Journal

This is a re-posting of an essay I wrote three years ago. It is a quiet appreciation of our natural world, a celebration of faith, a respect for worship, the sadness of loss, the hope for the future. My little dog, Buddy, has left us, but his memory—like those of so many—is for a blessing that sustains me. Today begins Rosh Hashanah and ten days of reflection. L’Shanah tovah. Stay well. Stay safe. Shalom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A morning walk seems in order.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing hurts more than being cut by a dull blade.

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

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

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

But there’s more!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

French Onion Soup

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

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

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

Meanwhile, warm broth in a saucepan over low heat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chocolate-Almond Torte

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Fettuccine ala Toscana

1 lb. fettuccine
2 oz. prosciutto, thinly sliced and diced
15 oz. ricotta, whole milk, drained
¼ cup grated parmesan cheese
1 cup heavy cream
3 Tbs. olive oil
¼ cup onion, finely chopped
fresh nutmeg
1 lb. fresh asparagus – trimmed, thinly sliced diagonally
fresh basil, torn
salt and black pepper

Cook pasta according to package instructions and drain. Do not rinse. Reserve a cup of cooking liquid.
In a large bowl, whisk together the ricotta, cream, 2 tbsp. parmesan, salt, pepper, and a few scrapings of fresh nutmeg. Set aside.
In a large skillet, over medium heat, heat oil. Add the asparagus, onions, and prosciutto.
Cook while stirring often for about 5 minutes or until the asparagus is tender-crisp.
Add the hot pasta and the parmesan cheese to the pot. Toss well and top with ricotta sauce and sprinkle with torn basil.

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

Now if we can just find teachers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Civics needs a revival.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Pasta and Beans (Pasta e Fagioli)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ham in Cider (Jambon braisé au cidre)

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

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

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

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

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

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

See where I’m goin’ here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here they are:

Funny, huh?

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

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

Speaking of odds…

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

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

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

“It’s because nobody knows.”

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

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

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

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

Of anything.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Bellini Cocktail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is what the future of education looks like.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Bolognese

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

“Sufferin’ succotash!”

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

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

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