Journal

During the course of a long career in journalism and the countless hours spent standing in line at grocery stores, I’ve noticed some amazing and shocking headlines. Most of them have to do with Bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster, and Hillary having given birth to two-headed aliens.

One that topped an “adventure” story I once wrote for the National Enquirer heralded the fall of a window washer from a high-rise in Topeka or some place like that. A fairly short piece, the window washer who had fallen noted that he had found Jesus somewhere around the fourth or third floor. He lived.

But it was just a couple of weeks ago, I read the most shocking headline of them all: “The Rich Pay Fewer Taxes.”

How did that happen? And when? Why wasn’t I told?

After Herbert Hoover, the one-time humanitarian president best known as the “do-nothing” president, proved that the “trickle-down” economic theory produced no positive results for a nation during the Great Depression, FDR came along and raised taxes to fund the government programs that would help restore a robust economy. People went back to work—much of it focused on building an infrastructure and encouraging private enterprise. He focused on work, not relief.

Oh, and there was a war going on that demanded goods and sacrifice.

Most of FDR’s programs disappeared in the boom years following World War II, many of them replaced by a return to manufacturing and housing. The war machine was briefly put on hold and business taxes would reach a 90% rate. Those taxes could only be lessened by businesses actively investing in research, development, equipment, and employment.

It worked. Despite all odds, Joe Biden has embraced this same model.

The high tax rates helped build our interstate highways—highways that provided routes for delivery of goods and services—and underwrote public and private transportation in general (street, rail, air).

We became a prosperous nation. One 40-hour-a-week job was all it took to make a family’s living. A private home, a new car every couple of years, a two-week vacation to the beach, college for the kids—it was all doable on one income.

Although there was a stagnation of the economy during Gerald Ford’s term, it’s imaginable that following Nixon’s disastrous administration we could have ended up far worse. Jimmy Carter, perhaps the best ex-president we’ve ever had, at least slowed the war machine in his efforts to stabilize the economy. He now contributes his time to building houses for those in need.

And then along came Ronald Reagan, the B-movie actor, who systematically tore down a working country by kowtowing to his rich friends and dropping their tax rates. Reaganomics, a euphemism for “trickle-down theory,” instituted tax cuts, decreased social spending (his court appointees dismantled our mental health system, no doubt at his direction), increased military spending, and reduced market deregulation. It didn’t work in 1931 and Reagan only further proved the point with his own idiotic, selfish policies. A free-market economy does not exist when businesses are generously rewarded with subsidies, tax cuts and loopholes.

Mario Cuomo, the late governor of New York, described Reaganomics as being the crumbs from a rich man’s table that fall to the poor.

Our latest round of helping the rich get richer came from Trump, our national wart.

By allowing industry to regulate itself, ignoring the dire warnings of climate change, and making sure that three of the richest men in the world can compensate for their penis size by traveling to the edge of space and floating weightless for a minute or two wearing designer space suits by Ralph Lauren, Trump rewrote the American story.

It’s a sad story.

I’ve seen countless suggestions that this trio of miscreants should pay their taxes. The truth is, of course, that they do pay what is required of them to pay which, as it works out, is at a rate less than a minimum wage earner with three part-time jobs pays.

And that, kind readers, is what has become of our government. Our government taxes us to help them, capitalists with no moral conviction or courage.

A society that allows CEOs to make 600% more than its lowest paid employee is not one geared to accomplishing the basic rules of governance: peace, well-being, meaningful work, and opportunity. What the hell, toss in safety. The basic needs of people—food, health care, shelter—should not be considered a privilege reserved for the rich.

But then, I’m a bit of a pinko commie.

If, as a country, we were not able to provide basic human services, then so be it. But America is a rich country with access to extraordinary resources. Farmers have fallow fields, industries shuttered by out-sourcing employment to countries our government claims as enemies, labor unions busted by the likes of Amazon, Virgin Atlantic and Tesla. A nation built by slaves is reluctant to teach that part of our history. Land we stole from indigenous people is known about by few.

I have known several wealthy people in my life—most of them fine, upstanding folks. My closest friend in that mix seems unable to give his money away fast enough. He quietly puts kids through college, donates to every reasonable cause he hears of, hosts theater and symphony parties to encourage cultural awareness, and sits on the boards of what seems like scores of charities.

The mega-rich of the past—robber barons though they might have been—at least built libraries, museums and concert halls. They endowed scholarships and invested heavily in progressive industry and science.

Space flight might not have been an option for them, but to suggest that the few minutes spent soaring above the earth is some kind of “exploration” is an unfunny joke. For the two whose missions have so far been accomplished…they are what they are: really, really expensive carnival rides for selfish bastards.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Roast Greek Chicken

I love Greek food (Opa! Opa!) and this is as authentic as it gets. Pair it with a dry white wine and avoid retsina like the plague.

2 Tbs. olive oil
lemon juice from half a lemon
2 cloves garlic, pressed or minced
2 Tbs. fresh parsley, chopped
1 Tbs. dried oregano
1 tsp. dried dill
1 tsp. paprika
½ tsp. salt
½ tsp. ground black pepper
2 chicken breasts, boneless and skinless

In a medium bowl, mix together olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, parsley, oregano, dill, paprika, salt, and pepper.
Place chicken breasts a large shallow bowl and pour the marinade over top. Toss chicken in the marinade to ensure that they are fully coated.
Cover the bowl with plastic cling wrap and place in the refrigerator for 1 hour, or overnight, to allow the chicken to marinate.
Heat oven to 450 F. Place chicken on a quarter sheet baking pan and bake for 20-25 minutes, until chicken is no longer pink inside and the internal temperature reaches 165 F in the thickest part of the chicken breast (as read on a meat thermometer).
Remove the chicken out of the oven and let it sit for 5 minutes. Serve warm with a side of Greek salad, pita bread, rice pilaf, and Greek lemon roasted potatoes. And don’t forget the tzatziki sauce

Where to begin?

As a nation we seem content with being uninformed, and for how much longer are we willing to be? We seem to be wallowing in an empty celebration of ignorance, turning our backs on fact and truth. Our history is what it is, and no amount of denial or revision will change that.

The philosopher, George Santayana, wisely noted that “Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” And many Americans not only don’t remember, they refuse to even learn.

At its root, the subject of critical race theory (CRT)—history is what I prefer to call it—has as its detractors, racists denying 400 years of the suppression of Blacks—from the earliest days of slavery to the ongoing attempts to subvert the voting processes that has as their focus minorities, including the physically infirm. Twenty-eight laws in seventeen states suppressing voter rights have already been enacted, and even more loom on the horizon.

It seems likely that those who want to suppress the vote are those whose beliefs and politics are so out of touch with the public that they can’t get into office without cheating. There’s nothing scarier than a level playing field to those who won’t play by the rules.

And are we afraid that the truth will somehow hurt?

Of course it will. But it will also help.

If one is comfortable learning of the past, then one is probably not learning the truth. “Warts and all,” is an ageless expression to remind us of features or qualities that are not appealing or attractive. That, of course, embraces and defines the history of man.

Schools across the country continue to teach the mythology of Christopher Columbus while ignoring the fact that Native Americans were here to greet his landing parties. I grew up not knowing a thing about the massacres of indigenous people for the acquisition of land by white people. I remember being taught that General Custer was some kind of American hero when, in fact, he was the leader of a murderous incursion onto tribal lands. His “last stand” only reflects that he died in battle.

James Welch, the wonderful Native American poet and novelist, once told me that at the scene of the Battle of the Little Bighorn in southeast Montana one should take the walking tour from the outlined suggestion backwards, as it provides the view from an Indian perspective.

My great grandfather, James Naylor, was an attorney in Nebraska. I grew up hearing about what a wonderful and colorful character he was, how he fought for truth and justice, and died on the steps of the Custer County courthouse in Broken Bow after being shot by the brother of a victim whose killer he was defending.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

He was an anti-abolitionist who served time in various Iowa locations for his criminal activities. His father-in-law, Frank Morgan, was an Indian hunter who he greatly admired for his “patriotic” acts. Although he was, in fact, an attorney, Judge, as he was called, died in a hotel room of alcoholic poisoning—leaving behind a wife and three small children. One of those children, my maternal grandfather, concocted his father’s myth to an end whose purpose I don’t understand.

Hiding behind fake history offers no lessons or insights except to reveal quite a bit about the person who created the falsehoods.

I’ve always found it curious to listen to those who believe in reincarnation. They seem to always believe that their past lives included being part of royalty or some struggle that resulted in new-found freedoms. Nobody ever suggests the likelihood that they were just digging up potatoes for some royal family or dying as a foot soldier in some insignificant battle.

Obviously, there is no shortage of people willing to offer “alternative” facts. It might make them feel better about themselves—although that seems unlikely—or to just support an unpopular view.

The Trump administration has been the most discredited in American history. And yet, there is a wide base of voters who refuse to acknowledge that he and his cohorts worked to destroy our democracy through his actions and inactions. While I wish that the authors of recent books had spoken more loudly during his time in office, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. There was plenty of honest reporting during his tenure, unless you count Fox News.

In addition to wanting to stifle historical fact, there is also no shortage of people who want to control what books can be offered in schools and libraries. It would make sense to me that those people read the books they want banned, rather than censor them. Books provide untold opportunities of exploration—from travel to ideas to fantasy and creative glimpses of the future.

When asked what course of study to follow to allow for a career in psychology, Rollo May, an American existential psychologist, and author of the influential book “Love and Will” (1969), said to major in literature. There is no true human condition that hasn’t been explored and detailed in what is known as fiction.

Turning our backs to the truth takes nothing but fear. Welcoming the truth takes courage.

Again, Rollo May: “It is dangerous to know, but it is more dangerous not to know.”

Or, put another way, the past doesn’t scare me; an uninformed future does.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

INSALATA RUSSA – RUSSIAN SALAD

This is a rather elaborate salad, but perfect as a lunch—served with some crusty baguette.

Makes: 6-8 servings

about 1 c. mayonnaise
1 c. frozen peas
4 oz. string beans
2 carrots, sliced
2 medium potatoes, diced
2 Tbs. capers
salt and pepper to taste
3 Tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
1-2 Tbs. red wine vinegar
2-3 hard-cooked eggs, sliced
1 can of tuna, well drained

Trim and wash the string beans. Fill a large saucepan two-thirds with water. Bring water to a boil, add salt and the string beans, carrots, and potatoes. Cook 5-8 mins over high heat, test string beans and carrots and remove when tender but still firm. Set them to drain and cool in a colander. Cook potatoes an additional 10 to 15 minutes or until tender. Remove from water and let all vegetables cool a bit. Meanwhile in a separate saucepan heat water and cook peas until tender. Drain and cool.

Place diced vegetables in a large bowl. Add half of the capers and all of the peas. Add the tuna. Season with salt and pepper. Add the oil and vinegar; mix carefully until blended. Taste and adjust salad for seasonings.

Gently mix in 1/2 cup of mayonnaise. Keep adding more mayonnaise until all of the vegetables are well covered in mayonnaise without them seeming to be swimming in it.

At this point, using the back of your spoon press the salad gently to flatten out the top and compress ingredients into the bowl. Cover and refrigerate several hours or overnight. To serve you can turn the salad over onto a platter, it should keep the shape of the bowl or you can leave it in the bowl. Garnish with the remaining capers and slices of hard-cooked eggs. Serve slightly chilled.

This essay first appeared in the Park County Weekly in August 1997. It still seems funny.

Now that the weather appears to be almost summer-like, my wife, Geri, is out zooming around town in her Mustang convertible, driving in what seems to me to be in neither a reasonable nor prudent manner. (For the record, she disagrees with my assessment.)

Geri knows enough about cars and their inner workings that at once upon a time would not have even been considered proper. I learned this about her on our first date, when she told me about her car: “It’s a ’71 Mustang convertible with a 351 Cleveland engine—a racing Pantera—with a factory-installed Hurst tranny.”

She actually said “tranny.” I was too proud to ask what a “tranny” might be.

Geri’s idea of car travel is to aim in the general direction of where she wants to go and slma the gas pedal all the way to the floorboard, not letting up until she arrives at her destination. The Legislature was singing Geri’s song when it said, in not so few words, “Go for it!”

I have altogether different philosophy of driving that results in my having to pack a lunch if I leave for the 26-mile distant Bozeman any time after 9:00 a.m. I’ve actually had friends complain about speed driving up the Valley. “It’s not a school zone, pal,” one was so rude to say.

Despite all of that, I have been in charge of all of our cars’ maintenance, which is as unapt as Geri, the Irish lass, being put in charge of dinner. My idea of maintenance usually involves my opening the hood, looking down at all that metallic stuff that blocks the view to the surface below, and somberly announcing, “I think it needs to go the shop.”

My diagnoses are always met with, “Just check the fluids, dipstick.”

Many years ago we were driving a Dodge Caravan through Utah when the car stalled and died on the side of a country road. It magically started an hour later, and we drove another hour until it stalled and died again. Again, it magically started, and we drove on for another hour. This annoying pattern repeated itself until we arrived in Nephi.

It was a Sunday, and it was 104 degrees.

I wandered around the truck stop looking for somebody with admirably dirty hands. The guy I found responded to my tale of woe by shouting at me: “Fuel filter! Replace it!”

I could more easily perform an appendectomy, I remember thinking.

A car parts store guy with admirably dirty hands delivered a new fuel filter, but didn’t offer to spend the rest of the afternoon changing it for me. And so I began: I crawled under the car, located the old one, took it off, discovered the wonder of having a gallon or so of gasoline pour directly onto my face, and then gave my young children their first exposure to some really nasty words in a loud, clear voice.

I was afraid to light a cigarette for three days, lest the gas fumes lingering about my face ignite.

We got as far as Provo, following our new driving protocol—an hour on, an hour off.

I had a friend in Los Angeles, who I’ll call Dale, which seems only fitting since that was his name. He might have been the real-life role model for the original MacGyver, a mid-’80s television program that co-starred a roll of duct tape. Dale was as serious a car guy as one could be, even going so far as banning his family from the house each Memorial Day so he could drink Scotch and watch the Indy 500 in peace. I called him and explained our situation.

“Vapor lock,” he said with such conviction that I could picture him in his STP cap. “Got any wooden clothespins?”

“Of course,” I lied, although I could see from the telephone booth a store that would sell them.

“Clip one every four inches along the fuel line. It’ll take the heat out of the line and you won’t vapor lock.”
The next morning we made it to Layton, about an hour away. We waited the perfunctory hour and drove to a dealership.

“Fuel pump,” a young mechanic announced. As the van went up on the lift, he noticed the fifty-four clothespins grasping the fuel line. He called over the other mechanics in the shop and they all started pointing and laughing at the sight, offering no sympathy even after listening to my sad story.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Sausage & Cabbage

1 lb. kielbasa smoked sausage
1 1/2 tbsps olive oil, divided
1 medium onion, chopped
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 medium head cabbage, cored and chopped into 1-inch pieces (about 2 lbs)
3/4 tsp. kosher salt, plus more to taste
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1 tsp. red wine vinegar

Halve the kielbasa lengthwise and then slice it into 1/2-inch pieces. Heat a large deep skillet or dutch oven over medium heat. Add 1/2 Tbs. oil and the kielbasa. Toss to coat and then cook until browned, about 3 minutes per side. Transfer the kielbasa to a plate.
Return the pan to the stove and reduce the heat to medium low. Add the remaining tablespoon of oil and the onion. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion has softened. Add the garlic, cabbage, salt, and pepper. Toss well to combine. Cover and cook, stirring every 4-5 minutes until the cabbage is wilted, about 12 minutes.

There were just a few brief moments in the Sixties when a man’s hair might define him. Long hair meant you were against the war in Vietnam, smoked pot, and claimed the Grateful Dead as the best rock band ever, provided you had just ingested some LSD. Short hair meant you drank beer at your frat house, wore a college sweatshirt with your chinos, liked the Kingston Trio, and were planning a political future as a Republican.

Of course, there is no such deciding criteria today, although there are certain suggestions.

For instance, the crew cut, or flattop, is represented in Montana by two of the state’s legislators: Senator Jon Tester (D) and Representative Matt Rosendale (R). A third, Senator Steve Daines (R), slicks his cropped hair back with what appears to be Kiwi shoe polish.

The crew cut is a no-nonsense approach to personal grooming. It takes no special fuss or muss and might indicate to some that the person sporting such a style is a capable, down-to-earth, hard-working kind of guy. Sen. Tester, for instance, operates an organic farm and custom butcher shop in Big Sandy. With his one-and-two-fifths hands, he can repair farm equipment, plow fields and swath hay on the land homesteaded by his grandparents in the early years of the last century. Then he and his wife, Sharla, return to Washington, D.C., where he sits on a wide number of Senate committees.

He’s a moderate Democrat with a degree in music who seems committed to compromise that will serve his constituents and the national good. He’s my kind of guy.

Rep. Matt Rosendale is a carpet-bagging realtor from Maryland who seems racist, homophobic, sexist and something of a Nazi.

He is the poster child for QAnon and a Trump toady.

Rosendale, after being elected to his first term in 2020, has, since taking office, voted to overturn the Presidential election results, voted against Covid-19 relief, and voted against the Paycheck Fairness Act. He declined to support rewarding Capitol and D.C. police for their protection of our Capitol with simple medals and voted against establishing a bi-partisan commission to investigate the attack on Congress. He skipped the vote on the Violence Against Women Act and voted against the Hate Crimes Act. He was one of thirteen members of Congress to vote against the establishment of Juneteenth as a federal holiday celebrating the end of slavery.

Sen. Daines, the native Montanan who was born in Van Nuys, California, has a voting record not much different than his House counterpart.

But let’s turn our attention to the pompadour, that up-swept hair style once sported by Elvis Presley, the Everly Brothers and Wayne Newton. Matt Gaetz, a Republican representative from Florida, dons one. The polar opposite of the flattop, it requires much daily care and that, I think, speaks volumes about vanity.

Gaetz, one of the most ardent Trumpsters in Washington (or anywhere else for that matter), seems to be anti-everything that many of us might find good and decent. A borderline denier of climate change and the Holocaust, Gaetz’s ultra-conservative views tend to nauseate moderate Democrats and the closeted Republicans from an earlier age. He’s opposed to abortion, gay marriage, LGTBQ rights, and Colin Kaepernick. He thinks Black Lives Matter shouldn’t and that antifa is an actual club that has secret handshakes, passwords, and collects membership dues.

Ironically, Gaetz graduated from Niceville High School in Niceville, Florida.

When I was a kid growing up in Chicago, there were only a few hairstyles. Greasers, whom everybody assumed were criminals-in-waiting, tended to have their hair coifed in what was politely known as a D.A. (duck’s ass), a variation on the pompadour with a nape-of-the-neck flourish. They also drove low-slung Pontiacs and wore Eagle steel heel taps—the epitome of cool. Walking down the school hallways, clicking their heels against linoleum tiles, any group of them together sounded like a bad tap-dancing troupe on their ways to the classes they were failing.

The Black boys had yet to discover the Afro, just as the Jewish boys had yet discovered the Jewfro. The Black kids wore do-rags; the Jews, yarmulkes—neither of which are hairstyles, but nonetheless reflect certain cultural values and might contribute to hair control.

Most of the boys went to local barbershops—all of which had myna birds, by the way—to get 50-cent buzz cuts. Blacks, Jews and others emerged with their scalps clearly defined by shape.

A bird’s-eye view of President Biden reveals a bald spot that could be mistaken for a yarmulke, although, as a Catholic, he’d be more likely to wear a biretta. Bernie Sanders has disheveled hair that seems to parrot his politics—non-conformist, unconventional, without pretense. Of course, Rand Paul’s hair is equally disheveled, but so are his politics.

Trump sported a combination comb-over, sweep-up that seemed to change color frequently. It’s difficult to reckon his style with his politics, other than to suggest that both were the rather vulgar products of vanity, narcissism, and bad taste. For the record, Don, Jr., wears something of a hybrid pompadour/flattop.

Although there is no shortage of bald men in government, I’ve yet to notice anybody sporting a mullet, the sound of which never fails to remind me of some kind of fish and the look of which never fails to make me laugh.

Ponytails seem in short supply, though a lot of our Congressional females wear their hair styled in flips that I associate with the Fifties. I’ve seen no bouffant or “high hair,” the female equivalent of the pompadour, both styles that seem best-fitted to a woman driving a pick-up truck or Sarah Palin. Marjorie Taylor Greene, Georgia’s most notorious imbecile, wears her blonde locks in such a way that both reminds and bespoils my memory of Peggy Lipton in the “Mod Squad.”

The Kennedy boys’ iconic side-swept bangs obviously ran in the family; Jack Kemp, who ran as Bob Dole’s running mate against Bill Clinton in 1996, had been mocked by Dole as needing a “business deduction for hair spray.”

And former Ohio Rep. Jim Traficant, expelled from Congress in 2002, had as a coif something that looked like a hair helmet from “Planet of the Apes”—toupee-like, it came to a point on top, much like Republican Rep. Trey Gowdy from South Carolina, whose silverish, spikey hair is just a tad like Sting’s without style or soul.

Speaking of England, what about Boris Johnson’s coif? It reminds me of me. Perhaps I’ll run for office.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Romanian Beef Sausages

Sausage is my favorite way to eat animal proteins. This recipe is delicious and goes well with buttered spätzle, red cabbage and loads of dark mustard.

3 # lean beef chuck
1 1⁄4 # boneless beef short ribs (fatty ones)
1⁄4 # beef suet
5 tsp. kosher salt
1 Tbs. black pepper, coarsely ground
2 tsp. ground coriander
1 pinch ground allspice
1 pinch bay leaf powder
1 pinch ground cloves
1 tsp. dry mustard
2 Tbs. whole yellow mustard seeds
2 Tbs. garlic, minced
2 tsp. sugar
1⁄2 cup water
lamb or beef casing

Grind lean beef through food grinder with 3/8-inch plate, fatty beef through 1/4 inch plate.
In large bowl, mix ground meat with all other ingredients, except water and casings. Add enough water to allow you to work the spices in, knead till well blended.
Stuff into casings and tie into 5 inch links.

So there we were, a few friends gathered at an after-funeral reception bemoaning the sad reality that at our ages we rarely get invited to weddings. We noted a few other things that have slipped away from our grasps and suddenly remembered that we no longer have either the stamina or the urge to enjoy a three-Martini lunch.

That classic approach to a noontime repast—described as both leisurely and indulgent—was popular throughout the Sixties and into the Seventies, when President Jimmy Carter campaigned against it in his first bid for the Presidency as being a benefit to the rich being paid by the working class.

His opponent, Gerald Ford, in a 1978 speech to the National Restaurant Association, responded with: “The three-martini lunch is the epitome of American efficiency. Where else can you get an earful, a bellyful and a snootful at the same time?”

Although I appreciate the austerity brought to the office by Carter, I have also enjoyed many a three-Martini lunch, with the gin being replaced by Scotch. And that was when I had no opportunity to declare my noon meals as a tax deduction. Big business could, but by 1987, that deduction was reduced to 80 percent; seven years later to 50 percent.

When I first moved to Los Angeles in 1976, I called an old friend who invited me to lunch at a well-known restaurant near Westwood. Assuming it would be a drinking occasion, I ordered the same beverage as my host and his other guest. It was something called Perrier, an imported sparkling water from France. I had never heard of it and, of course, rued the fact that I didn’t order at least something like a Campari and soda—the perfect hot-weather beverage.

Oddly enough, water does not float my boat.

Lunch is my favorite meal of the day. Breakfast seems too difficult a task to perform at 7:30, and dinner, with its traditional focus as our main meal seems leaden. Agrarian societies ate lunch (dinner) as their main meal. With two or three courses, it was frequently followed by a short nap that reënergized farm workers to finish the day. In the late evening, a supper of simple sandwiches, salads and fruit would satisfy most appetites.

The Industrial Revolution, as it were, gave way to short break periods to factory workers who brought sandwiches from home or bought street food from vendors with pushcarts laden with gray-water hot dogs, Po’ boys, or Italian beef sandwiches—depending on one’s location. Time was limited and the lunch food of the time was consumed in mere minutes. The executives, of course, went out to lunch (Carter was right in his assessment) and wined and dined at their employees’ expense.

While I like to go out to lunch, I’ve become accustomed to not doing so for the past 18 months or so. And being of a certain age, I don’t eat as much as I once was able. What I seek is a variety of flavors that may weigh-in at around 5-6 ounces per meal.

In Hollywood, I used to have lunch frequently at The Musso & Frank Grill. Typically I had their signature steak salad. I also frequented a Japanese restaurant or Boardner’s, a dive-bar off Hollywood Boulevard where the food was barely edible but the chances of having a cocktail with the poet Charles Bukowski were pretty good.

Two of the most memorable lunches I’ve ever had were in Europe. At bar across from the Dublin rail station, I once had a ham sandwich—thinly sliced ham on white bread with Colman’s mustard—and a glass of Smithwick red ale. It was to die for, and I’ve never satisfactorily reproduced the meal. The next came twenty years later in London when I had my first ploughman’s lunch. Originally a meal of bread and cheese to carry to the field, it has evolved into a pub food that is delicious and fits perfectly my idea of an ideal lunch.

It typically is served on a board or platter with cheese (Stilton and a good English cheddar), a small salad of tomatoes and cucumber, some chunks of sausage or ham, perhaps a small meat pie, bread, butter, sliced onions, and pickles.
Its French cousin is charcuterie, a word originally meant to describe a meal of prepared meats—sausages, pates, et cetera.

My lunch obsession is a happy combination of the two. I always have on hand some salami, smoked ham, or creamed herring. To that I add any number of olives, some gherkins or cornichons, some Brie cheese with grapes and fig marmalade, or Camembert. Other cheeses are welcome, as is prosciutto or mortadella (my favorite). There should always be bread—slices of toasted baguette or seeded rye to play host to chicken liver pate or Braunschweiger, topped with spicy Dijon mustard and sliced onions.

Sometimes a little potato or pasta salad works nicely, as do sliced tomatoes with cottage cheese, heavily sprinkled with pepper. If there’s leftover chicken, I like to eat a small portion with some boiled potatoes and carrots, topped with a mustard vinaigrette. Once a month or so, I like a small baked potato with sour cream and chives. And I love hard-cooked eggs with any or all of the above.

Today is Father’s Day—a Hallmark made-up holiday—but I will nonetheless want to dine on some sausage, cheese, and potato pie. I might even make myself a Martini, or three.

Happy eating!

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Cervelle de canut
This is a cheese specialty from Lyon, France—made of cottage cheese mixed with creme fraiche and fresh herbs, garlic, and shallots. To finish it, it’s seasoned with salt, pepper, walnut oil and vinegar. It is usually served as a snack on fresh or toasted bread, it’s a perfect summer appetizer.

200 grams of cottage cheese
50 grams of fresh goat’s cheese
100 ml of creme fraiche
2 tsp. of finely chopped shallots
2 garlic cloves finely minced
2 tsp. of chopped parsley
2 Tbs. of finely chopped chives
1 small fresh onion, finely chopped
2 Tbs. of walnut oil
1 Tbs. of red wine vinegar
Salt and pepper to taste.

Start by adding the drained cottage cheese into a large bowl and whisking it well.
Add the goat cheese and mix well. Add the creme fraiche and whip again.
Season with the salt and pepper, add the vinegar and mix well.
Add all of the herbs, garlic, onions, and shallot. Use a wooden spoon to blend.

With any kind of luck, we’ll all grow old enough to become burdens to our children.

After spending a couple of decades sacrificing for them—from tying their shoelaces and feeding them, to seeing to their emotional needs and driving them to sports events and local ERs—it’s payback time. Turnabout is, after all, only fair.

To that end, we’ve decided to wed our household with that of our daughter’s and her husband and two children. This decision, spurred by numerous reasons, was not considered lightly, and there has been much planning of the logistics over the past several months. While this transition has not been stress-free, the anxious moments are outweighed by the eagerness to successfully blend our two families in such a way that we will all benefit.

The grandkids should benefit from the knowledge Geri and I have amassed, provided we get it to them before losing our retention abilities.

It’s also been an opportunity to assess our lists of needed items. For me, books, certain memorabilia, clothing, and my kitchen stuff stays; the rest can be piled on the ash heap for disposal or resale. Much, I assume, will be donated to thrift stores. It seems an accurate observation to note that we spend the first two-thirds of our lives collecting crap and the last third trying desperately to get rid of it.

While our house is happily populated by us and a small menagerie, Sean Liam, the grandson in question, has decided he’d like to become a cockroach rancher. This announcement was met with much laughter until we realized he was serious.

My first response was a simple “no.” When more explanation was requested, I answered “no way.” Thirteen-year-olds in general have yet to embrace the idea of limits and so a family meeting was suggested.

I hate meetings in the same way as I hate cockroaches. The former usually resulting in a horse designed by a committee that emerges as a double-hump camel; the latter because cockroaches serve no purpose in the natural world. Except in Third World countries where they may or may not be considered a culinary delicacy and a source of protein, the only thing they’re good for here is to keep Orkin in business.

In lieu of a family meeting, I merely made my case stronger by saying that if I had wanted to live with cockroaches I’d have remained in the slums of the Lower East Side of New York.

Back in those halcyon years, I’d arrive home and kick the rats off the stairs leading to my apartment. Then, I’d unlock the seven or eight door locks, which, I believe was a warning signal to the roaches. When I opened the door and flipped on the light switch, the roaches, who are either attracted to or repelled by light (who knows?) would fly in the general direction of my face.

In a way, I suppose, they were happy to see me.

One winter I went to visit my parents in Boca Raton, Florida. My mother told me about their persistent problems with palmetto bugs. I was curious to meet one of them when one showed its little face from behind a box of roach killer. It was, in fact, a cockroach that some realtor decided to rename for the sake of making the bugs more tolerable by retirees buying into the Florida condo market.

While the palmetto might have sounded like an exotic cocktail, it was euphemistic for a horrible little bug with, perhaps, a deeper tan.

I once knew a guy from Florida whose business was to exterminate any number of bugs, including the palmetto, aka the cockroach. He had hundreds of employees, an impressive fleet of service vans, four ranches in Montana and his own Lear jet. His business plan was based on repeat business because cockroaches refuse to die.

When I lived in New York, exterminators would spray an apartment across the hall and the roaches would take a busman’s holiday to my place. Then they’d go back to 3C, happily immune to whatever chemical had driven them to 3B. It was a vicious cycle. The rats, typically the size of cats, responded appropriately to fourth-down punts.

Stomping on the little brown bugs isn’t always successful. In fact, it rarely is. They have the ability to reduce their height by 85%. Then they play dead for a few seconds and scamper away.

So my friend in Florida became wealthy by not killing whatever he promised to kill. Roaches are funny that way.

Scientists have noted that cockroaches, along with Keith Richards, will be the only survivors of a nuclear winter. I’d like to know how they seem to know that. We’ve never had a nuclear winter, so their information is limited—at best, their suppositions mere speculation.

QAnon, the religiously right-wing conspiracy whack-jobs, deny scientific inquiry and knowledge, but believe that cockroaches—except for those elected to Congress—will not survive a nuclear winter.

I’m hoping that this one time the QAnon folks are right.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Fried Roach

Stolen from Rove Pest Control

First, put the cockroach in a plastic, sealable baggie and put it in the freezer for 5 minutes (to ensure the cockroach is dead).
Wash the cockroach and dry it on a sheet or paper towel.
Heat a frying pan with some olive oil.
Fry the cockroach until it is brown and crispy.
Remove the oil, turn off the heat, and add a small amount of sugar and soy sauce.
When the sugar melts and turns into caramel, take the cockroach out of the pan and onto a plate, ready to serve or discard without ceremony.

If Facebook has any redeeming qualities at all, it might be that during the pandemic the social media platform has served as a refuge of sorts—an escape from the solitude of quarantine. It has provided as close to social contact as is possible during a time deemed prudent by the medical professionals. There are also recipes and cute videos of puppies and kittens. And currently, Trump is banned from it.

What’s not to like?

It’s also been a way for many of us to rekindle old friendships from times long thought past.

A high school friend, with whom I’ve had intermittent contact over the past fifty years, has proven himself to be a prolific contributor of Facebook posts. He, like most musicians, has seen a dramatic shift in his career—the international touring, live dates and recording sessions having been replaced with some rather ingenious uses of technology to get his music to people whose “savage breasts are calmed” by music’s universal charms.

He also recently had heart surgery. Then the frequent posts trickled down to be noticeably few. I inquired to his well-being and received the following note:

I’m good. Losing too many friends these days to illness…aches and pains are one thing, but the endless news of one person after another dying…I missed that chapter in the “how to get old” book. Sorry, you caught me on a blue morning.

Most of us can easily identify with the idea of a blue morning and all that it encompasses. It’s rare to wake up not uneasy.

The COVID-19 crisis has reordered all of our lives. Our apple carts have been upended, the bruised fruit rolling downhill. The natural progression is now spiked with incidents of unprecedented disturbance; the hearty and hale among us suddenly stricken and then gone, passing alone without cherished loved ones at bedside.

I suppose that even the most disordered life has some degree of order, just as the most ordered life allows for spontaneity.

While we may wish to restore whatever order has been altered by circumstance, we may not even recognize—whenever—or whatever will be our return to normalcy. This week’s unemployment figures were hardly rosy, and there is a growing acknowledgement that many are not eager to rejoin the work force until all the unemployment benefits have been exhausted.

On many fronts, things are not getting better.

Like employers re-evaluating their business directions (commercial real estate values have plummeted, negatively impacting urban taxes revenues), there are workers who have used the past months to more closely examine their own lives and have rediscovered the intrinsic value of family, friendships and place. As they should, those values might be found to exceed those represented by the rungs on the corporate ladder.

My old friend Ira and I were kindred souls for whom the corporate ladder held little appeal. We were (are) the last of the post-Watergate reporters, each of us hoping for an investigative assignment that would unseat a government or expose widespread corruption.

We were desk mates, sitting across from each other at gun-metal steel desks in a noisy room still redolent of cigarette smoke and cynicism. He rarely joined a group of us who gathered nightly at the American Legion bar next to the newspaper, where we regularly slugged back too much Scotch or vodka to whitewash the day’s news that the public would read in the morning.

Ira took leave to devote his efforts to writing—brilliantly, I should add—about religion and matters of spirituality and the soul. I took leave to write about two-headed turtles and women doing men’s jobs before securing my position as a jazz critic—one of the least in-demand jobs in history.

Forty or so years later, we connected on Facebook. We’re closer now than we ever were sitting across from each other eating our tuna fish sandwiches at lunch.

We’ve come to know about how close our paths crossed (he’s got a few years on me) on our youthful adventures on the Lower East Side of New York. We lived mere blocks away at different times, visiting similar haunts—McSorley’s at Bowery and 7th, most notably.

What I didn’t know about my friend is that he had son from a marriage that I hadn’t even known of, or had maybe just forgotten.

Brady, his son from a marriage gone afoul, was fifty-four when he passed after a three-year battle with cancer. Losing a child is as cruel an act as any can imagine. It upsets the order that life is supposed to obey. My children are charged with placing me in the ground, not the other way around.

COVID-19, in its relentless insistence at turning our lives upside down, kept my friend from seeing his son on his deathbed. Such cruelty brought by the barely imaginable is difficult to comprehend.

Upon the receipt of his son’s cremated ashes, Ira wrote a heartfelt and beautiful essay. He addressed the emotional strife of losing a child and pondered the questions of Jewish death, our traditions, and the regard for the most precious gift of all—life.

L’ Chaim.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken Paprikash

This recipe was one of my grandmother’s go-to dishes. It’s one of my favorites.

2 Tbs. butter
3 pounds chicken pieces, bone-in and skin-on
2 medium yellow onions, very finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, finely minced
2 Roma tomatoes, seeds removed and very finely diced
1 bell pepper, diced
3-4 Tbs. Hungarian paprika
2-3 cups chicken stock
1 1/2 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3 Tbs. all-purpose flour
3/4 cup full fat sour cream
1/4 cup heavy whipping cream

Heat the butter in a heavy pot and brown the chicken on all sides. Transfer the chicken to a plate. In the same fat, add the onions and fry until golden brown. Add the garlic, tomatoes and bell pepper and fry another 2-3 minutes. Remove the pot from the heat and stir in the paprika, salt and pepper.
Return the chicken to the pot and place it back over the heat. Pour in the chicken broth. The chicken should be mostly covered. Bring it to a boil. Cover, reduce the heat to medium-low and simmer for 40 minutes. Remove the chicken and transfer to a plate.
In a small bowl, stir the flour into the sour cream/cream mixture to form a smooth paste. Stir the cream mixture into the sauce, whisking constantly to prevent lumps. Bring it to a simmer for a couple of minutes until the sauce is thickened. Add salt and pepper to taste. Return the chicken to the sauce and simmer to heat through.

There seems to be a small movement afoot on certain educational fronts that wants to go a tad easier on grading students on their use of language skills. The rules of spelling, grammar and punctuation, these educators believe, should be suspended in the course of writing essays in the classroom.

Some educators say that to be marked down for poor spelling, grammar and punctuation in exams would be “elitist.”

There are also those who find the requirement for a high level of proficiency in written English can be seen as “homogeneous, North European, white, male, and elite.” Some universities have been adopting so-called “inclusive assessment,” a more flexible scheme to level the playing field for students. Its plan is to encourage students to develop a “more authentic academic voice… that celebrates, rather than obscures, their particular background or characteristics.”

This comes at a time when standards of usage among an entire generation of English-speaking university students are now so poor that a British publisher of dictionaries sounded an alarm that there is “a degree of crisis” in their written use of the language.

So, the best way to combat a crisis is to lower its severity by lowering the standards that define it by even further so that we just learn to live with it? Call it what you may, but I believe it’s yet another step in the dumbing down of the citizenry while accepting poor academic achievement as standard. The only way to level an academic playing field is to insist that everyone perform at the worst performer’s level.

When Lewis and Clark led the Corps of Discovery expedition, they kept detailed journals that reflected the use of a language not nearly as standardized as today.

“The men’s erratic, but delightful and ingenious, manner of spelling and capitalizing creates the most perplexing difficulties of all,” wrote author Robert B. Betts. “This is especially true of Clark, who was not only the master misspeller of them all, but also displayed dazzling virtuosity in his approach to punctuation, capitalization, and simple sentence structure.” He points out that “Clark spelled the word Sioux no less than twenty-seven different ways.”

Indeed, Clark apparently had little respect for somebody who knew only one way to spell a word.

In a way, the Lewis and Clark paradigm is closely akin to what is being touted by those wishing to offer forgiveness to those misusing the English language—the difference being that then there were only usage standards established regionally. In their writings, the explorers expressed information in ways that reflected their cultural heritage, characteristics, and education. (Clark was just barely educated.)

Of course, the journals of the expedition were written starting in 1803 and were not widely available to scholars, researchers, and the reading public until 1818. There have been tremendous strides in linguistics and education in the last two centuries, especially with the public access that Thomas Jefferson, who commissioned the Corps of Discovery, promoted.

What some researchers believe have led to this latest decline of language skills is the computer.

Students have only a limited grasp of the most basic rules of spelling, punctuation and meaning because of an increasing dependence on “automatic tools” such as computer spellchecks, grammar applications and unprecedented access to rapid communication using email and the internet.

If dependence on computer software is leading to our inability to communicate effectively and with precision, then we need to address that problem rather than to appease those whose scholastic skills are, in all reality, a result of laziness.

In baseball, the line from home plate to first base is 90 feet. An average right-handed base runner gets there in about 4.5 seconds. If an aspiring player takes 6 seconds, the league does not shorten the distance between the bases; they merely suggest that the guy find a different line of work.

The expression “Next,” was coined to tell an auditionee that his or her perceived lack of talent was not suitable to the play being cast.

Grade inflation was an issue when I was in high school. That was defined as the awarding of higher grades than students deserved either to maintain a school’s academic reputation or as a result of diminished teacher expectations.

Things haven’t really changed.

Social reality seems like something we’re willing to sacrifice to make ourselves feel better based on false premises. If one believes that 2+2=3, that doesn’t make it true. Nor does it help to solve the problems of the world which is an effort richly deserving of our attention and duty.

As a nation, we seem eager to reward each other for just showing up. Children are typically smart enough to know they lost the game and that the participation trophy is an empty honor.

I went to high school with Dan Issel, the Olympic basketball player who had a stellar career that ended with his coaching of the Denver Nuggets. On the asphalt-paved courts in our boyhood neighborhoods, the 6’9″ all-American demonstrated that my basketball skills were limited—at best.

It was an important, hard-fought lesson.

Nobody should have lowered the height of the hoop, or shorten the distance from goal to goal, to make me a better player at the expense of those who could jump, pass and shoot in regulation.

Lower standards do not contribute to either proficiency or equality.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Gnocchi

I love gnocchi, but I find the potato variety far less than fool-proof. This is a recipe that makes an easy, never-fail dish that is guaranteed to delight.

8 oz. ricotta cheese
7 oz. plain flour
1 oz. freshly grated Parmesan cheese
3 egg yolks
Small scraping of nutmeg
Salt and pepper

Mix all of the ingredients and wrap in plastic wrap to rest for 30 minutes. Remove, divide into three pieces. Roll out each piece into logs about an inch in width. Cut into one-inch pieces and indent with the tines of a fork.

Sauce

Sauté three (or more) cloves of minced garlic along with red pepper flakes in olive oil until fragrant (a minute or two). Add a 28-oz. can of diced tomatoes and stir until well blended. Add a handful of torn fresh basil leaves. Plate the gnocchi and add the sauce on top.

From the “leave well enough alone” department comes a report from the BBC that remarkably doesn’t even mention the Royal Family, the world’s wealthiest clan of welfare recipients whose every clink of a teacup gets the kind of press coverage and scrutiny usually reserved for nuclear disarmament talks and economic summits.

The report details the efforts of Stephan Beringer, chief executive of Mirriad, a U.K. advertising company, to digitally alter film and video to insert product images that weren’t there before.

Product placement is nothing new, dating back to the earliest days of film-making. Companies pay big fees to the film studios to make sure that their brands are seen by moviegoers. Stars wear designer clothing because if some actor is seen wearing DKNY products, some viewers will run out and buy the same to emulate their screen idols.

Or so the thinking is. There is no doubt that movies are an effective way of influencing behavior. In Adam’s Rib, directed by George Cukor in 1949 for MGM, Amanda (Katharine Hepburn) and her husband Adam (Spencer Tracy) are preparing dinner together in the kitchen, and while it’s cooking, they share a grapefruit. It was a slight reference to a fad diet at the time that experts described as “nonsensical, irrational and even dangerous.” Nonetheless, grapefruit sales soared nationwide.

What is behind this new movement to add advertisements to old movies and television shows is a flexing of technological muscle and, lest we forget, greed. It only makes sense that an advertising company would be leading the way to the well promising such riches.

Imagine the possibilities. The next time you watch Casablanca, An Affair to Remember or It’s a Wonderful Life, you might notice signage or re-labeling. Finally, that dull brick wall behind Lee Marvin’s drunken character astride a horse in Cat Ballou, could be used to host a billboard advertisement for any number of consumer products.

The situation speaks to the intent of the filmmaker and his or her integrity in creating a product of artistic merit. There are probably legal ramifications as well, most likely for infringements of copyrights, trademarks, and ownership.

Back in the mid-80s, I was an editor at The Hollywood Reporter, the entertainment industry trade paper, when the relatively new technology of colorization was being widely touted. Producer Hal Roach and mogul Ted Turner were key figures in efforts to add color to black-and-white movies. They, of course, wanted to find new revenue streams by enticing audiences to see old films in a new light.

There was no shortage of detractors who complained that the process was crude, at best, and that lighting designed for black-and-white photography would not be effective in color.

Those opposed to the colorization process included film critic Roger Ebert, Jimmy Stewart, John Huston, George Lucas and Woody Allen.

“They arrest people who spray subway cars, they lock up people who attack paintings and sculptures in museums, and adding color to black-and-white films, even if it’s only to the tape shown on TV or sold in stores, is vandalism nonetheless,” Ebert said.

“What was so wrong about black-and-white movies in the first place?” he asked. “By filming in black-and-white, movies can sometimes be more dreamlike and elegant and stylized and mysterious. They can add a whole additional dimension to reality, while color sometimes just supplies additional unnecessary information.”

At issue was the original intent of the filmmaker, which in many cases could never be known. Would Frank Capra, for instance, have made It Happened One Night (1934) in color had it been an option? I doubt that Elia Kazan could have more effectively captured the gritty essence of New York’s shipping docks in On the Waterfront, his 1954 masterpiece, had it been filmed in Technicolor. And color photography could no more have added to the intensity that Sidney Lumet built into 12 Angry Men (1957) than if he had included a car chase with Steve McQueen at the wheel.

Woody Allen’s opposition was notable, not to mention ironic, in that his first major film was What’s Up, Tiger Lily?, a 1966 effort (in black-and-white) in which he took an existing Japanese spy movie, International Secret Police: Key of Keys, re-edited it and overdubbed existing dialogue with a new script. The result was a chaotic spoof on secret-agent films with a plot involving a farcical search for the world’s best egg salad recipe. It hardly recognized the integrity of the original movie or its director.

The technology of colorization merely added color to an existing product. There was nothing being sold other than the product itself; no McLuhanesque subliminal message of 7-Up where there was none. 

The latest technological development comes at a time when product placement is becoming increasingly more important to advertisers. Globally, according to a PQ Media study, such advertising rose 15% in value in 2019. The ever-increasing practice of streaming films and TV shows through Netflix and Amazon Prime, which do not have advertisement breaks, gives product placement a way to subtly reach target audiences.

Because musicians and composers have been essentially cut off from making their livings due to streaming services that remove the need to purchase recorded music, many of the MTV generation are finding hope in the new technology. Old videos could be edited and re-mastered to provide advertising platforms that could be tailored to meet any number of demographic profiles. This could provide new life to old videos, perhaps even reaching new generations of listeners while providing older audiences with a sense of nostalgia in the way that hearing an “oldie-but-goodie” on a car radio might.

But unlike commercial radio, in which songs are sandwiched between commercials, videos would have no alternative but to add logos, signage and actual product to create new sources of revenue.

While we may have become inured to the constant bombardment of advertising in myriad forms, I can’t think that redoing the past will offer much benefit. Nor can I imagine that paying audiences would tolerate a quarter of the movie screen devoted to scrolling pop-up ads.

Tonight, the movie industry, which prides itself on its cultural contributions and its commitment to humanitarian causes, will don its designer best to safely gather and pat itself on its collective back in a heartfelt homage to commercial art. Despite their good intentions, it’s only a matter of time before—taking its cue from ESPN—award categories will be sponsored.

“And the nominees for Bank of America’s Best Actor in a Supporting Role are…”

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Egg Salad Sandwich (deconstructed)

6 large, cage-free Organic Valley eggs
1/4 cup Best Foods mayonnaise
2 teaspoons Grey Poupon Dijon mustard
1-1/2 tsp. fresh lemon juice
1/4 tsp. Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce
1/4 tsp. Morton salt
1/8 tsp. Durkee ground black pepper
1/2 tsp. Domino’s sugar
1/4 cup finely minced celery
3 Tbs. finely sliced scallion
1 Tbs. finely chopped fresh parsley

Place the eggs in a saucepan in a single layer, and fill the pan with enough cold water so that it covers the eggs by about an inch. Bring to a rolling boil over high heat, then remove the pan from the heat, cover, and let stand for 10 minutes.

Drain the water and run cold water over the eggs. Once cooled, allow to sit for ten minutes or so.

In a medium Corning glass bowl, whisk together the mayonnaise, mustard, lemon juice, Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, and sugar. Add the celery, scallions, and parsley. Using a Rubbermaid rubber spatula, fold to combine.

To make the sandwiches, slice one egg for each hoagie sandwich roll. Slather both sides of the roll with the dressing, adding lettuce, and slices of tomato and sweet onion if you’d like. Add the slices of egg. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Although the Chamber of Commerce & Visitors Center, an entity known mostly for fundraising to keep itself in business, hasn’t made any formal announcement of plans for the Roundup Rodeo Parade on July 2, rumors abound about the festivities.

Insiders from the various groups that partner with the Chamber, including delegates representing every entity in the county, have said that, by order of Governor Body Slam, masks will not be required. In fact, the governor wants the people to not wear masks at all to demonstrate to all the world how much we cherish our freedoms and how we won’t act like sheep.

That’s a bit grandiose in scale. Attendance is usually limited to locals, a few folks from adjoining counties and tourists who typically describe the event as “quaint.” It is hardly worldly.

The theme for this year’s gathering is inspired by the 1970 chart-topping “Close to You,” by the Carpenters. The subtext is “Viral Infections Along a Parade Route in Small Town America.”

Slated to act as Grand Marshall of the Roundup Parade is Rep. Jim Jordan, the Republican loud-mouth from someplace in Ohio who is still operating under the mistaken belief that Trump won re-election.

Those questioning the wisdom of hosting the parade at all have been asked by management to sit down and keep their anti-American, anti-business mouths shut. Better yet, they should just pull up their little paper masks and leave.

“One year of no parade was enough,” noted an anonymous source, who asked to remain anonymous to maintain his anonymity. “How much do the townspeople have to suffer just because 560,00 Americans have died from a fake disease? Obama did nothing about it and now Biden is sitting idly as our economy crumbles in front of us. We, the people, need the bars to open to full capacity. The pipers must pipe, the Shriners must clown, and the beer must flow.”

The economy notwithstanding—on which a three-hour display of floats, fire trucks and horses will have minimal impact—parades are not enjoyed by everyone. I happen to be one of them.

There’s never been a Thanksgiving when somebody hasn’t called to ask if I was watching the Macy’s parade, which is only ever interesting if a gust of wind blows and happens to cause a four-story-high blow-up of Goofy to be launched into the stratosphere. That rarely happens and when it does, it’s all over the evening news. So, I tell whoever asks, that I’m busy doing other things like trying to avoid viewing the crass commercialism that drives our crass consumerism. If disaster strikes, I’ll catch the highlights later.

While our town’s little parade isn’t void of commercial aspects—every realtor and insurance agent who owns a convertible sticks magnetic signage on the front doors of those cars and wave imperiously to the people who line the streets watching them drive by—it’s more focused on community things. Every charity and do-gooder group are well-represented, as are all of the folks who own farm equipment or horses. (You’ll never see a Deere harvest combine on Central Avenue South.)

The fire engines blare their sirens if I happen to be fewer than twelve feet away. The politicians hand out enough election propaganda to carpet the streets in glossy paper, just under the detritus of discarded packaging from the street food that is consumed from the taco, gyro and hot dog stands that pop up along the route.

As a downtown business operator for twelve years, I came to dread parade day. It required me to triple the staff to deal with the crowds and reinvent what we did as a restaurant, down to one year serving a Sunday brunch to about twelve people; we were prepared for forty. Pastas are hardly parade fare. One year I made two gallons of gazpacho, eventually throwing out all but one serving. The next year, no fewer than a dozen people asked why I wasn’t serving gazpacho.

One year we made some little knots of baked pizza dough. Who knew so many people liked to dip them into ranch dressing, a condiment I didn’t stock? One year we had a keg of Bud Light on tap. At the end of that day, we had nine-tenths of a keg of Bud Light. Fine wines at $7-$8 per glass were eschewed by people wanting something in the $3 range, which is wine probably not worth drinking.

Nobody has ever accused me of being a good businessman, especially my wife. In fact, my most successful business venture was redeeming for two cents each the soda and beer bottles I found as a five-year-old in the alleys of Chicago’s west side.

I was driven by a desire to create good food, an inviting atmosphere—figuring that the books would take care of themselves. I was wrong much of the time. But parade day was never a salvation. In the end, I realized that I would have done better to have sat in the window and watched as the parade passed me by.

Parades have at their very heart a sense of belonging to the military—traditions of troops marching in stride to show the strength and fortitude of a nation’s power. I have never found that appealing. From the brass bands to the goose-stepping soldiers, it has always seemed to be a patriotic ritual that leads to nationalism and onward then to war.

And speaking of misplaced patriotism, there seems to be a movement afoot to erect a 100-foot tall flagpole in the middle of the park to hoist a flag the size of Connecticut on the morning of July Fourth. I don’t get it. Does an out-sized flag somehow represent a greater sense of the American sensibility than that already displayed by the beautiful array of simple flags that surround our park on holidays?

Or am I taking this in the same way I recognize that the oversized pickup trucks are some kind of compensation for something small?

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken Cacciatore

The Italian hunter’s chicken is easy and delicious. Adjust the seasonings to your taste.

8 chicken thighs
salt
freshly ground black pepper
all-purpose flour, for dredging
olive oil
1 large red bell pepper, chopped
1 large green bell pepper, chopped
1 large onion, chopped
2-3 stalks of celery, chopped
3-4 garlic cloves, diced
1 cup dry white wine
1, 28-oz. can diced tomatoes with juice
1 cup chicken stock
1 1/2 tsp. dried oregano leaves
1/4 cup coarsely chopped fresh basil leaves

Generously season the chicken with salt and pepper.
Dredge the chicken pieces in the flour to coat lightly.
In a large heavy sauté pan, heat the oil over a medium-high flame. Add the chicken pieces, skin side down, to the pan and sauté just until brown, about 5 minutes per side. Transfer the chicken to a plate and set aside.
Add the peppers, onion and celery to the same pan and sauté over medium heat until the onion is softened, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook another minute or two. Season with salt and pepper. Add the wine and simmer until reduced by half, about 3 minutes.
Add the tomatoes with their juice, broth, and oregano. Return the chicken pieces to the pan and turn them to coat in the sauce. Bring the sauce to a simmer. Cover and continue simmering over medium-low heat until the chicken is just cooked through, about 30 minutes.
Transfer the chicken to a platter. If necessary, boil the sauce until it thickens slightly, about 3 minutes. Spoon the sauce over the chicken, then sprinkle with the basil and serve.