countless others to French food through books and television.

Although having cooked Italian food since childhood, my view of that cuisine was forever altered when I first ate at Sostanza in Florence, Italy. Opened in 1869, it’s a hole-in-the-wall place with white tiled walls and a simple, hand-written menu. My first time there I had tortellini al brodo, each little pasta package plump with meat and cheese floating in the richest chicken stock I’ve ever tasted. I followed that with the bistecca alla Fiorentina, a two-inch-thick T-bone steak from Italy’s famed Chianina beef. On another visit, I had the pasta al sugo—penne tossed with an intensely meaty ragu.

One of my earliest “aha” moments came at a restaurant on the North side of Chicago, The Bakery. Housed in an old bakery that had undergone little renovation, the 25-seat eatery was opened by Chef Louis Szathmáry in 1963 and enjoyed a 26-year run. Chef was a gregarious man of great girth and an impressive handlebar mustache who ventured out of his kitchen to greet his guests. His food was a fusion of French and Hungarian styles. Bouillabaisse and Wiener schnitzel lived together happily on the menu, along with beef Wellington.

It was there that I had pâté for the first time. I mentioned to my father that it tasted a lot like babi’s chopped liver. He seemed bothered by that. It would have been risky to say either “not as good” or “better.” I just kept eating.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Sole meunière

Adapted from The Way to Cook by Julia Child.

2 skinless and boneless sole fillets, or other thin white fish fillet (I’ve made this with cod, as well)
Salt and pepper
1/4 cup flour on a plate
3 Tbs. clarified unsalted butter
Small glass of dry white wine (2-3 oz.)
4 Tbs. unsalted butter
1 Tbs. flat-leaf parsley, minced
1 tsp. lemon zest
3 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
One lemon, quartered for garnish

Place the flour in a large shallow plate. Pat the sole fillets dry with paper towels and season with salt and pepper.

Heat a sauté pan over medium-high heat. Dredge the fillets in the flour. When the pan is hot, add the clarified butter and place the floured fillets into the pan. Lower the heat to medium and cook on each for 2 minutes. Remove the fillets and keep them warm. Add the wine to deglaze the pan. Add the butter to the pan. After it melts, add lemon zest and juice. Pour the juice over the fillets and sprinkle with parsley. Serve immediately, with steamed potatoes with butter and parsley.

Pâté maison

Adapted from The Bakery Restaurant Cookbook by Louis Szathmáry.

1 c. finely minced onion
4 oz. chicken or duck fat
8 oz. chicken livers
3/4 # cooked chicken thighs
3 oz. unsalted butter (6 Tbs.)
2 oz. chicken or duck fat
2-3 Tbs. cognac
2 tsp. Parisian spice (see below)

Fry the onion in the fat over medium heat, cooking until very limp but not browned. Add the chicken livers (do not salt) and cook until all traces of pink are gone. Cool.

Grind the cooked chicken thighs through the medium blade of a grinder three times.

Next, grind the chicken livers and onions. Blend the butter and 2 oz. of fat with a mixer or spoon, adding the meat and liver mixture slowly. Add the cognac the Parisian spice. Chill and serve with crusty bread, cornichons and peppered radish slices.

Parisian spice

1 Tbs. dried rosemary
1 1/2 tsp. ground cloves
1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg
1 tsp. ground white pepper
1 Tbs. dried thyme
1/2 tsp. ground allspice
1 Tbs. powdered mace
2 tsp. Spanish paprika
2 Tbs. cinnamon
1 Tbs. crushed bay leaf
1 c. salt

Grind and blend.

Amidst all the chaos of the last nine months came a quiet moment last week that seemed like a breath of unmasked, Covid-free air. This was after the Four Seasons Landscaping/sex-toy store/crematorium fiasco and before Rudy took the Trump show on the road, appearing in various courtrooms in once-red states and showing us that he bleeds mascara from both temples.

No, this precious moment came when a friend on Facebook—and in real life—said that she needed a new skillet and was looking for recommendations. I offered one and, following the thread she had started, learned that I am not the only one who is passionate about cookware.

And we’re not just talking about cast iron, whose most passionate users seem like members of a strange cult that has serious aversions to soap and water. No, this thread mentioned stainless steel, aluminum, clad, Teflon, copper, and other types too numerous to mention.

I must have at least forty pots and pans of various sizes made from a variety of metals. From sauce pans and stock pots to sauté pans and griddles, my collection is vast and varied—a mishmash of styles, sizes and brands. And naturally, I have a favorite pan—an 8” skillet manufactured in China by a company called Basic Essentials. I found it several years ago at Ross Dress for Less. It cost less than $10.

It is hard-anodized aluminum (whatever in hell that means) and is reliably non-stick unless I lose focus on the task at hand. It’s a perfect omelet and crepe pan.

Although it’s been said that only a poor workman blames his tools, I like to give credit to the tools I find that support my efforts in the kitchen. And I should also mention that I have a favorite burner on our range (front right). Such are the afflictions of a serious cook.

I have no recollection of the cookware my mother used as I was growing up, but she was past the point of blaming her tools.

The best I can figure, my mother learned to be a bad cook from her mother.

While my grandmother, who we called MeMa, hated to cook, my mother loved to spend hours in the kitchen. Nobody could figure out why, because much of what she gathered into melding together our evening meals was, well…less than stellar. She seemed to enjoy the food she created from the thousands of recipes she had clipped from magazines like Good Housekeeping, Ladies Home Journal, McCall’s, and Redbook. The rest of us just shoveled it in, hoping that we could control our gag reflexes until we had left the table.

We ate out often, my father always saying that Mom needed a break from cooking. My father was a very diplomatic man.

My mother was rather bookish. She was a decent piano player, but lost without sheet music. Similarly, she was lost without a recipe while in the kitchen. In either case, there was no guarantee of a quality product.

MeMa was the first of many feminists I’ve encountered in my life. Born in the 1890s, she had attended college and become a schoolteacher in a one-room school in rural Nebraska. When she married, she became a partner in the newspaper business with her husband, performing all of the tasks it took to run a weekly paper—from writing stories and selling advertising to setting type on the delightfully clanky Mergenthaler Linotype, and delivering the end product to rural outposts, driving a car in a time when most women didn’t.

Like my wife, Geri, the only thing domestic about MeMa was that she lived in a house.

Her disdain for cleaning was remarkable—she just didn’t do it because she had better things to do. The house she and Granddad lived in was small, its walls adorned with portraits of FDR and JFK, reflecting their yellow-dog Democrat politics. The house was cleaned weekly by some woman who also did the laundry. I can’t imagine that MeMa ever made a bed or vacuumed the carpet. As I said, she had better things to do.

She cooked only because she and my grandfather needed to eat. Her repertoire was, to say the least, limited. She made fried chicken with mashed potatoes and canned string beans. She also made beef pot roast with roasted potatoes and carrots. Breakfast was limited to bacon, white-bread toast, and sliced tomatoes sprinkled with sugar. On Sundays, she would add fried eggs to their breakfast menu; late in the day she would serve roast chicken with roasted potatoes and canned peas.

They ate lunch out six days a week at the café across from their newspaper office and always had the same thing. Granddad would have a hamburger with chips and a Dr. Pepper. MeMa would have a grilled cheese sandwich and black coffee. They never ate the dill pickles that came with both their lunches.

MeMa owned a large cast iron skillet that was used to fry chicken, bacon, and eggs. She guarded it like one could imagine Jacques Pepin guarding his favorite chef’s knife. It had never seen water, let alone soap. By the time she died at the age of 95, the skillet had lost at least an inch of both diameter and depth to the buildup of oily crud. It could only have been salvaged with a hammer and chisel.

While it’s difficult to think emotionally about Teflon, stainless steel or aluminum, nothing brings tears of sentimentality like cast iron cookware. I’m not sure why.

While certainly ovenproof, cast iron is heavy and cumbersome. I rarely use any of the four I own, two 12-inch skillets and two 6-skillets, one of the latter of which lives on our backyard deck and is used as an ashtray.

Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving.

Photo montage by Courtney A. Liska

Mac ‘n Cheese

A perfect addition to any holiday table: a casserole of macaroni and cheese.

3 Tbs. unsalted butter
3 tablespoons flour
1, 12 oz. can evaporated milk
1 cup half and half (1/2 cup cream and 1/2 cup milk)
½ -1 Tbs. onion powder
2 tsp. garlic powder
½ -1 tsp. Creole seasoning
¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
½ cup mozzarella cheese, grated
½ cup sharp cheddar cheese, grated
½ cup jack cheese
Salt and pepper to taste
8 ounces uncooked elbow macaroni

Cook macaroni according to the package directions. Drain.
Add butter to skillet. As soon as butter melts whisk in flour. Continue whisking until flour is fully mixed with butter. Then cook for about a minute.
Slowly add evaporated milk a little at the time, followed by the half and half; keep whisking to keep the mixture from forming any lumps. Simmer for about 3-5 minutes until mixture thickens slightly.
Add seasonings, onion and garlic powder, Creole seasoning and cayenne pepper.
Bring to a simmer and let it simmer gently for about 2 minutes.
Stir in the cheeses (reserve some as toppings later), and continue stirring until the mixture is melted and evenly combined. Add salt & pepper, to taste.
Then add the cooked pasta to the pot, stir to evenly incorporate.
Transfer the pasta mixture into a pan or a lightly greased 2-qt. baking dish. Top with remaining cheese.
Bake at 375 Degrees F° for 20 minutes or until golden and bubbly.

The holiday season officially kicks off next Thursday at that very moment when the last piece of pumpkin pie is consumed, and much of America sets up camp in mall parking lots across the nation to await the midnight advent of Black Friday.

It’s curious that this most onerous of holidays follows on the heels of a day when we’ve all had the opportunity to sit around being thankful for what we have—just before going out to get more.

This year’s holiday season will be unlike any we’ve ever experienced, except for that handful of centenarians who survived the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918 and who, at this point, are lucky to even remember their own names. Between Thanksgiving celebrations and Black Friday purges of the checkbook, this is starting to look like the two-day Super Spreader nonpareil.

The wisest among us will have scaled back gatherings, intimate enough to be catered by Swanson’s pot pies and “Hungry Man” frozen dinners. Why spend a day in the kitchen, wrestling with a 24-pound bird that a family of four can live on for two-and-a-half weeks? And sides? Who needs them when the frozen meals have them included?

Imagine Thanksgiving with no dishes to do, no pots or pans to scrub, no table linens to wash and iron.

While we’re at it, let’s let Sara Lee provide dessert.

This could usher in a whole new regimen for holiday entertaining. No fuss, no muss. No inconsiderate relatives sneezing the virus, and no Uncle Earl to get stinking drunk and prattle on about the glories of the Trump era. Traditions all began at some time, why not start one this week?

I’ve never understood the allure of Black Friday. I’m not much of a shopper and I don’t much care for crowds unless it’s at a ballpark. But the idea of getting into a game of tug-of-war over an air fryer has about as much appeal as bobbing for French fries.

And the idea of joining the masses in any activity this year seems downright foolish.

Because I’m a progressive liberal I have no choice but to believe that COVID-19 is not a hoax and that wearing masks is precautionary and kind. It is the cross we commie leftists must bear.

Shopping close to home at the shops and stores that support our own communities seems both wise and prudent, especially this year. Pretty much everybody has felt at least some of the effects of the pandemic. We’ve suffered through an economic downturn and record unemployment, we’ve learned of the tragic passing of friends and family, we’ve felt intimately the loneliness of isolation, we’ve learned to live with self-quarantine, we’ve seen Main Street businesses fail, we’ve watched helplessly as the current administration bungled its handling of a deadly health crisis.

And now, as if all of that wasn’t enough, we’re faced with the arduous task of replacing Alex Trebec as host of Jeopardy.

Actually, we’re not tasked with that at all. Some panel of pencil pushers at Sony Pictures Television will select the venerable Trebec’s replacement. But for those us who enjoy Jeopardy, admired its amiable host, and have grown sick of binge-watching reruns of Mr. Ed and My Mother the Car on Hulu, it is fun to pick random names to provide the answers to the show’s future contestants.

Even the New York Times, the self-proclaimed “newspaper of record” that a couple of weeks ago challenged its readers to determine the differences in refrigerators owned by Trump supporters and Biden supporters, got into the Jeopardy speculation game. Among its suggested replacements were LaVar Burton, Rosie Perez, Joe Rogan and George Stephanopolous, the latter of whom will never make the final cut because Johnny Gilbert would need to take a breath half-way through saying his last name.

Anderson Cooper didn’t make the Times’ cut, but I did see him mentioned somewhere.

Reportedly, Trebec had hoped his replacement would be a woman of color, and for that reason I would suggest Condoleezza Rice.

She’s fairly personable and brighter than your average Republican. She’s an accomplished pianist who has performed with Yo-Yo Ma and, by the bar most recently set by Mike Pompeo, she was a deeply effective Secretary of State. Her given name is also a lot of fun to say out loud.

A second choice would be Gayle King, whose name isn’t at all fun to pronounce. Two syllables. Meh. As host of the CBS morning news show, she is probably still miffed about being passed over as the evening anchor for a younger and whiter Norah O’Donnell.

But there are several other possible contenders for the job, without regard to color or gender.

Larry Flynt comes to mind, although I can’t quite imagine why. But he would lend a certain edginess to the game.

The publisher of Hustler magazine is a self-described “smut peddler” who served time in prison and counts among his past accomplishments amphetamine addiction and bootlegging. Feminist Gloria Steinem called him “the Goebbels of the war against women.” He is a paraplegic multimillionaire, a thorn in the side of the political right, and a champion of free speech.

In 1988, the Supreme Court made “this old pornographer,” as he calls himself, part of history when it handed down a key First Amendment verdict defending his published cartoon portrayal of Jerry Falwell having his first sexual experience with his mother in an out-house.

As long as we’re on the subject of strange sex and the Falwell clan, why not suggest Jerry Falwell, Jr. Everything about this candidate seems anchored in the past—attorney, preacher, academic administrator. A prominent member of the Evangelical Christian community—whatever in hell that means—he served as the president of Liberty University, appointed in 2007 upon his father’s death. On August 7, 2020, Falwell agreed to take an indefinite leave of absence from Liberty after he posted a controversial photograph of himself on social media.

He resigned on August 25, 2020, after allegations were published that Falwell and his wife had engaged in a years-long sexual relationship with a pool boy they had met in 2012. Despite the monetary settlement, Junior is suing for another $10 million. Obviously, he needs work, and he seems not to mind being off on the side watching the action.

Dr. Anthony Fauci, a hero of the demographic profile of Jeopardy viewers, would be a respectful host of the program. He’s bright, articulate, and is accustomed to dealing with right-or-wrong responses. In fact, he’s so intelligent and accomplished that he’s likely to be the next government official whose head will be on Trump’s chopping block.

And speaking of Trump… In theory, he’ll be out of job come January 20 and will be looking for ways to raise the estimated $1 billion he owes to creditors and the IRS. He also loves the spotlight that television shines on its stars.

But there are a couple of snags. His base audience is more likely to watch Let’s Make a Deal. And it’s not clear if The Donald can understand either the answers or the questions given on Jeopardy, let alone read the little index cards given to the host with both.

Have a happy, safe and blessed Thanksgiving so we can do this next year in closer contact with those we love.

Photo montage by Courtney A. Liska

Bread Muffins

This is a self-distancing dish for a dressing made outside the bird and served in cupcake form.

Sauté a handful of onions and celery in butter until soft, but not browned. Add some chicken stock and season with salt and pepper, plus some sage or thyme. Stir in a package of bread stuffing. Toss well. Once mixed, add an egg or two as a binding agent, and stir until well mixed. Form the mixture into balls and place in a greased cupcake tin. Bake for 15-20 minutes at 400°.

After almost four years of enduring the dangerous and indecent reign of a narcissistic fool, we have wisely chosen a leader that our nation’s founders envisioned. Joe Biden, and his capable running mate, Kamala Harris, bring to their offices both civility and common decency, as well as a commitment that embraces the U.S. Constitution’s values of equality and inclusion to rebuild a damaged Republic.

Like a breath of fresh air on a chilly morning, the President-elect offers new promise as we look toward rebuilding the institutions that have been systematically dismantled in an effort to line the pockets of the super-rich. Mr. Biden and Ms. Harris have their work cut out for them undoing four years of regressive policies by an administration that sowed chaos, fostered division, and gave credence to hatred. They know too well that ideology takes a back seat to the paperwork of pragmatism.

Their stated views of building an America that offers to meet the needs of its people—all of its people—and endeavor to unite a deeply divided nation seem true and well-intended. They seek to offer government that is needed—needed to meet the needs of we, the people. It is their mandate.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “We should have only the government we need, but we should have all of the government we need.”

In that spirit, I’ve selected several quotes from politicians whose words were intended to inspire each of us and provide hope for a united future. (And just for fun, I’ll challenge you, dear readers, to match the quotes to the speakers, who are listed at the end of the compilation.)

“We have come to the end of a long journey. The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly. A little while ago, I had the honor of calling Senator Barack Obama to congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love.”

“We all do better when we work together. Our differences do matter, but our common humanity matters more.”

“The vote is the most powerful instrument ever devised by man for breaking down injustice and destroying the terrible walls which imprison men because they are different from other men.”

“Guard against the impostures of pretended patriotism.”

“My fellow Americans, our long national nightmare is over … Our Constitution works; our great Republic is a government of laws and not of men. Here the people rule. But there is a higher Power, by whatever name we honor him, who ordains not only righteousness but love, not only justice but mercy.”

“We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom—symbolizing an end as well as a beginning—signifying renewal as well as change. For I have sworn before you and Almighty God the same solemn oath our forebears prescribed nearly a century and three-quarters ago. … So let us begin anew—remembering on both sides that civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof. Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.”

“Our liberty depends on the freedom of the press, and that cannot be limited without being lost.”

“It’s important to make sure that we’re talking with each other in a way that heals, not in a way that wounds.”

“If I had my life to live over, I would do it all again, but this time I would be nastier.”

“America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.”

“Once a government is committed to the principle of silencing the voice of opposition, it has only one way to go, and that is down the path of increasingly repressive measures, until it becomes a source of terror to all its citizens and creates a country where everyone lives in fear.”

“Stronger than all the armies is an idea that’s time has come. … The time has come for equality of opportunity in sharing in government, in education, and in employment. It will not be stayed or denied. It is here!”

“The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little.”

“People have got to know whether or not their President is a crook. Well, I’m not a crook. I’ve earned everything I’ve got.”

“The only trouble with capitalism is capitalists; they’re too damned greedy.”

“For those of you who don’t understand Reaganomics, it’s based on the principle that the rich and the poor will get the same amount of ice. In Reaganomics, however, the poor get all of theirs in winter.”

“While many of our citizens prosper, others doubt the promise, even the justice, of our own country. The ambitions of some Americans are limited by failing schools and hidden prejudice and the circumstances of their birth, and sometimes our differences run so deep, it seems we share a continent, but not a country. We do not accept this, and we will not allow it.”

“I have one life and one chance to make it count for something… My faith demands that I do whatever I can, wherever I am, whenever I can, for as long as I can with whatever I have to try to make a difference.”

“Mark my word, if and when these preachers get control of the [Republican] party, and they’re sure trying to do so, it’s going to be a terrible damn problem. Frankly, these people frighten me. Politics and governing demand compromise. But these Christians believe they are acting in the name of God, so they can’t and won’t compromise. I know, I’ve tried to deal with them.”

“We believe in a government strong enough to use words like ‘love’ and ‘compassion’ and smart enough to convert our noblest aspirations into practical realities.”

“I do not believe it right for one group to impose its vision of morality on an entire society.”

Who spoke the words above? John McCain, Mario Cuomo, Richard M. Nixon, Herbert Hoover, Everett Dirksen, Abraham Lincoln, Jeanette Rankin, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Lyndon B. Johnson, Jimmy Carter, Mo Udall, Harry S Truman, Barry Goldwater, George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Nelson Rockefeller, John F. Kennedy, George Washington, Gerald R. Ford, Thomas Jefferson

The body of Jewish civil and ceremonial law and legend is embodied in the Talmud. This passage seems a fitting guide as we move forward to a kinder future.

Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief.
Do justly, now.
Love mercy, now.
Walk humbly, now.
You are not obligated to complete the work,
but neither are you free to abandon it.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Salmone alla nuotare

This was one of the most popular seafood dishes I offered at Adagio, the restaurant I owned and cooked at for almost twelve years. It is simple and delicious—an impressive dish to serve to guests.

For 2 servings

3-4 stalks asparagus
unsalted butter
1 large shallot, finely chopped
2 6-oz. skinless, boneless salmon filets
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
12 mussels, scrubbed and de-bearded
1 cup white wine
1⁄4 cup frozen peas
1 tsp. finely chopped fresh tarragon
1 tsp. finely chopped fresh chives
1 tsp. finely chopped flat-leaf parsley
1⁄2 tsp. finely chopped fresh dill

Trim and slice asparagus on the bias in half-inch pieces. Set aside.

Heat a skillet over medium heat. Melt 1 Tbs. butter. Add shallots and cook to soften, but not browned. Season salmon filets with salt and pepper and place in skillet. Scatter mussels around filets; pour in wine with 1⁄2 cup water. Boil, and reduce heat to medium-low; simmer, covered, until mussels open, 2–3 minutes. Remove from heat; set aside, covered, to let steam until fish is just cooked through, 3–4 minutes. Transfer fish and mussels to a baking sheet, leaving broth in skillet. Keep fish and mussels warm.

Place skillet over high heat; bring broth to a boil. Whisk in remaining butter, 1 tbsp. at a time, until smooth. Add asparagus and peas; cook until tender, 2–3 minutes. Remove from heat; stir in tarragon, chives, parsley, and dill. Season with salt and pepper.

Pour over salmon and mussels in broad soup bowls.

Every couple of months or so, a popular pastime on social media crops up about redesigning our educational system with home-grown remedies. While most of the ideas seem reasonable and prudent on the surface, they really are not. In fact, I believe they undermine the best efforts of many educators trying to provide, against all odds, comprehensive plans to encourage independent, critical thinking that inspires innovation and ambition.

There was a time not so long ago—about thirty years or so—that the United States led the developed world in the quality of available education, all the way through advanced college degrees.

Today, according to evidence compiled by the non-partisan Pew Research Center and reported in Business Insider, a mainstream on-line news service, the United States ranks 27th in education in a 35-country survey. This represents a significant decline from 1990, when we ranked sixth. (Oddly enough, perhaps, is that we also currently rank 27th in healthcare.)

One of the biggest cross-national tests is the Programme for International Student Assessment (PISA), which measures reading ability, math and science literacy and other key skills among fifteen-year-olds in dozens of developed and developing countries. The most recent PISA results, from 2015, placed the U.S. 38th out of 71 countries in math and 24th in science. Among the 35 members of the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, which sponsors the broader PISA survey, the U.S. ranked 30th in math and 19th in science.

While certainly subject to wide interpretation, to me those results indicate that the U.S. needs to dramatically overhaul its educational programs and directives to remain competitive on the world stage.

That can’t happen if the focus is narrowed to teaching mere services to students. There are those who think a renewed focus of the academic curricula should be on teaching our nation’s schoolchildren things that if we would properly educate them in the first place they could figure out on their own.

On the latest wish list are things that run the gamut from the sublime to the ridiculous, most of which many of us learned well distanced from any classroom—perhaps on our own, or with the help of a parent or mentor. Most of the tasks on the list contribute to the daily functioning when working in the real world in what might seem like indentured servitude. These tasks contribute little, in my estimation, to stimulating or developing the mind.

What they do contribute is to creating an obedient workforce that the humorist George Carlin found to be “people who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork.”

Characterizing the powers-that-be as our “owners,” Carlin noted that “they don’t want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don’t want well-informed, well-educated people.”

“Accounting” tops the latest list of this scholastic revamp. If one’s math skills are as well founded as they should be before being presented with the first algebraic equation, one should be able to fill out an accounting ledger with few problems. Of course, ledgers have gone the way of the adding machine. Today those skills would be demonstrated on computer-generated spread sheets.

In this day and age, it seems to me that students should be well-versed in computer science—a subject that wasn’t on the list (perhaps because it’s already in the curricula).

Next up is “Money Management,” which strikes me as something similar to learning how to shoot craps in Las Vegas. It is a ridiculously complicated dice game that can only be learned by watching your $20 in chips move around the table until the croupier pulls them into his area, indicating that your $20 is now the casino’s. In short order, not wasting your money on craps is one step in managing money. Another would be to not spend more than you make.

“Taxes,” yet another course some would like to see taught in public schools—all 2,652 pages of its code—is closely related to “Accounting” and “Money Management,” although “receipt management” is likely more important when dealing with the IRS. Most working people work for others, who generally create all the data you’ll need for the IRS, an organization that has free programming and assistance to e-File. Again, computer science seems prudent.

“Build and Keep Good Credit.” This a course that takes at most ten minutes to master. Pay your bills. Borrow a hundred bucks, using something you own as collateral. Pay it off. Repeat, this time for $300. Keep going. There, didn’t even take one minute. Class dismissed.

“Picking the Right Career.” Is this an open discussion class in which each student expresses a career interest that is then subjected to peer review? I can’t fathom how else it could be approached or why it should be approached at all. I don’t believe many people really choose a career path that doesn’t present a lot of obstacles and modifications along the way. And a senior in high school, especially one planning on college, will probably have only the vaguest notion of what he or she might want to do as a career.

Perhaps the stickiest of these educational wickets is the suggested course called “Nutrition.” Assuming that these courses would all be at the high school level, each student has long been indoctrinated to their family’s dietary regimen—and whatever forbidden fruits they sneak on the side. Although the legendary food pyramid has been pretty well dismissed as folly, other approaches range from keto diets to nut-crunching veganism, while still others believe that jelly donuts are a food group and that a day without a cheeseburger-and-fries combo is a day not worth having lived through.

There is a political side to nutrition as well, ranging from people adamant about not killing animals to those who think we should only eat animals that are still slightly moving. And, of course, there’s the economics of food (the biggest cause of obesity and malnutrition is poverty), its production, and its environmental impact.

“Self Defense.” This seems like something that could be taught as a unit in physical education. There are many approaches to self-defense, but I would suggest that guns not be involved.

“Time Management” is perplexing. Since the average pre-COVID-19 American watched between four and five hours of television per day, time management might be a useful subject at the adult-education level. And then there’s the time spent looking for nothing in particular on the internet or gaming via computers or cellular telephones. We spend an inordinate amount of time staring into light sources, and we are all keenly aware of exactly when we are avoiding tasks or just being lazy.

In his 1985 book, Amusing Ourselves to Death, author Neil Postman argues that the only way television could support reading was either to read by its emitted light, or stack books on top of it.

“Self Confidence” is something to be gained and I can’t think it ever will be until we rid our society of participation trophies, certificates of dubious merit, and kindergarten graduation ceremonies. It can’t be taught. Advise students to find an area of interest and pursue it with great zeal. They’ll know better than anybody when they reach various levels of achievement.

Self-confidence—and its cousin, self-esteem—are both by-products of accomplishment.

But with all these practical notions being bandied about, I wonder how the list maker forgot to include a course on laundry.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Ribollita

In Italian, ribollita means re-boiled. This is a hearty soup that seems perfect for the cold night about to return.

2 cans cannellini beans
Extra virgin olive oil
1 small onion, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
¼ cup parsley
1 bunch kale, chopped
3 medium carrots, chopped
3 celery stalks, chopped
1 large potato, chopped
½ small head Savoy cabbage, chopped
1 bunch Swiss chard, chopped
28 oz. can diced tomatoes
5 thick slices of stale bread

Heat oil in stock pot. Add onions and cook for 8-10 minutes. Add garlic and parsley; cook for a minute or two. Add kale, carrots, celery, potato, cabbage, and chard and stir well to coat. Add tomatoes and beans. Add enough water to cover vegetable by about 2 inches. Season with salt and pepper. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer for about 45 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in the bread and add a little olive oil. Cool to room temperature and refrigerate overnight. Re-heat and serve.

As we inch closer to election day, I’m hearing more and more rumblings of threats from the Trump base that if he were to lose re-election the rest of us are in deep doo-doo.

It seems to me that either way we’re pretty much screwed. A Biden win will invite civil unrest the likes of which we’ve never seen; a Trump win will give us four more years of what we’ve already seen.

Of course, those rumblings I’ve been hearing could just be my digestive tract, which has been wreaking havoc with me during the past eight months. (We tried ever-so-briefly to replace animal protein with beans. The results were interesting, to say the least.)

But the threat of armed insurrection by the Far Right leaves me with more than a few questions.

First and foremost, how will the sides be recognized? I assume that the base will be dressed in camo, as they have been all year when they attended street rallies, polling places, Walmart, or their local Tastee-Freez. That could lead to some confusion which could bring unexpected surprises to hunters trying to fill their freezers with game meat for their families. As for the rest of us who won’t be venturing afield this year, will we be identified by our masks and then shot for trying to be considerate of others? That seems kind of harsh. And if that is the case, we’ll never get the damned pandemic under control.

And where will this insurrection take place?

I’m hoping that my street won’t be host to a battle of any kind. So far, the political differences with our neighbors have been noted only by yard signs announcing a preference for whoever is running for Clerk of the City Court, a non-partisan position. Only three houses have been decorated for Halloween, which may or not be a political statement by virtue of the heavy employment of masks to become someone you’re not for not much more than an evening. For the most part, we all just wave and smile at each other and go about our business.

I could well be mistaken, but I don’t think any of my neighbors have any armaments beyond a deer rifle, a shot gun, and maybe a side arm. I would be surprised to learn that any one of them had a grenade launcher. I’ll admit to having all of the stuff needed to make a potato cannon. I’m sorry now that I didn’t complete the project, which was intended to be a father-son bonding experience.

A couple of streets away and down a block or two is a suspicious structure that could easily be mistaken for a garage. But the coming-and-goings of people who don’t seem like they belong here indicate to the authorities that it might house a terror cell. They’re watching it from a food truck that sells the best tacos in Montana, which really isn’t saying much.

And then there’s the matter of leadership.

The Trump administration seems incapable of doing much beyond cheer-leading for its base and relentlessly threatening his detractors. Anybody who has ever disagreed with Trump he believes should be locked up, and so the base screams the names at every rally. Hillary, four years out from the 2016 campaign remains a target. Biden needs to be prosecuted for unknown reasons, as do all the Amtrak passengers he commuted with for thirty years. Kamala needs a new first name. And, apparently, all of the Democrat governors and mayors belong behind bars, as well.

In 1971, I felt truly slighted that I hadn’t made the cut for Nixon’s enemies list. I haven’t heard whether Trump has such a list, but I’d wager he does. Making lists of one’s perceived enemies is pretty common among paranoid sociopaths, of which the president seems surely to be. Nixon’s initial list had only twenty names; Trump’s, I would venture to say, numbers in the thousands, dating as far back as the four years he spent in the third grade.

It’s not altogether clear if Trump will accept the election results, concede a loss, or even leave the White House unshackled. If he’s escorted out, it will be the most watched perp walk in history.

His base seems to be willing to accept a coup, even without a clue how one might unfold. Many coups involve the military. That seems unlikely considering that much of that sector has been roundly criticized by Trump. His bragging that he knew more about military stuff than any of the generals probably still gets some laughs around the map boards inside the war room. If one wishes for military support in a political takeover, one shouldn’t contend that their comrades were suckers and losers. One also should note that the military has unlimited access to firearms, which they’ve actually been trained how to use.

It’s not clear if the Boogaloo Boys, which I mistakenly thought was a boy band like the Back Street Boys, and the Proud Boys, which was commandeered by Gay Pride, leaving the Proud to become the Leathermen (another gay thing they apparently weren’t aware of), have any training in shooting their guns. From pictures I’ve seen—mostly on the internet—the assault weapons they wear slung across their backs seem like part of an exercise in accessorizing their ill-fitting outfits. I suspect they spend considerable time dressing in the latest Army-Navy fashions and preening before whatever surface might offer a reflection.

The question of how to participate in the event of armed conflict is nagging.

I’ve watched my fair share of war movies over the years and there typically is a lot of gunfire and people getting killed. This holds even less appeal for me now than when visiting Vietnam as an armed tourist was a real possibility in 1970. I’m too old to be of much use on the battlefield and the weapons I have, now that I don’t hunt anymore, would not be particularly effective. The .25-caliber handgun would be practically useless unless the enemy was no farther away than two or three feet and I could chuck it at the guy’s head. The .22 rifle will prove handy if gophers join in the insurrection.

When I was a little boy, my friends and I had two activities for rainy days. One was boxing in the basement of my friend Michael’s house. His father didn’t work, possibly because the War had left him mentally “soft,” as my father said, and he would coach us with great zeal.

We also played with little green plastic soldiers, strategically lining them up to engage in battle. We’d then shoot them down with rubber bands.

So, when the civil war breaks out, I’ll choose to be in my basement, plotting strategies with plastic soldiers and rubber bands.

Unless there are gophers.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Cream Chipped Beef on Toast (SOS)

This has been a war-time staple since the Napoleonic Era, if not before. Who really knows? When WWII rolled around, it earned the moniker Shit on a Shingle. It’s actually quite delicious.

1 lb. ground beef
2 cups whole milk
4 Tbs. salted butter
4 Tbs. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. salt
1 teaspoon freshly ground pepper
12 slices bread, toasted

In a medium saucepan over medium high heat, brown the ground beef. Season with salt and pepper. Drain excess grease and set aside. Melt butter in the same saucepan. Add flour to make a roux.
Add milk, salt, and pepper. Stir constantly until thick and bubbly. Add meat and stir. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed. If necessary, add a little more milk until it reaches your desired consistency.
Serve over toast.

We made it a family outing Tuesday morning, this whole voting thing. We met at the courthouse, masked, our hands sanitized at a dispenser just inside the back door. We were almost giddy as we posed with our signed and sealed ballots for a couple of selfies.

One at a time, we stepped inside the clerk’s office to let our voices be heard from the ballot box. I’ve always considered voting to be both my right and my civic duty; a dear friend of mine, the author Maryanne Vollers, just the other day characterized it as a sacrament. I like that.

Voting this year was more exhilarating than any other election in which I’ve participated over the last forty-eight years, beginning with my casting a vote for Shirley Chisolm in the 12th Congressional District of New York City. In thirteen presidential elections only two of my choices won—each of them twice. Hell, even the only Republican I ever voted for lost.

As we were leaving the courthouse there was for me an anticlimactic sense. In the past, I’d vote and would spend the evening watching the results trickle in state-by-state until the wee hours and listen intently to the talking heads, well, talk. It’s the highlight of every two years for a politics junkie.

This year it would be twenty-one days before hearing the first results from the Atlantic coast and the exit polls that precede them from various states. That seemed an eternity.

And now the campaigning and the commercials and the fliers can have no impact. I’ve voted, and all I can do is wait and hope for the change I think we so desperately need.

We found the perfect antidote to the ennui that was settling upon us—a mini road trip.

It is our good fortune to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth and yet most days we barely take note of that fact as we go about our daily business, tending to our chores, running our errands, and whatnot. A few weeks ago we went in search of the steel horses (https://jimliska.com/behold-a-steel-horse/) and Wednesday we trundled off in search of whatever we might find.

Almost as a duty, we recalled John Steinbeck’s writing of Montana in his 1962 travelogue, Travels with Charley: In Search of America.

“I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.”

A lot of things have changed in the sixty years since Steinbeck wended his way across this state, but the sheer beauty and majesty of Big Sky Country remains in its towering mountains and mesmerizing plains, its rivers and streams. Its majesty whispers. And it’s a state populated by people who might not like your politics but will be the first to offer help should you need it. We Montanans are nothing if not basically kind.

We took our new dog, Beau, with us for our short jaunt. Beau is a one-year-old Shih-Poo who will not leave Geri’s side unless by force. He is cute and bubbly and blind. In the Beast, as we call the SUV, he sits on Geri’s lap, or crawls behind her back, or climbs up to perch atop her head. We don’t know for certain why he does these things, but we assume it’s because, being blind, he doesn’t ever really know where he is.

It had been many years since we last drove across Swingley Road, a winding gravel road that for twenty-four miles traverses hill and dale over the northern base of the Absaroka Mountains from just north of Livingston east to McLeod. There, one can find the oddly delightful Holly’s Road Kill Cafe, whose motto is the alluring “from your grill to ours.” (Check your political correctness at the door.)

Up Swingley a couple of miles, we met the first approaching car on our little trek and were reminded how driving outside of town requires drivers to offer a two-fingered wave from the top of the steering wheel. Of the dozen or so vehicles we met, not one failed in this back road ritual.

For someone who is rather terrified of heights, this twisting route of blind turns offers some spine-tingling moments and fervent hopes that the brakes are good. The rewards (many) are worth the risks (few, really, unless it’s muddy, snow-covered, or icy).

The sun shone brightly Wednesday afternoon and the autumn colors of the trees and other foliage were at their splendid best—bright reds and yellows, deep, muted auburn, and gold. The aspens quaked dutifully in the light breezes. The creek bottoms glistened like ribbons of light. It was trying to snow.

I’ve noted here before that from this arboreal temple I see the beauty of the world and its many wonders. I get a sense of what a greater being might have had in mind in the creation of paradise. It offers affirmation of my faith.

I was reminded of some words from Spinoza, the 17th Century Dutch philosopher.

“God would say: Stop going into those dark, cold temples that you built yourself and saying they are my house. My house is in the mountains, in the woods, rivers, lakes, beaches. That’s where I live and [it is] there I express my love for you.

“Stop reading alleged sacred scriptures that have nothing to do with me. If you can’t read me in a sunrise, in a landscape, in the look of your friends, in your son’s eyes… You will find me in no book!”

We hadn’t decided if we’d go the distance to McLeod before we got to Mission Creek. We decided to keep going, knowing that we could always turn around. A well-defined tree line came into view in the south, and from the north, about fifty yards in front of us, a yearling (I’m guessing) black bear popped out from the roadside barrow pit.

Seeing wildlife is nothing new—even in town—but it always seems like a gift that nature wants us to notice, enjoy, and appreciate.

We watched the bear for several moments as it dilly-dallied across the road and stood then, looking intently at something. It turned toward us as if acknowledging our being there, and lumbered down into the brush.

It seemed like we had found what we didn’t know we were looking for. Our heads were cleared of the world’s troubles, if only for a few hours.

We drove a few more miles and turned around. Crossing over Mission Creek, we noticed a small heard of mule deer scurrying down the roadside into a dense thicket.

It was a very good day.

Photo by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken Pot Pie (Deconstructed)

I first made this in March, and it has become a go-to dish during the pandemic. It’s easy, quick to throw together, and invites improvising with whatever you might have in the fridge.

For the two of us I use half of the breast meat from a roasted chicken, cut into bite-size pieces. Boil some diced carrots in a cup of water (or stock) until almost tender. Add some chopped onion, celery, mushroom, potato, frozen peas, corn, and/or lima beans. Cook until the potatoes are tender, and thicken with corn starch or instant potato. Add a little heavy cream and then add chicken to warm. Season with fresh herbs like parsley or thyme.

Serve poured over warm biscuits.

Biscuits

Heat oven to 425 degrees.

2 cups flour (sifted)
1 Tbs. baking powder
1 Tbs. sugar
1 tsp, salt
3/4 cup milk
6 Tbs. butter (frozen)

Mix dry ingredients together.
Grate or chop the cold butter into small pieces and add to the dry ingredients.
Mix with a pastry cutter.
Add milk to the flour mixture, stirring to make a shaggy dough.
Knead into a ball. Roll or pat dough to 1/4 ” thick, fold in half two or three times.
Cut into circles and place on a prepared (butter or parchment paper) cookie sheet 1″ apart.
Bake for 12-15 minutes.

When I note that his infamous reign is usually associated with tyranny, extravagance, and debauchery, please realize I’m talking about Nero, the fifth Roman emperor who ruled from 54 to 68 AD, and not the other guy you might have thought I was referencing.

Before becoming a Roman emperor, Nero was the host of the wildly popular Gladiatorial Games at the newly built Colosseum. He maintained relationships with many of the surviving contestants, though he took harsh criticism for firing Garibuseli, Rome’s favorite gladiator and matinee idol of the emerging Roman off-Strada avant-garde theater. The elite combatants would serve Nero as his security detail when he decided he’d had enough of show business and wanted to get into politics, where the real denarius was.

After suffering one of the worse plagues in ancient times, as well as a fire he fiddled through for five days without taking a break, Nero tried to assure the Roman citizenry of his fitness, stating that he was a “perfect physical specimen and extremely young.” He even went so far as to take a chariot victory ride through the streets of Rome before returning to Circus Maximus, where Bedmidlia sang at the adjacent Thermae Balneae and Day Spa.

Only 31, Nero appeared bloated, his breath seemed short, and his reign of mean-spirited terror was on the verge of collapse. He frequently misspoke, which, in Latin, is forgivable. As any self-respecting autocrat would do when faced with enormous debt, the loss of control, and an idiot son who wouldn’t stop talking to reporters from The Roman Times, he took his own life.

Maybe.

Rome had no shortage of whacked-out conspiracy nuts, most of whom cited their Emendatione II rights to possess and open-carry unlimited arsenals of swords, lances, and spears.

Anyway, two theories emerged in the days following Nero’s demise in 68 AD. One claimed that Nero had faked his death and was still alive, hiding in an underground bunker and plotting to return and re-establish his reign. Another held that Nero was dead, but that he would arise from the dead to retake his throne.

The evangelicals of Rome—about 38 percent of the population; Nero’s base, as it were—believed he was alive because if he had actually died, they would have enjoyed the rapture spiral to heaven with him. It never occurred to them that his after-life direction might have been going the other way and they should count their lucky stars.

Nero’s passing signaled the onset of the Age of the Conspiracy Theory, a movement that grows more widespread as populations grow and funding for education shrinks.

Some people seem unable to acknowledge, let alone accept, the fact that sometimes stuff just happens, that there isn’t a dark side to every issue, and that there aren’t evil forces controlling the events of our times.

I asked my shrink, Dr. Günter Klaus von Grubersteingruber, who still works days as a diesel mechanic, what his take might be.

“It ees all about zee control zat vee don’t haff,” he said.

He went on to explain that the reason he works as a diesel mechanic is because there are great forces at work in the universe to discredit the practice of psychiatry.

Conspiracy theories abound when it comes to issues of government. It’s been suggested that American democracy was a Masonic experiment (many of the founding fathers were Freemasons) but things went south when the fraternal order—without any specified reasons, let alone proof—sank the Titanic and facilitated the crimes of Jack the Ripper.

The order is also accused of anti-Semitism, which should come as a surprise to the 53 active lodges in Israel.

After Masonry was deemed a cult, The New World Order stepped in and took over. With its elite, international membership and the help of such organizations as the Trilateral Commission, the Federal Reserve System, the World Bank, the NFL, the United Nations, and the Bohemian Club, whose members get to urinate in the great outdoors of the Bohemian Grove for a couple of weeks every summer, the Order seeks to dominate world economies, industry and the media. The Order operates out of underground bunkers under the Denver International Airport, which accounts for the $50 cab fare from downtown.

While most theorists are content to talk about their unfounded paranoia with their fellow disbelievers in dark alleys and dimly lit coffee shops, some actually answer the call to action. Sen. Joe McCarthy, a bloated and sweaty, alcoholic Republican from Wisconsin became the face of the Cold War when he gave a speech in 1950 stating that the State Department was full of commies and homosexuals who needed to be exposed and excised. In the wake of his demagogic recklessness was left a trail of destroyed careers and lives. So it goes, huh, Joe?

There’s no shortage of conspiracy notions surrounding next month’s election. Trumpers are convinced that the Democrats will hi-jack the election if mail-in ballots are used. Though there’s no evidence to support this, the theorists allow that should Trump win then the elections were fair—even if mail-in ballots were used. Well that certainly makes sense.

But some conspiracy theories have a light-hearted side frequently expressed on the covers of magazines sold at grocery store checkout lines. Frequent subjects include UFOs, extraterrestrials, space aliens in Congress, flying saucers and Area 51, which is so old and well known that it’s become the butt of jokes. Virtually everyone knows of the “secret” facility. Inquiring minds want to know if Area 51 is just a coverup for a bigger experimental extraterrestrial facility called Area 52.

Closer to earth, conspiracy theories are in a continuous swirl around Hillary, Jeffrey Epstein, and Bigfoot.

I wonder when D.B. Cooper fell out of conspiratorial favor.

More than a thousand books have been published addressing the theory that Lee Harvey Oswald did not act alone in the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. None have offered enough convincing evidence to support the claims, however, or to call for further official investigation of the events of Nov. 22, 1963. It’s likely that some of the theorists who support that view, however, are convinced that JFK, Jr., is alive and well and actively attending Trump rallies in a capacity that nobody seems able to explain.

The theory suggesting that the tragic events of 9/11 were some kind of an inside job still persists in some quarters. At least a dozen structural engineers and architects, most of them, oddly enough, based in Alaska, contend that there’s no possible way that the two Boeing 767 aircraft could have brought down the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

The evidence of al-Qaeda operatives hijacking the aircraft in concert with hundreds of operatives who would had rigged the towers with explosives to implode at a specific time is not apparent, let alone plausible—although mere plausibility is a frequent substitute for truth. Some conspiracy theorists suggest an even more absurd claim that it was an American effort to coordinate the attacks with foreign nationals to create a reason for further Middle East military action.

I see a couple of problems with the bases of most conspiracy notions. The plots are typically outrageous and extraordinarily complicated.

And besides, people love to talk and share their secrets.

Photo manipulation by Courtney A. Liska

Three Sisters Stew

Tomorrow is Indigenous Peoples’ Day. This is a Navajo recipe that I suggest to honor our nation’s natives. The corn acted as a pole for the beans, while the squash grew as mulch at the corn’s base, hence the three sisters.

1 pound trimmed pork loin, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 teaspoon ground cumin
Kosher salt, as needed
Black pepper, as needed
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 large yellow onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
4 cups turkey or chicken stock
1 medium yellow squash, diced
1 (15-ounce) can pinto beans, drained
1 (15-ounce) can black beans, drained
1 (14 1/2-ounce) can diced tomatoes
2 cups fresh or frozen corn kernels
1 (4-ounce) can roasted green chiles (1/2 cup)
½ bunch fresh cilantro, roughly chopped (optional)

Season pork with cumin, salt, and pepper. Heat oil in a Dutch oven or large heavy-bottomed saucepan over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add pork, in batches if necessary, and cook, turning as needed, until lightly browned on all sides, 5 to 6 minutes. Transfer pork to a bowl and set aside.

Add onion to pan and sauté, stirring occasionally, until translucent, 5 to 7 minutes.

Add garlic and sauté, stirring occasionally, until lightly colored, 1 to 2 minutes. Return pork to pan, along with stock and squash, and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer, covered, for about 30 minutes.

Add beans, tomatoes, corn and chiles and cook, uncovered, over medium heat until stew has thickened, about 40 minutes. Add cilantro and season to taste with salt and pepper.

There is no shortage of reasons for Americans to be wary of going to the polls in a few short weeks—a few short weeks that for many of us will feel like an eternity or two. There’s the unseen enemy known variously as Covid-19, Virus-45, or the “Chiyyyna virus,” any of which the sitting president seems to have. There are the anti-maskers who think it’s their Constitutional right to spread disease. There are threats of demonstrations that may become violent. There are many polls that won’t even open, especially if they are in districts that are defined by their minority populations.

While Don Jr., the alleged smart one of Trump’s septic spawn, is posing with a camo-decorated assault rifle and encouraging his father’s supporters (“Proud boys stand back, stand by”) to get ready for battle, I doubt that he’ll be on the front line directing fire. My guess is the whole family of crooks will be hiding in that bunker six stories under the White House fiddling with their cyanide tablets like Captain Queeg with his two metal balls at his court martial.

No, what’s really scary about this year’s election is that Danny DeVito has yet to weigh in with his slate of endorsements. At least not that I’ve seen. Nothing popped up from a 0.74-second Google search I conducted earlier this week. Actually, about 10,400,000 hits came up but who’s got time for that?

Hollywood is an important player in politics, despite its being the home of marauding pedophiles who have rendered most of the town uninhabitable—all under the direction of evil forces from Union County, New Jersey, which is uninhabitable for other reasons.

Union County is the home of QAnon, founded by a guy who looks like a poorly dressed Captain Kangaroo having a bad hair day. It’s difficult to describe QAnon without delving into why its adherents have lost all of whatever marbles they may have once had. Think of it as kind of an AA for conspiracy theorists and right-wing gun nuts. The difference is that in QAnon followers are encouraged to develop more conspiracy theories and buy more guns. In that way, it’s nothing at all like AA.

As support groups go, it’s almost as organized as antifa.

But back to Hollywood, which isn’t so much a town as it is a concept—a liberal concept that involves limousines, red carpets and women’s clothing that mysteriously doesn’t fall off, despite all odds. It’s a town where men make fashion statements by wearing retro Keds with their tuxedos, and where the tap water is actually Perrier, unless you live in Beverly Hills where it’s Dom Pérignon.

Mr. DeVito is the shortest comedic actor to have a starring role since Billy Curtis appeared in the timeless film classic, The Terror of Tiny Town, which was made in 1938, a year notable for there being hundreds of unemployed little people in Hollywood waiting to make The Wizard of Oz. A Google search for Terror, in case you were interested, revealed 17,300,000 hits in 0.60 seconds. I didn’t know there were that many people interested in the first and, so far, only all-dwarf Western musical. (I challenge my Emmy-winning friend Kirk Ellis to remedy this.)

I liked The Terror of Tiny Town, mostly for its sophomoric humor. Of course, I also liked Pink Flamingos, Happy Gilmore and Un Chien Andalou, the latter just because it’s de rigueur in my circles to like arty French films.

I’ve been told by people who would know such things, that Mr. DeVito is a nice man. Not as nice as Henry Winkler, but then again, nobody is as nice as Henry Winkler, but nicer, say, than Joan Crawford who I think is dead. Yep. (43,800,000 Google hits in 0.96 seconds.)

Mr. DeVito was a big, figuratively speaking, supporter of Bernie Sanders. I know this because I saw him on television at a rally in Santa Monica. He might have even spoken. I don’t remember. I also know that he was supporting Bernie in 2016 because I distinctly remember one day back then getting four messages in two hours from four different people about his supporting Bernie. Frankly, it ticked me off.

No offense, Mr. DeVito, but I could not care less about who you think should be President. And I don’t need your help in making my decision, not that you offered any directly.

I also don’t care who Clint Eastwood likes. Or Barbra Streisand. Or Tim Allen, Robert De Niro, George Clooney, Jane Fonda, Chuck Norris, Cher, Jon Voight, or the entire cast of The Terror of Tiny Town, the latter of which, although all dead, might nevertheless qualify to vote in Chicago.

I’d like to think that the American people don’t make their political choices based on celebrity endorsements. Yard signs, probably, but celebrities? There seems to be great interest in who’s voting for whom. Maybe it’s just curiosity, but I suspect there may be some sense of political tribalism at play.

This past week I saw an on-line brief announcing that somebody was “making a political endorsement for the first time.” I spend zero time with People magazine, so I’m never surprised to not have any knowledge of trending celebs. But this guy, who might be a professional wrestler whose name I had never heard and which I’ve since forgotten, apparently has a publicist who convinced somebody that this was big news.

It’s not.

By now, I imagine that most voters have pretty much made up their minds about the coming election. The process is arduous because of there being so much misleading information. The television ads are, for the most part, despicable. Many candidates say exactly what they think the voter wants to hear with little regard for their own records. They must seriously believe that the electorate is incapable of finding the truth. Or maybe they think we won’t make the effort.

I can’t think that we, as consumers, would accept that kind of misleading advertising from a soap company.

And the flyers! We recycle stuff here at the house and the stack of political “literature” is mountain-like, a deep pile of misinformation on slick card stock with nifty graphics geared to dupe the average voter. Has anybody ever picked one out of the mailbox, glanced at it, and had a forehead-slapping “ah-ha” moment of political decision-making? I somehow doubt it.

As it stands, except maybe at the local level for local politicians where issues tend to be more transparent, the political liar-flyer business is a waste of paper and an insult to our collective intelligence.

And then there are the debates. Oy.

When I was a freshman in high school, back at about the time electricity was first catching on, each and every one of us had two required courses. Each a semester long, the courses were Civics and Speech.

In Civics, we learned about the Constitution and its role in government. Unbeknownst to the people who ran the school board, it gave us the fodder we needed to resist the government and promote civil rights, voters’ rights, and end the war in Vietnam. And that’s when they stopped teaching Civics because the last thing the powers-that-be want is a bunch pimply faced adolescents calling them out for their malfeasance.

In Speech, we learned how to organize our thoughts and information into an appropriate form suitable for saying aloud. Public speaking, as it were. We also learned to debate. As I recall, a topic was assigned, and two of us would draw straws to see who was pro and who was con. Then we studied the issue and were given a date. We would then have two or three minutes to present our cases, a bit longer to rebut each other, and another couple of minutes for closing remarks. We had to do this without yelling, interrupting, or suggesting draconian retaliation for disagreeing.

We could, however, roll our eyes in disbelief.

It was an exercise in civil discourse, one that promised to shed some light on a topical issue.

This year’s first presidential debate failed to do that. And nobody knows for sure if there will be another.

I’d better call Danny.

Photo manipulation by Courtney A. Liska

Scallops alla Adagio

This was one of the most popular starters at my restaurant.

12 scallops
1 small carrot, minced
1 scallion, thinly sliced
3/4 cup dry white wine
1/4 cup butter, cut into pieces
1-2 tablespoons heavy cream
pinch of saffron threads
salt
2-3 Tbs. chopped parsley, for garnish

To make the sauce, put the carrot, scallion, wine, saffron, and a pinch of salt and 1/4 cup water in a pan; bring to a boil and simmer for about 10 minutes. Add cream.
Heat a skillet over medium high heat.
Pat the scallops very dry. Season with salt and pepper.
When the pan is hot, add enough grapeseed oil to coat the pan, then drop in the scallops, giving them enough room in between so they don’t steam.
Cook the scallops for 2 minutes, making sure not to move them or touch them at all.
Flip the scallops over and add butter to the pan. Let the scallops cook for 1 more minute, basting the scallops with the butter.
Sauce, garnish and serve.

Even with our legendary big skies dulled by the smoke and ash drifting in from the West Coast inferno, there was a beautiful day a couple of weeks ago for a spur-of-the-moment, get-out-of-Dodge, head-clearing drive. We packed a lunch and didn’t decide to drive to Yellowstone National Park or points west until we pulled away from the curb. Either destination was fifty-two miles away.

It was a day of purposeful disconnect, and points west won out and so we drove to Three Forks in search of a herd of steel horses on a hilltop just four miles north of the I-90 exit. We had driven by them many times on trips to Helena, but must have thought they were real—if, in fact, we had even noticed them. Horses on distant ridges are not unusual in Montana.

The horses are blue, although they appear gray from the roadway. And judging by the people we could see who had trekked to the ridge, they are huge—eight feet tall at the withers. They were crafted by Jim Dolan, a sculptor from Belgrade, Montana, and gifted by him to the people. Their ridge home is on land provided by Wheat Montana.

We wondered if their hues would change when the snow flies and drifts against their fetlocks.

Our picnic at Headwaters State Park reminded us of the recreation opportunities afforded those who live in or visit this vast state. Everything was neat and clean; the lawns being mowed as we ate our sandwiches and salads and talked about the thirty-nine horses.

I don’t know what Mr. Dolan had in mind when he sculpted his steel horses. Such is the nature of art. Whatever art may “mean” is held solely by the artist. The viewer (reader, listener) has only a personal sense of interpretation that may well differ from the artist’s intent. The artist knows, we’re just left guessing.

Much artistic expression is interpreted metaphorically—as some sort of mysterious secret needing to be explored. This is an exercise that most artists leave for others to do. Sometimes, after all, a painting is just a painting. If the viewer sees it as something else, so be it. That is not the artist’s fault or responsibility. Make what you will of Andy Warhol’s soup cans, Marilyn and Mao.

An example I cited a few weeks ago in this space was that when Sinclair Lewis wrote The Jungle (1906), his intention was to promote socialism in a society that cared little for the working poor. The reading public tended to focus on the deplorable sanitary conditions of the Chicago Stockyards.

“I aimed at the public’s heart, and by accident I hit it in the stomach,” Lewis said.

For whatever reason, I have long admired the paintings of Franz Kline (1910-1962), an American painter associated with the Abstract Expressionist movement of the 1940s and 1950s. Much of his work was expressed in daring slashes of black oil paint in linear designs across large white canvasses. I found an appealing violence in much of his work. I was admiring one such work at the Art Institute of Chicago when my father joined me late that day.

He looked at the painting and said, “I could have done that.”

“But you didn’t,” I said.

I regretted making the comment, it seeming to be perhaps a bit rude. But it did prove the point that art in any of its guises belongs to the person who actually creates the conveyance of expression. (If it’s so easy to make a painting, paint one.)

In 2017, Montana held a special election to fill a House vacancy left by Ryan Zinke, a Trump toady who begged for a cabinet post. The contest between Greg Gianforte (R) and Rob Quist (D) ended as predicted. Gianforte, a carpet-bagging billionaire business developer, faced a spirited challenge from Quist, a talented country singer/songwriter. The campaign sparked a conversation with a republican acquaintance who suggested that Quist was unqualified because “the guy’s never worked a day in his life.”

I took great umbrage that somebody who thinks that his pushing papers around a walnut desk in a corner office is somehow working and somebody who writes and performs music somehow isn’t.

In something of a rage, I suggested that perhaps he should spend a day or so writing a song and see how that works out for him. Or maybe write a play in the style of that slacker Shakespeare. Or write a novel or a sonnet, or emulate Picasso on canvas or Ansel Adams on film. Or act in a stage play or a film. Maybe, I suggested, he could handle a simple haiku or a dirty limerick, even allowing for the use of the storied Nantucket.

The guy was actually offended by my suggestions. Egregiously so.

It’s interesting to notice that art never fails to figure prominently in our daily lives. Most of us watch some television entertainment programs on a regular basis. Banks, hospitals and office lobbies typically have artwork hanging on their walls. Our town squares play host to sculptures. Our libraries are filled with literary works. Most people can’t drive to the supermarket before finding a radio station playing something they like. Others read on a daily basis, or take in a movie, a play or a concert on the weekend.

And yet, funding in the public schools for arts-related activities seems always to be teetering on collapse. In contrast, sports are funded almost lavishly. (How either will survive the pandemic is anybody’s guess.)

What sports and the arts have in common is that they enrich our lives, deepen our understanding of each other, lead to our appreciation of other cultures. In each we can witness excellence, draw inspiration, and behold human achievement with almost disbelieving eyes. Watching Simone Biles performing her jaw-dropping beam dismount is as dramatic as listening to Yo Yo Ma play a Bach sarabande or listening to saxophonist Lew Tabackin take us to new heights in jazz or hearing Dylan Thomas read Do not go gentle into that good night or trying to absorb the depth of beauty and despair of Michelangelo’s Pietà at St. Peter’s Basilica.

And if you ever were witness to Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s skyhook, I can practically guarantee that you would love the ballet.

What sports and the arts also share is the reality that few of us will achieve any success beyond personal satisfaction in their pursuit. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s perfect.

My boyhood dreams of being a professional baseball player were thwarted by a singular lack of an ability to play above-average ball. And above-average doesn’t come close to what is needed to get to the Bigs. The same could be said about countless other athletic and artistic pursuits.

Most of us share that.

But becoming a concert violinist or a Wimbledon champion isn’t the point of playing music or tennis. At any level, both contribute to our humanity, our gentility, our civility. Making music with an orchestra or playing on a soccer pitch develops skills that will prove valuable throughout one’s life; those are the moments we need to appreciate and encourage and savor.

There is good reason that celebratory high-fives are shared with teammates.

I had a philosophy professor at the University of Illinois who I greatly admired. He was a noted scholar of Nietzsche and Hegel, as well as Marxist theories of art criticism, and I took several courses from him. I admired his assertion that the accumulation of knowledge gains relevance over time and may even one day lead to wisdom. When he wasn’t being a scholar—thinking deep thoughts and writing books in his cramped office in an Ivory Tower—he played in pick-up basketball games every weekday afternoon and played cello in a string quartet. For additional fun, he collaborated on a book of analysis of Richard Wagner’s epic opera, The Ring of the Nibelung.

A flabby body and singular interests, he believed, could only lead to a flabby mind.

Graphic art by Courtney A. Liska

Boules de Picolat (Beef and pork meatballs)

I’m a big fan of forcemeats—pates, sausages, terrines, meatballs. This is my take on a meatball from the Catalan region of France. I served them with a sauce espagnole, mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach.

1# ground beef
1# ground pork
2-3 garlic cloves, finely minced
1/4 cup finely minced yellow onion
2 large eggs
1/4 cup chopped flat-leaf parsley
3-4 Tbs. grated Pecorino-Romano cheese
1 tsp. dried thyme
1/2 cup chicken stock
1 cup of stale bread, soaked in water, squeezed dry and torn into small pieces

Lightly mix all of the ingredients together until blended. Do not over mix. Shape in 2-3 ounce balls and then flatten into inch-thick ovals. Fry in vegetable oil until crisp and cooked through, 3-4 minutes per side. Remove and let rest, covered, for a few minutes before serving.

Sauce espagnole

This is one of the five “mother” sauces of French cuisine. It is a basic brown sauce whose origins can be traced to Spain. It is made of beef or veal stock, tomato puree, and browned mirepoix, all thickened with a very dark brown roux.

Mirepoix: 4 oz. onions, 2 oz. celery, 2 oz. carrots
2 oz. butter
2 oz. flour
2 oz. tomato paste
Bouquet garni: 1/2 bay leaf, 2-3 sprigs of fresh thyme, 2-3 sprigs parsley
1.5 qts. veal or beef stock

Roast mirepoix over medium heat, in a heavy bottom sauce pot with the butter, until golden brown. Add tomato paste and continue cooking for 2-3 more minutes. Sprinkle in flour, and cook until the flour is well incorporated into the other ingredients (about 5 more minutes). Add stock and bouquet garni.

Bring to a simmer, and cook for about 2 hours, reducing the entire sauce down to 1quart. Skim sauce as needed.

Once the sauce is finished cooking, pass it through a fine chinois or sieve a couple of times to insure a smooth, consistent texture.