Journal

It isn’t exactly clear how I ended up a follower of “Growing Up in Chicago” on Facebook. It is true that I grew up in the Windy City and some of the postings do challenge my memory. And I’ve learned a thing or two (so far) about my hometown and its denizens whose diaspora has provided more than a few of us calling countless places home.

And what do lapsed Chicagoans talk about? Food.

Nothing, or so it seems, piques the interest of my fellow travelers than a serious discussion about where to find the best Italian beef sandwich and whether it is permitted to have cheese atop that seriously wet sandwich that is best eaten standing at a counter to allow the au jus to drip to the floor between your feet.

Every restaurant worth its salt serves the Chicago-style Italian beef—a culinary tradition begun by Italian immigrants with their push-cart kitchens on Maxwell Street on the city’s South Side. It was a bustling hub of discounted goods and street vendors. That same neighborhood, gone now, also became a battle ground for hot dogs (kosher beef) and Polish sausages (you really don’t want to know). Though there’s nothing in writing or in the city’s charter, but you’ll not find ketchup—a condiment acceptable in most places—except for french fries. But what goes best with well-salted fries is a mornay sauce or garlic aioli. Even then, many of us like plain mayonnaise for dipping.

It’s been fifty years since I called Chicago home. The intervening years have found me indulging in the specialties of such places as Cleveland (pierogi), New York (deli), Champaign, Illinois (beer by the pitcher), and Los Angeles (whatever is trendy and over-priced). Montana, of course, is known for its beef.

When I go to Seattle, I like food that used to swim. Shrimp with linguine is what I had one day last week when I was supposed to be eating hot chicken at Hattie B’s and ribs at Swetts Barbecue during a planned three-day visit to Nashville. Sadly, it snowed and sent Tennessee into a tizzy. My ticket was cancelled, and I flew back to Montana where the snow presents few problems.

I’m eager to revive my visit to Nashville. I am curious to know how their hot chicken differs from ours. I’m guessing that Nashville’s hot chicken features heat-sensitive spices.

Wherever we might find ourselves in our travels, it is wise to get information from locals about where to yield a fork and knife. Geri used to ask the “night auditor” at whatever motel we may have stopped in our journey for recommendations.

“Geri,” I’d venture, “they make minimum wage and don’t have the money to eat at the best restaurants.”

Indeed, recommendations for Sizzler or IHop frequently topped the list. Of course those might, in fact, be the best restaurants in town, in which case Burger King takes the day.

To ask a Chicagoan where to eat would probably draw a response of a finger-pointing “over there.” As is true in most big cities, restaurants seem to exist on every corner. Many of those in Chicago lay claim to being somehow definitive of both the culture and the cuisine.

There is no better example of such nonsense than Chicago-style pizza. I used to have pizza frequently. It was after my departure from the city that deep-dish pizza came into being. Through clever, insistent marketing, a variation of Sicilian-style pizza became Chicago- style pizza.

The real Chicago-style pizza features a variety of toppings on a thin crust. And it’s cut into squares, not slices.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chicago-style Italian Beef

“I’m not too crazy about Italian Beef sandwiches (Especially dipped).” –Nate C. Mills

1 boneless beef roast, about 3 pounds with most of the fat trimmed off (top sirloin, top round or bottom round)

The seasonings
1 tablespoon ground black pepper
2 teaspoons garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon dried basil
1/2 teaspoon crushed red pepper

The juice
6 cups of hot water
beef base

The sandwich
10 soft, fluffy, high gluten rolls, sliced lengthwise but hinged on one side or Italian bread loaves cut widthwise into 10 portions
3 medium sized green bell peppers, sauteed until soft
1 tablespoon olive oil, approximately
1 cup hot giardiniera

Brown the roast and add it to the slow cooker with the seasonings and juice.
Cook on high for 5-6 hours or on low for 9-10 hours until the beef is fork tender.

Tomorrow is the official kick-off of the 2024 election season during which American voters are entrusted to learn about the issues facing the electorate. Then they analyze the political process before casting a ballot that selects a favorite based solely on personality. How our fragile democracy survives this process dumbfounds many of us.

It all begins in Iowa.

Iowa is a pleasant enough state whose 3.2 million, overwhelmingly white residents plant windfarms and corn atop its mostly flat terrain. The women wear house frocks and spend much of every week baking rhubarb pies and casseroles that involve a host of Campbell’s soups. It’s where the funeral potatoes hotdish was created to take to funerals. The dish became so favored by the Iowans that the elderly were frequently off-ed just so the survivors could devour that baked dish of hash browns, cheese and corn flakes.

The menfolk all wear bib overalls and carry pitchforks. They spend a good amount of time kicking the dirt, even when it’s covered in two feet of snow. They each drink a pot of boiled Folger’s coffee every morning before going to the local café for rhubarb pie and coffee. They speak deliberately about the welfare class without ever mentioning farm subsidies. Which, in itself, is a nifty trick.

Every four years the good people of Iowa gather in small groups in church basements to determine who might become the next president. Nobody really understands this process, but that doesn’t stop them from gathering to eat rhubarb pie and drink coffee. The Iowa Caucus (or, for the sake of argument, Caucuses) marks the end of a campaign that began last summer at the Iowa State Fair where candidates ate corn dogs, corn-on-the-cob, loose-meat sandwiches, and cotton candy.

Spies from both parties try to get photographs of candidates actually eating the food and then throwing up behind a carnival game tent. There’s nothing as rewarding as capturing that moment when a presidential candidate bends over and hurls lunch.

I’m writing this morning’s essay with any of my Florida readers in mind. I don’t want to use any words whose definition isn’t known. Why? Well, Ron DeSantis, the rather reactionary governor of Florida who wants to carry the Republican torch to the White House, signed into law yet another effort to undermine intelligent thought by banning dictionaries.

This is particularly disturbing and weird. The fact is that just because to look up a word in the dictionary you have to know the word. I am having trouble imaging a sixth grader thumbing through Webster’s in hopes of stumbling upon something of a prurient nature.

Somebody should remind Governor Ron that most school children have electronic devices that will deliver no end of prurient stuff. That nobody has mentioned this is because nobody wants to engage the highly unlikeable guv in conversation, let alone in debate.

Speaking of debate…

DeSantis, running a distant third in Iowa straw polls, and the distant-second Nikki Haley, took time from their campaigns last Monday to participate in a debate. Since neither of them has much of any substance to say, they chose to yell at and interrupt each other, much like the commentators on ESPN. The last time there was a serious political debate was in 1960. At that debate, Jack Kennedy showed himself to be both handsome and well-spoken. Dick Nixon, neither handsome nor well-spoken, used an entire set of Regal Egyptian bath towels to mop up the sweat pouring from his brow.

And who can forget Lloyd Bentsen addressing Dan Quale in a 1988 vice presidential debate: “Senator, I served with Jack Kennedy. I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you’re no Jack Kennedy.”

That is remindful of that debate moment when Chris Christie chided Vivek Ramaswamy: “You’re no Mike Pence.”

The next primary is in New Hampshire on January 23. Nikki Haley is gaining ground on Trump, which is like saying that Vinny Testaverde is gaining on Tom Brady. So no matter what happens in the Granite State, we have almost six weeks to wait for Super Tuesday. At close of day on March 5 we’ll know for sure who will be running against President Joe Biden.

With any luck, it will be a candidate with 91 felony counts, countless civil suits, the intelligence of a sloth and the manners of a boar. If Trump’s base recognizes these traits, they might just vote against him.

And then we’ll never have to hear his name again.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Iowa Loose Meat Sandwich

Like a Sloppy Joe (Untidy Joseph) without the tomato sauce, the Loose-Meat or Tavern sandwich is a fairground specialty. Enjoy with no regrets. Serves eight.

2 pounds ground beef
2 Tbs. butter
½ yellow onion (diced)
2 cups beef broth
2 Tbs. Worcestershire
2 Tbs. apple cider vinegar
1 Tbs. brown sugar
1 tsp. kosher salt
1 tsp ground black pepper

Dill pickles, yellow mustard
8 hamburger buns

Melt butter in sauté pan over medium heat and add ground beef.
Cook the beef until it browns and is no longer pink, breaking it up into small crumbles as it cooks.
Drain fat from the pan and add onions, beef broth, Worcestershire, vinegar, brown sugar, salt, and pepper. Bring to a simmer and cook until all liquid has evaporated.
Use a slotted spoon to serve onto hamburger buns with dill pickles and mustard.

It’s amusing to note that a single word that is known to all suddenly becomes a word of affirmation, a piece of modern slang.

“Your total is $48.38,” the cashier tells me.

I hand her $50.

“Perfect,” she says.

Well not really, I think. She hands me the $1.62 that I’m owed. “Perfect,” she says.

I thank her.

“Perfect,” she says.

As I walk to my car, I begin feeling nostalgic about those days when everything was “awesome.”

Once, at gas station/convenience store, I wrote a check for whatever it was I had purchased. Gas, probably, and a one-use plastic bottle of water, maybe.

“Do you have any identification?” the cashier asked.

“Sure,” I respond, handing her my driver’s license.

“Awesome,” she replies.

What, I wonder, is awesome about a man in his mid-sixties having his driver’s license on his person. I pose the question to her. “I dunno,” she replied, sheepishly.

I rattled off a couple of things that I thought might merit a description of awesome. The first moon landing. A Calder sculpture. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

“Awesome,” she agreed.

I still occasionally hear somebody say “awesome,” but “perfect” has clearly taken hold in modern times. I have no answer why this coinage of a single word to describe an event or situation has come to be. And its origin as a phenomenon is vague at best. It perhaps harkens back to when Black jazz musicians were developing language variations in the ‘40s and ‘50s, during that time known as the Be-bop Era. Lester Young, the original hipster, began using parts of the English language as nicknames and references to the hipster lifestyle. Young is said to have popularized use of the term “cool” to mean something fashionable. Another slang term he is rumored to have popularized was the term “bread” for money. He would ask, “How does the bread smell?” when asking how much a gig was going to pay.

“Cool” has withstood the test of time. Stuck in a linguistic rut, I use it regularly, especially during telephone conversations with the jazz cats I speak with. “Cats,” yet another single-word expression of one’s acceptance in the underground.

I had landed a gig with a major magazine to put together three issues addressing the world of kitchen design. Over an early morning al fresco breakfast somewhere in the Wilshire district of Los Angeles, my boss on the project read through my expanded editorial content. “Sweet,” he said. He pronounced it as two syllables.

“Soo-weet” he chimed. Every particular of my editorial plan was greeted with “soo-weet.” It grew tiresome.

It was nearly two decades later that I heard my son describing a ship as “sweet.” It was even sweeter when he took command of the vessel.

On certain occasions I’ve heard a word whose usage should be backed by some knowledge of its meaning. There have been several firings of university professors, columnists, and government officials for their written use of the word niggardly. Due to the fact that it sounds similar to a highly offensive and inflammatory racial slur euphemistically referred to as the N-word, despite the words’ visual and auditory resemblance to it. Because of that resemblance, both niggard and niggardly are often taken to be offensive.

Niggardly means miserly or cheap. It’s also a word that can easily be substituted, which is the path of least resistance.

I suppose all of this might indicate an existential threat to the English language. But I doubt it. Several times a day I hear news anchors and reporters misusing the word. And several times a day I’m reminded of a professor I once had for a class in existentialism. Borrowing from a book of essays by John Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness sets out to develop an ontological account of what it is to be human. The course delved into the existential dilemma: because we are free, we are also inherently responsible.

Kris Kristofferson had it right all along.

My best guess is that some grad student or producer spoke the word out loud. Others heard it and the race to misuse it at every juncture was on.

In an imperfect world, it’s nice to note that those defining things as perfect is a sign of optimism. It’s awesome that others acknowledge that. It would be sweet if we all could be so cool with those niggardly fools who have failed to grasp the existential threat that we can see on distant horizons.

I’d say that the whole subject and situation is “bodacious.” Let’s see if that catches on.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chocolate Mousse

1 pkg. gelatin in ¼ cup cold water
3 oz. dark chocolate
1 cup whole milk
½ cup powdered sugar
Pinch of salt
1 Tbs. triple sec
2 cups heavy cream

Melt chocolate in a double boiler and add milk, beating until smooth. Remove from heat, add gelatin. Add sugar & salt, stir until blended. Cool slightly and add triple sec. Cool until beginning to set. Whip the cream until fairly stiff. Blend with chocolate mix. Pour into ramekins and chill.

It’s that time of year when we take stock of things, ruminate over our failures and celebrate our successes. It’s that time of year when we look back on entire year and wonder “What the hell was that?”

Yes, it’s true, at least it is according to my favorite pundits, naysayers, barber and local hot dog vendor, that 2023 was one tough year—although I would argue that it was more weird than tough. That’s because pleasure can be found in weirdness. There’s nothing to find in toughness other than pain.

Sometimes the two do overlap. For instance, it looks like tomorrow—the first day of 2024 if you’re keeping track of such things—the weather in southwest Montana might push up into the fifties. That’s warm for almost any time of year up here in the greater Yellowstone tourist-zone and it feels damn nice. The downside is that it’s the fault of the Republicans who believe that the more we drill, drill, drill, the warmer it will get. Somewhere in that mix is the overlap. If it gets warmer, more people will want to live here and Ron DeSantis might parlay his neo-Nazism into a run for governor. If it gets a lot warmer, the Pacific Ocean will soon be lapping at the base of the Glacier National Park.

DeSantis would fit in because he is typically shown wearing black cowboy boots. The 5’11” candidate for president reportedly wears lifts to appear closer in height to his 6’3” opponent. Why this matters is interesting because the two aren’t ever seen sharing a stage in this campaign.  

Speaking of failures, “The Big Flop” is a podcast that tells the stories of how bad ideas become a reality—no matter for how long. It’s kind of a cross between “The Shark Tank” and the 1962 New York Mets (40-120).

The Economist, a London-based weekly publication, has decided that Susanne Sundfory deserves wider recognition via its end-of-the-year wrap up. Ms. Sundfory is a Norwegian singer-songwriter whose current release is “Blomi,” a decidedly suggestive title that might mean something else in the Norse language.

And then there’s a surge of interest in Irish folk music.

“A particular idea of Ireland’s traditional music is fixed in the global imagination,” says The Economist. “You may have seen it play out in The Banshees of Inisherin, an Oscar-nominated film: as locals quaff Guinness, beaming men and women play lightning-fast reels on fiddles and bodhráns in the firelit snug of a cozy pub.”

Missed the movie, but I remember one night at a pub in Loughrea, Ireland. Everybody sang, there were fiddles and guitars, and it was well after hours. The police would knock on the door every now and again, asking who was “in it.” A raucous reply of “nobody” sufficed every time for the local garda.

Looking back on 2023, we still have a war in Ukraine that we could have ended shortly after Russia invaded the country nearly two years ago. I’m not sure there was anything we, as a nation, could have done to remedy the war Hamas waged against Israel some three months ago. It is a tragic situation and why we side with Benjamin Netanyahu is anybody’s guess. He’s a thug who will never work to establish a two-state solution with Palestine.

But what is really important is that Taylor Swift has tipped her support staff nearly $50 million. Even with a staff of more than 7,000 or so, the tip is wildly generous. Everybody seems to love her and her music. The fact that she is dating Travis Kelce, an NFL superstar, is helping to make most of America fans of the Kansas City Chiefs.

My liking the Chiefs is because quarterback Patrick Mahomes is a great player. I like his playing and his sideline behavior. He seems a gentleman.

Here’s an idea: Get Ms. Swift and Mahomes into serious discussions to negotiate an end to the war in the Middle East. We could do worse.

The end of the year begs for each of us to compose a Top Ten list in various areas. I can do that.

I haven’t seen a movie in an actual theater in more than ten years. Maybe. But I try to keep up on what’s coming out of Hollywood. When I read Killers of the Flower Moon, I saw great potential for a movie. At almost four hours, I chose not to go. The same with Oppenheimer. I knew the outcome and didn’t need four hours to be reminded of it. None of my music friends liked Maestro. I’ll take their word for it and save the price of admission.

The Boys in the Boat showed some film promise, but the reviews have been less than kind. I did like the book, however.

I don’t have a current list of recordings. But my all-time top ten list features Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” (1959) and John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps” (1960) in the top two spots. Some things will never change.

I have two top book recommendations for 2023: Killers of the Flower Moon and The Boys in the Boat.

As the Chairman once pointed out: It was a very good year.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Cioppino

This easy-to-make dish got its start in San Francisco, made by the immigrant Italian fishermen’s wives from the day’s catch. But its beginnings can be traced to Italy, where every fishing village has its own version. Unlike its French cousin, bouillabaisse, there are no strict rules for its creation.

• 4-5 lbs. mixed fresh fish fillets and shellfish, such as sole, cod, monkfish, sea bass, prawns, clams, mussels, squid or scallops
• 8 Tbs. olive oil, plus extra for drizzling
• 1 large onion, finely sliced
• 2-3 garlic cloves, finely chopped, plus an extra clove for the toast
• 2 14-oz cans of diced tomatoes
• 4 oz. red wine
• 2 tsp. chopped fresh chili
• 3 Tbs. finely chopped flat leaf parsley
• 1/2 tsp. fennel seeds
• salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 6-8 slices good bread, slightly stale or toasted

Clean and prepare your chosen fish and shellfish. Cut fish fillets into large chunks.

Put the oil, onion and garlic into a large pot and fry briefly. Add the tomatoes, wine, chili, parsley and fennel seeds and season with salt and pepper. Cook for 15 minutes. Start adding the large pieces of fish to the sauce first. Then add the more tender fish such as sole and the shellfish, ending with the mussels and clams. Cook for five or so minutes, or until the fish is cooked and the mussels and clams have opened.

Rub the bread with garlic, drizzle with olive oil, and put each slice in the bottom of a deep soup bowl. Ladle the soup and serve.

For the longest time, he was Mr. Fryer.

We had yet to find suitable housing but were nonetheless determined to make our move to Livingston in the fall of 1993. I had made a trip here in a rental truck filled with material goods we wanted to keep but knew we could do without if a residence couldn’t be found by our October deadline.

I had discovered the Owl during that trip. Libby, the bartender that evening, made me promise that I wouldn’t write anything that would give cause to somebody moving here. He was a migrant from California, that most despised state that was dumping its excess of rich folks here to buy twenty or more acres to build those 6,000 square feet of a dream log cabin.

We had no such ambitions. A house in town was what we wanted.

Cindy tended the horseshoe bar at the Guest House most nights. It was a place that attracted a crowd of a banker or two, some attorneys and one judge to watch “Jeopardy” on the television above the rows of liquor on the back bar. During the day she ran the various businesses the painter Russell Chatham had started. My visit the next morning was to the offices of those businesses. She sat at the top of the stairs. To her left and right were cubicles with transom windows and finely chiseled woodwork. It was mindful of any number of Raymond Chandler novels turned into noir films.

I asked her if she knew if any of the spaces might be available to rent. She didn’t know, but I should ask John Fryer, who owned the building and ran the bookstore on its main floor. Laden with Clark City t-shirts and an armful of promotional materials, I visited the store. Mr. Fryer was not there. One of the ladies who worked there wrote out his telephone number, still listed as Frank Fryer in the local phone book.

A week or so had gone by when I finally reached Mr. Fryer. He was exacting in his words and voice, telling me that Chatham rented the entire floor. He advised me to ask the painter if he had any spaces to sublet. He also gave me the name of an optometrist who might have office spaces to rent. (He didn’t.)

A house that met most of our desires came up for sale. Our realtor over-nighted some photos of the hundred-year-old, two-story frame house on South Third Street. It looked just fine, and we bought it on the spot.

I got to know Mr. Fryer in the early weeks of our residency. It never occurred to me to call him John.

Then there was Tim’s 50th birthday. We knew only a handful of his guests. Geri and I settled onto the floor of the sun room spanning the front of the Craftsman style house. A man Outside magazine had named the smartest man in America was there on the floor with his wife at the time. We were joined by Mr. Fryer, just in time for David, the smartest man, to tell us that if we loved the land, we’d live in town.

We had passed that litmus test, having bought the 100-year-old house just a block down the street from Mr. Fryer.

His house, we would learn, had been the house he was born in. The main floor, minus the kitchen, had been converted into an open space so his parents, Frank and Suzanne, could host dance parties.

Our corner of the party was being entertained by John Fryer’s stories. Tales of the trains that would stop near the family’s ranch at Springdale to deliver fresh seafood from both coasts were told, his eyes flashing a twinkling blue as he told them. He then got down to the business of telling us how his grandfather, for whom he was named, changed the world of retail business by making a square store. The long and narrow store was inefficient: there was too much walking and shoplifting was hard to monitor.

That store is still operating, though nobody knows for how long. My daughter used to collect coins, which she’d bring to the store for her layaway purchases of Breyer horses. John would give her a hand-written receipt in a beautiful script that beckoned to a long-ago time. I don’t know if he knew that cursive writing was no longer being taught in public schools. It would have displeased him.

Frank Fryer kept a wad of cash in the safe on his store’s balcony. It was for the writers and artists who had come to populate this part of Montana and might have run into hard times. No interest. No notes. Just some cash to help out. Pay it back when you can. John kept that noble tradition alive.

He was a horseman, a hunter and an advocate for the indigenous Americans we would learn. He was a gentleman in a flannel vest, a hitch in his walk from a gunshot wound. He informed us that late-November afternoon that his parents thought of themselves as jazz babies. Dancing to the pop music of the time, interpreted by local musicians was high on their list of must-dos.

It was time to leave. In those couple of hours on the sun room floor, John had fallen in love with my wife. I wasn’t surprised.

He leaned over to kiss her farewell on her cheek.

“Geri, I will always love you,” John said. “You bring me back to being a little boy. Before my mom left to go dancing, she would come to tuck me in. When she kissed me good night, she smelled of cigarettes, whiskey and expensive perfume, just like you.”

For the longest time, he was John.

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Coquilles St. Jacques a l’Orange

This is a favorite dish of mine, ideally suited as an appetizer before a grilled steak or lamb chop.

12 large fresh scallops
3 large cloves garlic (minced)
1 tsp. olive oil
1 tsp. butter
1/4 cup dry vermouth (or dry white wine)
juice of 1 large orange
1 tsp. honey

Heat oil and butter in a skillet over medium heat. add garlic. When bubbling slightly, add scallops, turning gently until done (about 6 min.) remove scallops from skillet and keep them warm while finishing the sauce. This should be done very quickly over a high heat. Add the vermouth to the juice from the scallops and reduce by half, stirring constantly. Add the juice from the orange and reduce by half or until thickened. Stir in the honey and turn off the heat. Serve scallops over basmati rice, spooning a generous portion of orange sauce over each. Tender asparagus spears, a crisp dry white burgundy, and a Bill Evans solo piano recording will set this dish off nicely.

The following essay is based on reality. You may be offended.

At some point, I will express my dismay at anybody who might find reality to be offensive. In the meantime, at the risk of offending anybody and in hope of offending everybody with thoughts of silliness, I want to think aloud—or is it aprint?—about the naming of sports franchises (teams). Certain names are clearly offensive to certain people. And some of these teams play in certain places (jurisdictions) that make no sense. They aren’t offensive, just annoyingly inaccurate.

The Dallas Cowboys plays half of each season somewhere close to Dallas, which seems only apt. What seems inapt is that the team’s division is the NFC East. The only way this may have happened is if some idiot was put in charge of interpreting a Rand McNally atlas or Google Earth. The entire roster of the NFC North, for instance, is located in towns east of Dallas. The Vikings, Lions, Packers, and Bears are located far north of Dallas, as well, which only goes further to confuse things.

I’ve been to Dallas numerable times. And granted that my visits there have been limited to limo rides from the airport to the convention center to the Hyatt Regency. I don’t recall ever noticing any cowboys. Dallas is an oil town and I believe a better name for its franchise would be the Prairie Grasshoppers.

The marketing possibilities are mind-numbing. If only UC Santa Cruz could capitalize on the name of its mascot—the Banana Slug—it could use the money for scholarships in cannabis culture and surfing.

While there have never been any Viking sightings in the twin cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul, nine out of ten Minnesotans can trace their lineage to some distant fjord in Norway. Nine out of ten Minnesotans also own a boat and an ice fishing hut. Three out of ten ice huts have refrigerators which, on the surface, seem redundant.

The Vikings were no doubt the inspiration for Tampa naming its team the Buccaneers, the Spanish equivalent of the Norse Vikings. The Las Vegas Raiders might belong in this group, although the team’s history of bouncing from one city to another might suggest the team name be the Nomads.

Bears, clearly on top of the food chain, have a reputation of being ferocious and unafraid. That makes them as footballers to best represent the violence that gridiron combat requires. With the obvious exception of the 1985 Super Bowl, the Bears have shown little of the mettle needed to earn their way past a losing record. The fact that they, like almost every other NFL team, get into the playoffs is one of the great mysteries of the modern world.

It should be noted that the Bears have a baseball counterpart called the Cubs. Cubs are the offspring of Bears and are regarded as cute, playful and cuddly. That says a lot about the Chicago Cubs.

Vicious mammals seem popular among team owners. The Bengals, Jaguars, Panthers and Lions have never been sighted in their namesake cities, unless in a zoo. The jury is out on the Rams although, in keeping with the town’s industry, a better name might be the Los Angeles Vultures.

Birds are popular, too, from the Ravens and Eagles to the Falcons, Cardinals and Seahawks, the latter of which are actually Ospreys. I like Seattle, the city. Full disclosure should require the team to change its name to the Pigeons.

There is only one team, Miami, named after a fish. And yes, I know that Dolphins are not fish but do you really want to spend the morning discussing the mammalian family Delphinidae? Me neither.

There are lots of conflicting opinions about the Buffalo Bills. What, for instance, is a Bill? It’s pretty clear that the New York Jets are the only NFL team named after the white gang from West Side Story.

If the name of the Indianapolis team seems ludicrous, remember that the Colts were first in Baltimore. I can appreciate Denver’s team as Broncos. The joke about OJ’s escape from justice being with a slow white Bronco (John Elway) still makes me laugh.

After decades of wrangling with a name change for the Washington Redskins, the $6 billion team dropped the offensive name in favor of the less offensive Washington Football Team. Thought to be too difficult a name to fit into a team anthem, the team’s PR department came up with the Commanders. By the time the owner got around to firing the PR team, it was too little, too late because the players jerseys had already been delivered.

I believe a more descriptive name for a team from the nation’s capital would be the Boars or the Do-Nothings.

If we’re interested in not being offensive to indigenous Americans—and we should be—baseball did right by Cleveland’s renaming the Indians to the Guardians. It’s a ridiculous name, but no more so than the Cleveland Browns. What exactly is a Brown? Or, for that matter, a Charger?

In these trying-to-be-PC days, why does Kansas City get to keep both its name, the Chiefs, and its arrowhead logo?

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Pork Chops with Orange and Thyme

This is an easy and delicious dinner that all will ask for more. Serve with rice or mashed potatoes.

4 bone-in pork loin chops (1/2 inch thick)
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 Tbs. unsalted butter
1 large shallot, finely chopped (about ¼ cup)
¼ cup fresh orange juice
2 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
½ cup heavy cream
1 Tbs. fresh thyme leaves or ½ tsp. dried thyme, crushed
1 tsp. grated orange zest

Season both sides of the pork chops with salt and pepper. In a large skillet, melt the butter over medium-high heat. Add the pork chops, reduce the heat to medium, and cook, turning once, until slightly pink inside (145°F), 6 to 8 minutes. Transfer the pork chops to a platter and cover with foil to keep warm.
Add the shallot to the pan and sauté briefly, until translucent. Add the orange and lemon juices, stirring with a wire whisk to loosen any browned bits from the bottom of the pan. Bring to a boil and cook until the liquid is nearly gone—this should take just a minute or two, depending on the heat and your pan size. Whisk in the cream. Boil until the sauce reaches the desired consistency. Season the sauce with salt and pepper. Whisk in the thyme and orange zest.
Spoon the sauce over the pork chops and serve.

In 2021 Gina Peddy, head of curriculum and instruction for the Carroll Independent School District in Southlake, Texas, told teachers they must teach “opposing” perspectives on the Holocaust if they have students read books on the subject.

Ms. Peddy, perhaps a bigot or just plain ignorant (the two have a lot in common), had little to say when a teacher asked, “How do you oppose the Holocaust?” There is no answer. There are not two sides to the story. There are neither pro nor con, neither heads nor tails. There is enough creditable documentation to suggest that Holocaust denial belongs on the same pages where moon-walk skeptics rant and in the annals of the Flat Earth Society.

Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower, commander of Allied forces in Europe during World War II, foresaw the possibility of Holocaust denial. He took actions to ensure that the horrifying truth of the Holocaust would be documented and taught to future generations.

“The visual evidence and the verbal testimony of starvation, cruelty and bestiality were so overpowering,” Eisenhower said. “I made the visit [to Ohrdruf concentration camp in Germany] deliberately, in order to be in a position to give firsthand evidence of these things if ever, in the future, there develops a tendency to charge these allegations to propaganda.”

Much of the Holocaust story has fallen on deaf ears, ears found in multiple places—places that are frequently where education is supposed to be happening, where learning our history makes us squirm and wince in disgust.

One could argue that such a Holocaust statement might be expected from ultra-red Texas, the last state to host slavery. But this past week offered proof that on Capitol Hill and in the halls of the Ivy League some sort of clarification is needed to determine what constitutes racism. The presidents of Harvard, M.I.T. and the University of Pennsylvania suggested that “context” is needed to determine if a calling for genocide against Jews could be counted as harassment. (Late yesterday, UPenn president Elizabeth Magill, and the chairman of the board of trustees, Scott L. Bok, resigned.)

In other words, being antisemitic can be allowed if supported by plausible excuse or reason. It’s almost akin to saying that bigotry against Blacks is allowed on Tuesdays and as dangerously ludicrous to say that Trump will be a dictator only on day one.

I don’t buy it and I don’t believe there are any excuses or reasons. There is simply no context in which racism can be given berth. Antisemitism and each of its semantic cousins is inexcusable, a word which has no other meaning. The deadly violence visited upon Jews, as well as homosexuals, Sinti, Roma, mentally ill people, and others murdered by the Nazis in pre-war Europe was so horrific in nature that the word genocide was coined in 1944 to offer a single description.

The International Holocaust Remembrance Alliance (I.H.R.A.), an intergovernmental organization, adopted the following definition: “Antisemitism is a certain perception of Jews, which may be expressed as hatred toward Jews. Rhetorical and physical manifestations of antisemitism are directed toward Jewish or non-Jewish individuals and/or their property, toward Jewish community institutions and religious facilities.”

Citing three pages of incidents characterized by antisemitism, the House of Representatives passed a resolution (HB 894) saying, “since the massacre of innocent Israelis by Hamas, an Iran-backed terrorist organization, on October 7,2023, antisemitic incidents of harassment, vandalism, and assault in the United States have spiked 388 percent over the same period last year, according to reports from the Anti-Defamation League’s (ADL) Center on Extremism.”

The resolution provides that it was doing, according to Maureen Dowd in the New York Times, “what most cultures cannot: looking at its own crimes, its own worst self.”

While that is all well and good, there is no shortage of problems in the Middle East, where Palestinians seek real estate and independence. “From the River to the Sea, We Demand Equality” read the placards at demonstrations around the world.

Benjamin “Bibi” Netanyahu has called the Hamas murders on October 7, the “Holocaust by bullets.” This comparison, picked up and recirculated by world leaders, including President Biden, serves to bolster Israel’s case for inflicting collective punishment on the residents of Gaza.

At the same time, Netanyahu has curried favor with fellow autocrats: Hungary’s hard-right leader Viktor Orba, Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdoğan, N. Korea’s Kim Jong Un, and China’s Xi Jinping. Oh, did I forget Russia’s Vladimir Putim?

Netanyahu is a racist thug who cares only that the Palestinians be eradicated. I know, I know: he says HAMAS needs to be destroyed, which it does, but would he stop there? Of course not. Nor is his position of revenging the deaths of 1,400 Israelis very believable. Without regard to international law, Bibi has more than exacted his state’s revenge. His onslaught of Gaza is deplorable.

For the last seventeen years under Bibi’s rule, Gaza has been a densely populated, impoverished, walled-in compound—a ghetto. A ghetto wherein tens of thousands have died from bullets and bombs aimed at housing, hospitals, maternity wards, and ambulances carrying the wounded toward uncertainty. Eight out of ten Gazans are now homeless, moving from one place to another in search of a safety that doesn’t exist.

A two-state solution, orchestrated by sound minds devoted to peace, is what is needed. As of late, we only have shoah—a catastrophe in Hebrew.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Latkes (potato pancakes)

A recipe repeat that is a staple in most eastern European countries, latkes. They are particularly popular during the Jewish holidays. Cheap and easy-to-make, we like to eat them with apple sauce and chicken soup.

2 cups grated russet potatoes, squeezed dry
2 eggs, well beaten
2 Tbs. flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. Kosher salt
½ small onion, grated

Mix all ingredients well and form into 3” to 4” pancakes. Fry in vegetable shortening until brown and crisp. Drain on a rack and serve warm. Traditionally, they are served with sour cream and a garnish of chopped green onions.

It’s a shame that American workers seem to take so little pride in the work they do. From building and fixing to inventing and installing, the national work force seems satisfied with punching in and, some eight hours later, punching out. This is a routine that is done five days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, minus the two weeks of paid vacation and ten days of mandatory sick leave.

It amounts to basically eleven months of laboring at the behest of a company owner who has both a driver and a yacht.

Clearly, there must be some form of equity established in this labor-management relationship. We need only to look to the NFL to see how it’s done. Each one of the players, I think there are fifty-five of them on each team, makes more money than the owners. This is because the players have contracts to be honored even if any one player is sidelined for the entire season with a sprained pinky finger. The owners only get paid if every seat, including the ones nearly a mile away from the fifty-yard line that can be purchased for about the same cost as a semester at Stanford, is sold.

But money is only one of the things that motivate football players. The other is that if they score a touchdown everybody gets to dance in the end zone for a few minutes. In fact, they are encouraged to dance. A sign over the locker room exit boasts a classic example of gibberish: “It takes an athlete to dance, but an artist to be a dancer.”

But not every move in football deserves a dance. An interception is worthy of a chest bump. A fumble recovery gets a fist bump. Every other move, including a three-yard loss for instance, gets a pat on the ass.

I believe that worker productivity would increase at least threefold if dancing and other forms of physical expression were encouraged in the factory or office space. For instance, when an assembly line worker secures that last nut on the last bolt there is good reason to jump up and boogie. Everybody will feel rewarded with a moment or two of getting down.

In the office, whose reception area should boast notification that “there are shortcuts to happiness and dancing is one of them,” a sale or finalized contract calls for the workers not only to dance, but to perform extravagant arm waving and bumping routines. These can be choreographed and rehearsed during coffee breaks in the employee lounge.

The national Chamber of Commerce has been promoting local businesses by noting that when you buy stuff from Amazon nobody dances. Conversely, when you buy stuff from people who work and live in your community, the business owner dances a little jig in celebration. That owner could be dancing a little jig into eternity if the business priced its merchandise to be competitive with Amazon.

It should be noted that ceremonial dancing in politics is mostly private, spirited by an overall sense that the politicons have “fooled them (us) again.” Public celebrations by panelists in Republican debates are limited to those moments when one of the debaters tells a truth.

[Ed. Note: “Politicon” is a word coined by this blog’s owner. It expresses a gentle mix of politics and grift. We have hired the prestigious law firm of Goode/Chance to copyright it.]

Sadly, or perhaps not, attorneys don’t dance. They do, however, chest-pound, a somewhat primitive reaction to express any measure of dominance. The louder the thump, the bigger the win.

The Gatorade pour is a traditional rite that is typically reserved for football coaches. What’s most curious about the pour is that the cooler in which the Gatorade is stored is almost full when dumped on the coach. This goes to show that football players don’t like Gatorade.

I’d like to see the Gatorade pour become a part of the golf tradition. All one needs is for the caddie to dump a bottle of the power drink over the head of the tournament winner while being interviewed on the 18th green. That would add to the repertoire of post-play celebrations, notably including the fist pump first demonstrated by Tiger Woods when he sank an uphill putt from almost 300 yards. The fist pump was quickly adopted by every Sunday duffer when a four-footer drops into the cup.

In baseball, dancing is limited to the bullpen. There, relief pitchers perform line-dancing with all the aplomb of attendees at the junior prom. But baseball gave us the celebratory low-five, issued to the line coaches at first and third; the high-five, stolen by everybody; and the harbor-haul, that hand-and-arm pulling action that seemed to give an ailing Kirk Gibson whatever it was he needed to run the bases after his 1988 game-winning homer against the Oakland As. Under the new rules of baseball, the run would have been negated because it took him too long to round the bases.

Being a soccer fan, I love it when a goal is scored. There are so few goals ever made, it’s especially exciting to watch the man who made the score slide on his knees for three or four yards while baring his chest.

But I return to my desire to see non-sports figures celebrate with the joyous actions demonstrated by sports figures.

Except hockey. Too much blood.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Creamy Garlic Chicken

Yet another delicious dish perfect for comfort on cold winter nights.

1 cup sliced mushrooms
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
4 cloves of minced garlic
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 cup chicken broth
2 Tbs. butter, divided
2 Tbs. olive oil, divided
1 tsp. dried thyme
1/2 tsp. dried rosemary
Salt and pepper
Chopped fresh parsley for garnish

In a large skillet, heat 1 Tbs. each of butter and olive oil over medium heat. Sauté mushrooms until lightly browned. Remove from pan and set aside.
Season the chicken breasts with salt and pepper on both sides.
In a large skillet, heat the butter and olive oil over medium heat. Add the chicken breasts and cook for about 6-8 minutes per side, or until cooked through. Remove the chicken and set aside.
In the same skillet, add the minced garlic and sauté for about 1 minute until fragrant.
Pour in the chicken broth to deglaze bottom of the pan. Let it simmer for 2-3 minutes.
Add the mushrooms, cream, dried thyme, dried rosemary, salt, and pepper. Stir well to combine.
Bring the mixture to a simmer and cook for about 5 minutes until the sauce has slightly thickened.
Return the chicken breasts to the skillet and cook for an additional 2-3 minutes, allowing the chicken to soak up the creamy garlic sauce.
Remove from heat and garnish with chopped fresh parsley.
Serve the creamy garlic chicken with your favorite side dishes.

Of all the activities and endeavors made available to us humans, we have to start making those difficult decisions as to which ones might present the best possibilities, which ones might offer those routes to travel into our futures.

For instance: I lost my interest in breeding quarter horses when I found out there were few, if any, people willing to pay enough for any given foal to cover my expenses. It was a cruel reality that I managed to repeat in several other high-risk ventures.

I hearken back to my early childhood venture of filling my red wagon with discarded bottles that I could redeem for cold hard cash. In the 1950s, a handful of pennies could gain one access to Wrigley Field. As a seven-year-old, that was the pinnacle of success.

Besides the Cubs, my interests became opportunities for what some would call mere folly. That pretty much summed up the way parents thought when I announced I was going to be a musician. They held a “told-you-so” attitude when I decided to leave music. That same attitude was one I could detect in their posture when I said I was going pursue writing.

“Can’t you just go into sales?” my father asked, the distress heard deep in his pleading tone of voice.

I had tried my hand at sales after tiring of driving a cab in Cleveland. The room in which I worked was what would become known as a boiler room. There were no fewer than fifteen of us cold-calling area businesses asking them for donations to send needy children to the circus. If one made a sale, you simply held up your hand and a runner would grab the ticket to run to get the money.

In the elevator I was taking to the main floor to get a sandwich for lunch, I asked my supervisor when and where the circus was to be held. “There ain’t no fuckin’ circus,” he replied.

I rushed back to reclaim my taxi at the Yellow Cab Company. It was somehow tragic to have given up a career in sales after only four hours on the job.

This was all to infuse cash into my music career which, at the time, could only be described as “occasional.” But my rent in a hayloft apartment was offset by my willingness to clean up after the horses who lived in the stalls below me. I lived on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, occasionally adding a can of tuna to the mix of elbows, powdered cheese (?) and butter. I dutifully saved whatever cash I might have earned to dine on middle eastern food at—where else? —the Middle East Restaurant on a street sacrificed to become basically the first base line at the Progressive Field, home of the Cleveland Indians. The ball field is colloquially known as the Jake and the team is now idiotically known as the Guardians. During the off season, the team acts as an escrow company.

At some point, I was made cruelly aware that I’d better find some kind of career that would make the best use of my talents. I became a jazz critic, writing about the music I love and the musicians who could barely pull down as much income as I could by writing about them. Are you following me?

Anyway, I took an oath of unwanted poverty and began pursuing avenues of interest in earnest.

It started with music. Okay, that’s been covered.

I followed with literature, a subject that merely echoed my interest in reading. I didn’t plan to discover any themes of deviant behavior in Norman Mailer novels. I just wanted to keep reading.

Science deserves our closest attention. I have no scientific skills, other than learning about how ink flows from a ballpoint pen from a college class I took called “Physics for Poets.” I am both bemused and amused by science, especially when explained by Neil diGrasse Tyson.

Carl Sagan was equally entertaining. I don’t know, but might also be Bill Nye the Science Guy?

I watch their shows from time to time. I’m usually quite entertained while being completely in the dark about whatever it is they’re talking about.

At a recent doctor’s appointment, the doc told me about how a certain medicine I’m taking communicates with the brain which then is transmitted to a specific target that either responds to the medical condition or not. He lost me at the pill and the brain, the image of which led me to quietly chuckle over the vision of a tablet talking to a brain.

I remember, if however so vaguely, that the ink in a ballpoint pen flows out due to friction and gravity. It’s on my bucket list to visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa—the very place gravity was discovered.

Then I’ll tackle friction.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Fettuccini ala Toscana

This is a wonderful, hearty dish that works well as a weeknight dinner.

1 lb. fettuccini
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.

Good morning, and welcome to a very busy Sunday.

Where to begin? Recapping the highlights of this past week or so in our fragmented society leads to a narrative that is at once humorous and tragic. Take, for instance, allegations that former House Speaker Kevin McCarthy (Rep. Calif.) elbowed fellow Republican Congressman Tim Burchett of Tennessee. NPR’s Claudia Grisales, who witnessed the assault, called the event “stunning.” The whole incident, while not proving that the hallways of Congress are narrow, seems to have been blown out of any imaginable proportion.

A rabbit punch thrown with any authority should have left Burchett doubled over. Rather, he ran to the closest throng of reporters to register his finger pointing.

Both Burchett and McCarthy should be given time outs and be denied recess for a week.

Joining them in detention is Republican Senator U.S. Sen. Markwayne Mullin, whose parents apparently didn’t know that Mark and Wayne are two different names, said that his fellow Oklahomans “would be pretty upset” if he hadn’t threatened a union leader to a fight during a senate hearing. Teamsters’ leader Sean O’Brien had a heated exchange during a senate hearing on labor unions, at the end of which Mullin asked O’Brien if he wanted to fight. Mullin even stood from his chair, but was stopped by Sen. Bernie Sanders, I-Vermont, who was chairing the hearing.
Mullin, a plumber by trade and a former MMA (mixed martial arts) fighter, should promote more floor violence to reassure his re-election by his fight-happy Oklahomans.

Since both chambers are filled with elected officials sent to do their constituents’ bidding, it’s reassuring to note that there is no shortage of sound bites expressing opinions regarding the possibilities of tossing George Santos out of office.

Santos, who lied about everything to get elected from his Long Island, New York, district (he ran unopposed), has been acting out his criminal self ever since taking office. But the Republicans are less concerned about Santos’s behavior than they are about losing a vote—should one ever be needed by a slim House majority.

Known as the House “Dandy” for his sartorial sense, Santos should be sent packing, along with Rep. Marjorie Taylor Green, R-Georgia, who was calling out Rep. Darrell Issa, R-California, for voting against her articles of impeachment against Secretary of Homeland Security Alejandro Mayorkas. And just to be fair, let’s never forget that moment in history when House Oversight Chairman James Comer (R-KY) told Democrat Rep. Jared Moskowitz, of Florida, that he looked like a Smurf.

And while we’re at it, let’s ask Mike Johnson to vacate his seat as Speaker. He seems to lack the dynamics of McCarthy, which is like comparing matzo to milquetoast, and much of the House finds his religiosity a tad over the top.

He claims to be a Christian whose world view is found in the pages of the Bible, but he’s as anti-LGBTQ as an elected official can be. One wonders if he might join the boycott of Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, which is hosting performances by nonbinary Broadway actors. This is the latest attempt to force companies to reverse course on social issues that some far-right groups consider too liberal. One Million Moms is protesting the participation of two nonbinary actors: Alex Newell, the Tony Award-winning performer who stars as Lulu in “Shucked,” and Justin David Sullivan, who plays May in the musical “& Juliet.”

Gender-identity issues abound.

Apparently, there are serious delivery issues with the United States Postal Service. It took more than twenty years for a letter from Osama bin Laden to get to the American public. There’s not much content beyond its expected condemnation of America’s support for Israel and accusations of aiding the oppression of the Palestinian people. Bin Laden, who was killed in a U.S. special forces operation in Pakistan in 2011, also denounced U.S. interventions in Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Kashmir, Chechnya and Lebanon.

In the letter, bin Laden addressed the American people and sought to answer the following questions: “Why are we fighting and opposing you?” and “What are we calling you to, and what do we want from you?” Not surprisingly, the letter includes antisemitic language and homophobic rhetoric.

Speaking of antisemitism, Elon Musk, owner of X, formerly known as Twitter, has allowed racist posts to be seen by its 160 million users.

Both GOP and Democrat strategists are carefully reviewing attempts by those seeking judicial relief to keep Donald Trump from holding office ever again. Eyes are on the prize of using the Fourteenth Amendment to demonstrate restrictions of anyone who participated in any insurrection. Trump, who has been credited with “187 minutes of dereliction” during the January 6 riot on the Capitol steps, keeps making his bid to be the 47th president.

All of this has me embracing the Scottish word: Dumfungled, feeling mentally and physically worn out.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Sauerkraut

Many moons ago, I encountered a gentleman who would could tell where you were from based on what you ate on Thanksgiving. I confused him because our family’s traditional meal included sauerkraut. That suggested that I was from Maryland, where sauerkraut is served with both brats and turkey. For us, it was because we were Bohemians and we ate sauerkraut all of the time.

1 pkg. refrigerated sauerkraut
2 Tbs. finely minced onion
1 tsp. finely minced garlic
2 tsp. caraway seed

Lightly sauté the onions and garlic. Add sauerkraut, along with the brine. Add more water as necessary to cover. Add caraway seed and simmer kraut for 20 minutes over medium heat.