Journal

So is it the Corona-19 virus that has led so many to the brink of insanity over the idiocy about how Jill Biden chooses to be addressed? Or, is this just the weaponization of resentment toward educated people that we will have to endure for the foreseeable future left over from the dregs of Trumpdom?

From what I understand, Dr. Jill Biden or, Dr. J, familiarly, earned her Doctorate in Education from the University of Delaware in January of 2007. Her dissertation focused on maximizing student retention in community colleges—which I’m guessing has something to do with keeping students awake while in class. Or not. One just never can be sure about these kinds of things.

Nonetheless, she earned a doctorate from an accredited university that acknowledged the research and scholarship she expressed in a dissertation which no doubt was at least as boring as watching people nap. I assume it added to the knowledge base in her field, a typical requisite of academic achievement. She earned the degree, and if she so chooses, can place Dr. in front of her name, or Ed.D. after it. She could even use both, but that might seem a bit like overkill, especially when you add First Lady to the mix.

Tucker Carlson, the arch conservative, misogynistic in-house idiot at Fox News (one of many), has claimed to have read Dr. J’s 137-page dissertation. He labeled it “illiterate,” a word the meaning of which he clearly doesn’t grasp. Rather than assuming the mantle of “Public Disgrace” for himself, which is wholly merited based on his unfounded claims of voter and vaccine fraud, he’s decided that a college research paper has become the face of shame, while QAnon becomes the face of scholarship.

Every time he opens his mouth, he descends into new depths of stupidity.

I can hardly wait until he discovers that Julius “Dr. J” Erving, the superstar hoopster with the Sixers, wasn’t a doctor of anything.

Ph.D. folks can be a pain in the ass. I know this because I had a sister, named Jo, who had not one, but two Ph.Ds. We called her Doctor Doctor Jo Jo. She believed for reasons I thankfully can’t recall that medical doctors weren’t as worthy of the doctor title as she and her ilk were.

I nonetheless presented her with a stethoscope when she earned her first one.

Jo wrote her second dissertation about some arcane aspect of primate communication. She sent it to me during my winter break at the University of Illinois one year. I had nothing to do for that three-week stretch but to play drums for two hours each weekday evening for businessmen wishing to get just drunk enough to face the familial duties that awaited them at their suburban ranch houses. Our little stage was round, and it rotated inside the bar while we, a trio of piano, bass, and drums, plus a girl singer, played songs like Misty and Send in the Clowns, developing a musical sub-genre we called Businessman’s Bounce. We were well paid, got free drinks and salty appetizers, and were much happier than our modest fan base, even though we had to wear tuxedos.

Anyway, I spent a couple of days reading my sister’s rather lengthy diatribe about elephants and monkeys doing whatever she had observed them doing in various parts of Africa where she lived in tents and paid her servants with Playboy T-shirts for doing their jobs of keeping the snakes, scorpions and spiders from the floors of said tents. Her dissertation never addressed the hideous conditions from which she conducted her research, and except for the frequent use of the words “elephant” and “monkey,” I had not a clue about whatever it was she had written.

Even the title, “Semiogenesis as a continuous, not a discrete, phenomenon,” or something like that, made no sense. It certainly wouldn’t attract readers looking for something to take along on an airplane trip, possibly because most of the title was in lower-case letters which may or may not be the proper way to title dissertations. Pithy titles such as ‘A’ as in Assassin, sell like hotcakes.

I did for her what I thought was a big favor and re-wrote her dissertation, reducing its page count from somewhere in the neighborhood of 80 to somewhere in the neighborhood of 12. I even added a few humorous interludes.

I sent it to her. I included a little note suggesting that my efforts, conducted with the use of several dictionaries and encyclopediæ, would result in drawing a wider audience to her research because now it could be easily understood by almost any idiot.

I got a note back telling me that her dissertation was not meant for the idiot public, but was specifically for the 90 or so academics who shared in her specialty of non-verbal communication among elephants and monkeys. Worldwide.

Her note was really angry, and so I called her, not to apologize for my misunderstanding the mysterious workings of white-tower academia, but to suggest a truce. During the course of that effort, I made the mistake of asking about how giraffes might communicate. She hung up on me and we didn’t speak to each other for three years. That led to my writing a parody of non-verbal communications among humans, most of which were expressed by hand gestures as seen through car windows in rush-hour traffic.

I sent it to her as a peace offering. It bought me another year of non-verbal communication.

Many years later, my beloved sister left academia to develop education programs and services for the Bloomington, Indiana, Animal Rescue Shelter, Adoption Center and Place That Smells More Like a Sewage Treatment Plant Than an Actual Sewage Treatment Plant, or something like that. Her work was with dogs, each of whom she found to be much easier to teach than the humans she had lectured to for so many years.

Today, I would appreciate her help with our dogs, but since she’s dead that might be asking for too much.

(Have your ever read such a smooth segue?)

We got Beau, a mixed breed rescue dog, just about two months ago. He doesn’t much like me, and he basically won’t leave Geri’s side. He is as blind as the proverbial bat, although he’s adapted well to both our yard and house—as long as we don’t move anything. Despite his diminutive size, he’s strong as an ox, which we assume is some kind of compensation for being blind.

My sister could probably have written a dissertation about handicapped dogs, though it’s doubtful anybody would ever have made any sense of it without my editorial help. Missed that boat.

We decided Beau would benefit from having a canine companion—a seeing-eye dog, so to speak—and Courtney found us Romeo, an adorably cute mixed-breed rescue mutt. He’s quite playful and cuddly. He’s also a bit of a prankster. Once he realized that his new best friend couldn’t see, he started hiding Beau’s toys and sneaking up from behind to scare him. When he runs away, he takes new paths that lead Beau headlong into chair legs, walls, and other obstacles.

It’s disturbingly amusing, and yet somehow remindful of semiogenesis.

Photo of Romeo, the Merry Prankster, by Courtney A. Liska

Fegato di pollo ragu (Chicken liver sauce)

I love this sauce because I like chicken livers and this is a rich sauce perfect for wintry nights.

1# chicken livers
4 Tbs. minced shallot
2 Tbs. canola oil
4 Tbs. butter
½ tsp. minced garlic
6 Tbs. diced pancetta
8 whole sage leaves
½ # ground beef
S&P
2 tsp. tomato paste
½ cup white vermouth

Clean chicken livers, rinse in cold water, cut each into 3-4 pieces; dry well.

Sauté shallots in the oil & butter over medium heat. Add garlic; cook briefly. Add pancetta & sage, cooking for a minute or so. Add ground beef, S&P, and cook until the beef loses its raw, red color.
Turn up heat to med-high and add the livers; cook until they’ve lost their raw, red color.
Mix the tomato paste and vermouth and add to the pan. Cook 5-8 minutes. Serve over pasta, risotto, or polenta.

Preaching to the Choir

While we all might agree that change is inevitable, there is no consensus about how we might welcome it, measure it, or adapt to it.

We age while watching the kids grow up and our neighborhoods evolve; we witness new technologies that can alter our universe, and recognize the scientific discoveries that lead us to give lie to those truths we once held. We’re challenged by accepting the norms and beliefs of others. We are favored to learn the cultures of peoples we barely know—if at all. Our politics are tested by the behavior and the acts of those we elected or opposed.

The changes of the last four years, low-lighted by the past ten months of dealing (or not) with a pandemic this country has led in the wrong direction, have created changes never before seen in what I consider a decent country populated mostly by people who are neighborly and helpful, caring and compassionate, considerate and empathetic to the plights of others.

While perfection can only be attempted—never achieved—it remains an honorable endeavor. There are those who would deny such efforts.

That ambition to strive for our mutual good seems to have faded. We seem to have fewer of those admirable qualities that once defined us. There are those among us who seem less friendly, less caring, less willing to sacrifice for the common good. Everyone suffers hardships in their own ways, but today, we are a country so deeply divided in spirit that recovery seems but a dim light at the end of a long, long tunnel. And we’re not sure if that light is an opening to a brighter tomorrow, or a light bearing down upon us without mercy.

Simple acts of kindness seem not just disregarded, but vehemently disobeyed. Relationships have been damaged to such extents that there seems little room for reconciliation. We’ve stopped going to stores that our friends own because they’ve decided to defy the orders of the state because they believe wearing masks is an infringement on their constitutional rights without regard to ours. Rather than holding the door open for someone, many are angrily slamming it shut and reserving passage for only themselves.

This is not the America in which I was raised. My father served proudly in the U.S. Army, fighting in what the literary critic and co-founder of the Partisan Review, Philip Rahv, believed was the “last good war.” My parents built a life for themselves and their children that respected law and allowed dissidence. Though progressive in their political and social views, they viewed conservatives as mere opponents with values not-so-different from their own. Their opponents were not their enemies.

They would be deeply disturbed by how America, a standard-bearer of a flawed democracy that was nonetheless vigilant in its efforts to improve the lives of its citizens, as well as those of others, has lost its standing on the world stage. Racism rages and the religious right busies itself deifying a man who postures with a bible.

While Joe Biden and Kamala Harris grace the cover of Time magazine with their promise of a better tomorrow, Mr. Trump appears on the cover of Der Spiegel as “Loser of the Year.”

This is quickly becoming an America that doesn’t even believe that the rule of law should be applied without prejudice or favor. We have watched peaceful protests be violently disrupted by counter-protesters waving confederate and Nazi flags, as well as by disguised saboteurs. We’ve watched acts of police brutality, including witnessing the very last breath George Floyd would ever take as a police officer knelt on the restrained man’s neck.

Few have witnessed an actual murder, let alone an ipso facto execution.

Including President Trump, many have found the right-wing extremists to include “some very good people.” I can’t recall that he ever weighed in on Mr. Floyd, but there are those who believe that the Black man deserved his fate because he had a criminal past—a past that might not have even been admissible in a court procedure. How many times is a citizen expected to pay for a mistake?

Most of my generation had parents who served in the Armed Services during the Second World War. If they didn’t serve, they contributed to the war effort through personal sacrifice here at home. I should think that any one of them could tell Mr. Trump that there are no “good people” in America’s neo-Nazi ranks. They are poorly educated domestic terrorists with gun fetishes, empowered by racism, and enabled by the current Administration.

And as if we needed further proof, just yesterday, Mr. Trump extended a White House invitation to Proud Boys leader Enrique Tarrio.

A second term would have bought this President immunity from criminal prosecution (perhaps), and Mr. Trump on Saturday tweeted that the Supreme Court’s tossing out the Texas AG’s suit was a “disgraceful miscarriage of justice” and wrote “WE HAVE JUST BEGUN TO FIGHT!!!” He and 126 Republican members of the House of Representatives are vowing to not slow a post-campaign effort to give the President a second term, despite having lost every significant court case, not to mention the certified tallies of each of the 50 states showing that he lost the nationwide popular vote. Each of the 126 should be removed from office as called for by the 14th amendment of the Constitution.

Their effort should be called what it is: sedition.

It is curious to note that the alleged vote tampering by Democrats only took place in the states in which he lost.

Perhaps even more curious is how Mr. Trump has maintained his base. Had Mr. Biden not won by more than seven million votes, the President would have garnered the most votes in American history.

Seventy million voters apparently approve of the job he has done in the last four years. That, in spite of the constant blizzard of lies and the golf outings he said he would be too busy to take, the dirty dealings of his immediate family, the broken promise to spur a healthcare program, the tripling of our national debt, his efforts to deregulate environmental protections, a crushed economy and record unemployment, his policies against our humanitarian history of offering refuge and aid to the world’s disaffected, his disavowal of science and medicine, and his dismantling of a detailed program to deal with a pandemic that will have left more than 300,000 Americans dead by the time he leaves office on January 20, 2021.

The level of denial is beyond belief. The complicity is apparent.

He has made a shambles of the Republican party, turning it into a cult whose members only believe what their fears dictate. They are people of profound prejudice who, to cite Lyndon B. Johnson, if you have the “lowest white man [thinking] he’s better than the best colored man, he won’t notice you’re picking his pocket.”

What the American “right” believes the American “left” will do to our Republic is beyond the pale. Mr. Biden is a working political insider, a centrist deal maker who will make his predecessor look like an amateur. He is long on empathy, short on intolerance. His “radical leftist position” would place him considerably to the right of Republican Nelson Rockefeller. He is as far as one could be from indulging a Marxist dialectic in any political discussion, let alone policy.

Tomorrow, the Electoral College will vote to confirm Mr. Biden becoming the 46th President of the United States. He brings to the office not so much an ideology as an agenda to mend the broken parts of our nation and its Constitution. He will also return a sense of decency to the Office.

As has been noted by President Barack Obama, ideology tends to take a back seat to the practical issues of governance—a flurry of paperwork that flows across the Resolute Desk, a desk that once hosted a promise to visitors to the Oval Office: “The Buck Stops Here.”

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Kitchen Improv

It was time to clean out the refrigerator, looking for the odds and ends that might be thrown together to make a passable meal. I had a box of farfalle, the bow-tie shaped pasta, of which I would use just half for the two of us. From the fridge I found three of four mushrooms—the white button ones—a single stalk of celery, a couple wilting green onions, and less than half a head of Boston or Bibb lettuce. I had maybe a quarter-cup of heavy cream. We had some frozen peas and there were two shallots in the hanging basket.

While cooking the pasta per package instructions (10-11 minutes, I believe), I sliced and then sauteed the mushrooms in a tablespoon or two of unsalted butter and an equal amount of olive oil. The celery and shallots, both thinly diced, were tossed in next. After a few minutes, I deglazed the pan with some white wine. After reducing the wine, I added one cup of chicken stock along with the frozen peas. Next, I added the torn lettuce leaves, stirring until well-coated. The cream came next and the by-now cooked pasta. Voila! Dinner was served, along with some fresh grated Parmesan cheese and chopped green onions on top. If I say so myself, it was more than passable; it was delicious.

We were young, mad for each other, and traipsing our way around Europe on a seriously limited budget. With our Eurail passes in hand, we traveled on overnight trains to save lodging expenses. We first set foot in France in Calais, the town that was the destination for the ferry from Dover, England.

It was late afternoon, and we had a train to catch in a matter of a few hours that would deliver us to Zurich, the last place, we would discover, for anybody on a budget should visit. The banks and American Express offices in Calais had closed, and we had no francs. We were hungry and found a small brasserie and discovered that they were more than happy to take U.S. currency at a rather inflated exchange rate.

We ordered a carafe of vin rouge and two orders of steak-frites. What arrived at our table were two plates piled high with fries and two thin clumps of gray meat covered in what I can only assume was some variation of a Béarnaise sauce. Only two things that I was aware of could turn a steak gray—it had either rotted or been boiled. After one bite I knew it wasn’t rotten, but Geri was not convinced.

I surrendered my fries for her steak. Forty years later, I would again surrender my fries because she didn’t want to eat the blanchaille, which, if you’ll remember from last week, roughly translated means “shiny guppies with bulging eyes.”

Our meager funds forced us to eat our somewhat larger meal at the noon hour. In the evenings at a hotel or on trains, we’d dine on salami, cheese, baguettes and Pouilly-Fuisse, a dry white wine that could be had at around the one-dollar mark. In Los Angeles at the time, that precious little wine cost in the neighborhood of $18.

In Paris, we stayed on the Left Bank in the decidedly bohemian Latin Quarter on the fifth-floor of a five-story walk-up. The room had four different wallpaper patterns, a brass bed, and a private bath and bidet. The toilet was down the hall. The view from the narrow window was of back alleys and rooftops.  The room cost about $7 a night—about half the cost of a White Russian cocktail in Zurich—and included a breakfast of coffee and croissants with jam.

It was romantic in the way only young people in love could find it.

We made our daily rounds to the museums and galleries, monuments and cathedrals, stopping for our typical lunch of croque madame and croque monsieur or omelets—always with fries and a carafe of red wine. Geri found it odd that I sat for two hours on a curb across the street from 27 rue de Fleurus, the home of the American writer Gertrude Stein and her lover Alice B. Toklas from 1903 to 1938.

My father had known them, although I didn’t know that at the time.

We kept on the lookout for a nice restaurant where we would celebrate our last night in Paris with a fine and proper meal. We found one in the 4th arrondissement with a stunning view of Notre-Dame de Paris. The tables were set with glossy white linens and the menu, posted near the entrance, was not cheap but fairly affordable. We figured we deserved such an extravagance. The following morning we would be returning to England, not knowing if we’d always have Paris.

We took our places at a table for two and the waiter, dressed in a crisp white shirt, black vest and pants, started rattling off a string of words in French, a language in which I’m capable of little more than asking for directions to the bathroom (où est la salle de bain), ordering either vin blanc or vin rouge, and asking for the check (L’addition, s’il vous plait). This, after several of months during my freshman year in high school falling to sleep listening to French language lessons on a record player.

But, I can identify many things I like to eat that have French names—canard, porc, poisson.

After listening to the waiter, Geri, who speaks more than a little French, ordered the special the guy had been prattling on about. It had something to do with chicken (poulet). I ordered the blanquette de veau, a veal stew, basically, but a time-honored classic in the repertoire of French cuisine.

As we enjoyed the wine and the view, the waiter delivered to my side of the table enough silverware for five or six people. Geri got a single spoon that seemed large enough to serve the mashed potatoes at a large Thanksgiving gathering. My meal came with an appetizer of a country pate and crusty bread, followed by a sorrel soup that I enjoyed while Geri looked around the dining room. I shared the bread with her.

The main course arrived. My veal was a thing of lustrous beauty, the thick cream sauce blanketing the tender pieces of veal, carrots, mushroom caps, and celery.

Geri’s dinner came in a rather large, shallow bowl. There was a pale broth, a dozen or so pieces of diced carrot and celery floating about, and a chicken leg that seemed more likely to have once belonged to a 30-pound turkey or perhaps an emu. She didn’t have a clue about how to employ a serving spoon to attack this food that seemed oddly menacing. I had several forks and a couple knives in my arsenal of silverware that I offered her. Her piercing the leg of whatever kind of bird was in her bowl only served to turn the pale broth a deep, bloody red.

To this day, Geri has yet to develop a taste for raw poultry.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Croque Monsieur /Croque Madame

5 Tbs. unsalted butter
3 Tbs. all-purpose flour
2 cups whole milk
salt
black pepper
freshly grated nutmeg
3 1/2 oz. coarsely grated Gruyère, Emmantal or Comté cheese (1 1/3 cups)
8 slices rustic white sandwich bread
Dijon mustard
1/2 pound thinly sliced cooked ham
4 large eggs

For the Béchamel sauce:
Melt 3 tablespoons butter in a heavy saucepan over medium low heat, then whisk in flour to make a roux, whisking, 3-4 minutes. Slowly whisk in milk and bring to a boil, whisking constantly. Reduce heat and simmer, whisking occasionally, 5 minutes. Whisk in salt, pepper, nutmeg, and 1/3 cup cheese until cheese is melted. Remove from heat and cover surface directly with a sheet of wax paper to prevent forming a film.

For the sandwiches:
Spread 1 1/2 Tbs. sauce over each of 4 slices of bread, then sprinkle evenly with remaining cheese. Spread mustard evenly on remaining 4 bread slices and top with ham, dividing it evenly, then invert onto cheese-topped bread to form sandwiches.
Lightly grease a baking sheet. Bake the sandwiches for 6-8 minutes, flipping once. Remove from oven and turn on the broiler.
Top each sandwich with 1/3 cup sauce, spreading evenly. Broil sandwiches 4 to 5 inches from heat until sauce is bubbling and golden in spots, 2 to 3 minutes. Keep sandwiches warm.
To make sandwiches Croque Madame, add a fried or poached egg atop the sandwich.

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

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

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

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

We hugged, albeit briefly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Sole meunière

Adapted from The Way to Cook by Julia Child.

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

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

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

Pâté maison

Adapted from The Bakery Restaurant Cookbook by Louis Szathmáry.

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

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

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

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

Parisian spice

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

Grind and blend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving.

Photo montage by Courtney A. Liska

Mac ‘n Cheese

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photo montage by Courtney A. Liska

Bread Muffins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Guard against the impostures of pretended patriotism.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Salmone alla nuotare

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

For 2 servings

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

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

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

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

Pour over salmon and mussels in broad soup bowls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Ribollita

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And where will this insurrection take place?

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

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

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

And then there’s the matter of leadership.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless there are gophers.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Cream Chipped Beef on Toast (SOS)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a very good day.

Photo by Courtney A. Liska

Chicken Pot Pie (Deconstructed)

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

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

Serve poured over warm biscuits.

Biscuits

Heat oven to 425 degrees.

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

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