Journal

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d flown anywhere, until I was reminded that I was in a coma that January night I was life-flighted to Denver. Geri remembered the flight: huddled against my prone self in a cramped fuselage of a plane that seemed like a cork in an ocean of rough waters.

All things considered, being in a coma for a flight isn’t too bad a thing. I missed the discomfort turbulence brings, the interminable airport lines, the pithy remarks from the pilot, the TSA indignities (“Do I look like I might have a bomb in my shoe?”), just not in that order. We landed, I was told, at a private airport so I wouldn’t have to go through any check points.

This past week, I followed the flight protocols in order. Twice. Once going to Denver; the second, coming back to Bozeman. It was a lovely three days that featured ethnic foods that are not widely available in the Last Best Place and a doctor’s appointment that offered little resolve to a specific medical problem of mine. While there was (is) no reason for concern, it was, however, an expensive adventure to be told to just keep keepin’ on. (In the process, they did diagnose a hernia. It’s always something.)

Flying, like train travel to an older generation, used to have a touch of elegance to it. One dressed up for a flight that offered hot meals, free cocktails, and a promotional package of three cigarettes. (I remember my mother, a smoker, confiscating my free cigarettes on a flight from Chicago to Phoenix when I was in the seventh grade.) There were no fees for baggage (although there was a weight limit), so carry-on items tended to be small, limited to what one might need in the course of a three-hour flight.

Children were taken to the cabin to inspect the flight deck and were given little plastic wings to demonstrate—what? It was nonetheless a very cool thing at a time when few children were given the opportunity to fly. I was in the second grade the first time I flew, and I wore my wings with great pride.

Things have changed. Today one can witness more people wearing what seem to be pajamas than suits or dresses. There are lines for everything and nothing besides the 1/2-ounce bag of pretzels and a soft drink are gratis.

Midway through the 1960s, airlines started offering smoking sections on most flights. They were kind of ridiculous in that it was the same air being pumped throughout the plane. Like it or not, second-hand smoke was reaching the non-smokers. By 1994, the smoking of cigarettes was illegal (pipes and cigars had been banned earlier) and if you messed with the smoke detectors in the bathrooms, you were looking at a possible life sentence for what were federal offenses.

My flights this week on what seemed to be recently minted aircraft all still had the lighted warning about no smoking. The flight attendant also reminded us that e-cigarettes and smokeless tobacco were not allowed. I’d love to see them catching a guy with a lip full of snoose or a cheek full of Red Man.

One might think that by now everybody alive knows how to fasten a seat belt, yet still they feel compelled to demonstrate that tricky little move. Then comes the explanation about the seat-belt sign which, once again, we either know about or can figure out on our own.

Next comes a demonstration about using the masks that may fall from the overhead compartments in case of a sudden drop in oxygen. Here’s how I see it: There are about 250 of us flying at 36,000 feet and the little masks drop. Suddenly, we’re dropping out of the sky like a wounded duck. To hell with the oxygen. Why would I want to prolong this horrifying dive to a certain death? Besides, I’m not sure one’s screams can be heard through the mask.

Of course, planes don’t crash anymore. They used to fall out of the skies with some regularity in the years immediately following World War II. This pattern remained, improving just enough to put the flight insurance kiosks in every terminal out of business by the mid- ‘70s.

I’ve become a skilled airline passenger over the years, working my way up from being profoundly terrified to needing wheelchair assistance. In Denver, we disembarked on Tuesday 60 gates away from the car rental shuttle. If I was compelled to walk that distance, I would just now be approaching the shuttle. On the return flight, I had the same distance to cover in the opposite direction.

If left walking, I would have given up and found a bar that charged a mere $18 for an ounce of mediocre Scotch. Since I have an active credit card, I might still be there today knocking them back.

At my age, I’m no longer very fearful of dying in a plane crash (we all have to die of something), though I would feel sorry for those going down with me. I still don’t like turbulence and I think they should start serving hot meals and free cocktails. My window of opportunity for free cigarettes closed before I started smoking.

In closing, I’ll pass along some advice given by the pilot Thursday: “Sit back. Relax. Enjoy the flight.”

Yeah, right. Whatever.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Tilapia & Shrimp with Mornay Sauce

This is a simple, quick fish dish that I occasionally enjoy at lunch. It’s flavorful and easy. Try it soon.

1 garlic clove, minced
3 large shrimp, shelled & de-veined
1 tilapia fillet
vegetable oil
flour for dredging
½ cup white wine
Dijon mustard
½ cup heavy cream
butter
Parmesan cheese
Parsley

Saute flour-dredged tilapia in oil (2-3 mins. per side). Remove and keep warm. Add garlic. Add wine, reduce. Add mustard & cream. Add shrimp; cook until pink. Add cheese and let thicken. Plate & serve. Garnish with parsley.

There are weeks and weeks that go by without much of anything having happened. No worries. No drama or trauma. No sudden onsets of debilitating disease or injury.

And then there are weeks like the one that finished yesterday. Despite all that was promised, we got through a small invasion of a flesh-eating bacteria that was initially thought to be worse than Covid-19. The outbreaks were limited to New York, Connecticut and Florida, the latter of which is well-tempered to handle such things as long as they’re not in drag. Beyond that, there are cockroaches, the Sunshine State’s official insect and Republican.

We also got through the first Republican debate. It seemed pretty much less a debate than it was eight people loudly spouting off their ideas about a job none of them will ever hold. Major issues—domestic and foreign—were barely addressed; there was a shortage of talk about anything substantive. The highlight was seeing Ron DeSantis get his makeup refreshed—an activity which is illegal in Florida, his home state.

There was also the booking of Trump and 18 of his closest conspirators, many of whom he claims not to know. While about half of the country wanted to see Trump and company in a perp walk, we had to be satisfied with Trump’s expression of displeasure—a scowl of epic dimension. Before he was back in his limousine, his mug shot image was already available on coffee mugs and T-shirts. (Personally, I hope the Biden administration will replace the official portrait of 45 hanging in some room in the White House with the mug shot.)

God bless America. Or, as the Orange Menace might say, “Covfefe.”

But there are other things to worry about, one of which stemmed from my extraordinary observational skills. Fewer and fewer men are wearing neckties these days. Hell, even Trump has been photographed recently without the ruby red noose that pushes his multiple necks into a single fold.

The other big issue of the week was whether Bradley Cooper is some kind of anti-Semite because he chose to wear a prosthetic nose in his portrayal of Leonard Bernstein in the new movie Maestro.

Cooper, a fine actor and director, chose to wear a fake nose so that he would look more like Bernstein. This was because the revered conductor and composer had a large nose and Cooper has a comparatively small one. This is akin to Sylvester Stallone’s beefing up to play Rocky. Credibility is the goal in both cases. Would we, as audiences, accept Woody Allen as Rocky or Al Sharpton as Bernstein? For all the obvious reasons, of course not.

But those screaming about Cooper being an anti-Semite are, in fact, showing a bit of racism themselves. They are suggesting that Jews, in general, have large noses. This is only true in caricatures. Large proboscises belong to any number of characters, from Jews and Arabs and Blacks, to elephants, tapirs and anteaters. Welcome to the world of elongated noses and snouts.

I do have a complaint about the nose Cooper chose, however. It is relatively thin and its downward slope from between the eyes is as straight as a ruler. Bernstein’s nose had a significant rise at the top of the bridge. Besides, they should have worked on Cooper’s chin which is far too pointed to match Lenny’s.

All of that having been said, I look forward to seeing the movie. I’m sure it will be a fine expression of Bernstein’s craft, but not as fine as the four times I saw him conduct.

The necktie, believe it or not, is a French sartorial device meant to catch the juices that flow from the corners of one’s mouth while eating escargot (snails). The invention of this bib has gone through several alterations since first emerging around 1615, give or take. Over the years, the bib grew too thin to catch a single drop of the garlic-butter sauce that takes your mind away from the fact that while you avoid stepping on a snail, you have no problem eating one.

Like its maritime cousin—the octopus—snails are chewy to the point that one either gives up the challenge or delicately removes said wad into one’s necktie.

I happen to like both snails and neckties. This could be something of an affectation in the same vein as my not liking grits while being a big fan of polenta. Similarly, I’d rather listen to Bernstein conduct Mahler than whatever band it was that created “Stairway to Heaven.”

But the necktie is fast disappearing from view. While the network news anchors (male) are still wearing them, most of the correspondents and many of the guest commentators are not. I have nothing against wearing neckties. It’s merely the finishing touch for a man trying to look his best while dressing up.

A week ago Friday, in anticipation of writing this morning’s essay, I happened to tune in to “The Price is Right.” Drew Carey, the host, was not wearing a tie. The next morning, Bob Barker, the game show’s host for 35 years, was dead.

Coincidence? I think not.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Escargot

1 7 oz. can of snails
1 shallot, finely diced
10 tbsp Butter, softened
3 tsp Garlic , minced
1/4 cup Parsley, chopped
1 Tbs. white wine
2 Tbs. Breadcrumbs

Melt 1 Tbs. butter in a pan, then add shallot and sauté until they soften. Add snails for about 2 minutes.
In a food processor or blender, add 5 Tbs. softened butter, garlic, parsley, and white wine. Pulse until it all comes together to make a garlic butter.
Place one snail in each escargot compartment of a baking sheet and cover with about 1/2 tsp. or so of the garlic butter mixture. Then, sprinkle each snail with a little bit of breadcrumbs.
Bake at 375 degrees for 10-15 minutes until they brown.
Cut a baguette into slices about 1/4-inch thick. Lay the pieces of bread on a cookie sheet.
Melt 4 Tbs. of butter in the microwave. Use a pastry brush to brush the top of the bread with butter.
When the snails come out of the oven, set them aside. Turn the oven to broil. Place your cookie sheet with the bread in the oven with the door slightly ajar. Broil the bread until it is toasted.
When the bread is toasted, serve the snails with the toast.

Adapted from ForeignFork.

If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to be a restaurant chef (and who hasn’t?) I can almost guarantee that there are innumerable differences between a commercial kitchen and one you’d find at home that would forever keep you from trying your hand at commercial cooking,

Besides the obvious—the commercial kitchen a glistening array of stainless steel; the home kitchen filled with warm-colored wood cabinets—the restaurant kitchen also has with it a staff of talented performers whose off-line behavior can reach beyond the pale. The small restaurant cannot afford regular drug testing, thereby offering a safe haven for those whose indulgences might not be tolerated by a chain or industrialized food operations found at hospitals, schools and prisons.

I had several employees over the years who were ex-cons. As far as I knew, none of them were violent offenders, although one was a sex offender I fired when one of my kitchen rats was being harassed by him. And only one claimed to have been a prison cook, let alone having learned to cook during his time in stir.

If I had ever needed a reason to not serve time, this guy was it.

Taking a late-afternoon break, I instructed Mr. Convict to create a marinara sauce in my absence. I handed him the detailed recipe, which involved a significant amount of peeling and dicing of carrots, onions and celery to create what is known as sofrito in Italian cuisine. (The French equivalent is mirepoix.) It was a step-by-step process that articulated how I wanted my sauces done.

I returned to the kitchen from my break and was somewhat shocked to find whole carrots, celery stalks and un-cut onions floating around in a stock pot full of tomatoes. A sprig of basil floated lazily in the too-thin sauce. When questioned, he told me that everything would be pureed (it wouldn’t be) so peeling and dicing was a waste of time.

Mr. Convict stewed over the ideas I presented to him that indicated how I was the boss and he wasn’t. He walked out the kitchen door an hour or so later.

There are, I suppose, countless ways to waste time in a kitchen. For the independent restaurant whose focus is more on the food than it is on the spreadsheets, there’s less time to waste. Traditionally short-handed, my restaurant had to be a model of efficiency. Occasionally, like when I had a full complement of line cook, salad and pizza cook, and dishwasher, we approached being that model. More often, we’d be one, sometimes two stations short.

As in most endeavors, careful preparation is key to success. The home cook doesn’t have to prep beyond a single recipe that will be served in a single course. At even as small a restaurant as mine (30 seats) one had to be ready to fill the house once, maybe twice on a weekend evening. And of course we’d have no idea what any of our guests might want to eat. Their choices were multiple: six-to-eight salads and appetizers, eight-to-twelve pastas, half-a-dozen entrees and at least four dessert options. There was also pizza.

I’m sure some math whiz could tell me the possible combinations of menu items we offered. I just knew how to manage my inventories and how much of what I needed each day to be ready for service. Admittedly, a lot of it was instinctive.

My day began before seven every morning. We baked all of our own breads and within minutes after my arrival to the kitchen, the air smelled of yeast and flour. To the accompaniment of NPR news, I would begin prepping the sofrito that would become the flavor base of almost everything I made. It was a methodical process that I truly enjoyed.

One day, a sales rep and a manufacturer’s rep paid me an early morning visit. I was dicing onions from a box full of fresh produce that had been delivered that morning. The twosome, representing the largest food service company in the states, came in and one tossed a plastic bag full of diced onions on top of my cutting board. My onions scattered, while his remained safe inside the bag.

That kind of behavior does not sit well with me, and I told him so in a loud voice with at least one obscenity.

His product was pre-cut sofrito—each of the three ingredients in 10-pound bags. Each bag had a shelf life of 21 days.

My arguments against purchasing such products began with my liking to purchase whole product I could smell and squeeze and ended with wondering how this product was treated to attain that quite remarkable shelf life. I knew that those vegetables—peeled and chopped—would become iffy in just two or three days.

Also, I really like prepping sofrito. There’s something satisfying in the physical activity, and I enjoy the smell of the onions.

I wondered aloud what I would do with my time if not doing the basic work of a chef.

“Sit back, sleep in, relax,” the rep said, obviously missing my point.

What a waste of time.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Marinara Sauce

Nothing is more comforting than a bowl of al dente pasta with a clean and simple marinara sauce. It’s long been a staple in my house as well as my restaurant. Buon appetito!

Extra virgin olive oil
1 large onion, diced
3 stalks celery, diced
2 small carrots, diced
Salt & pepper
6 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 cup red wine
2 Tbs. dried oregano
2 large bunches fresh basil, chopped
2, 28-oz. cans crushed tomatoes
2, 28-oz. cans diced tomatoes
3-4 dried bay leaves

Heat the oil in a large sauce pan and sauté the onion for 5-6 minutes; add celery and carrots and cook for 2-3 minutes more. Season with salt and pepper. Add garlic & sauté one minute. Add wine and oregano. Mix with tomatoes, basil and bay leaves. Simmer uncovered for at least 45 minutes.

As if I hadn’t made Courtney’s life difficult enough, I asked her to share my retirement by illustrating my weekly blog. So far, we’ve created somewhere in the neighborhood of 285 entries over nearly five years. She puts up with me and is constantly making demands that only improve my work. I don’t really see us slowing down.

I spend a lot of my time just looking around and taking pictures of really random and/or obscure things; poorly parked vehicles, unique views from the mountains or from balconies in a city that I might be in, strangers (if they haven’t noticed me – I have been caught before and it’s awkward), food… You name it and I probably have a picture of it. I do this in anticipation of whatever my father might choose to write about for his blog, and given the season (winters in Montana aren’t always prime for “blogtography”) or the sometimes last minute idea that he has, I know that it could literally be about anything. To feel prepared, I need pictures of EVERYTHING.
 
I feel an attachment to this photo. My Papa is holding the whole world in his hands. It brings me a feeling of peace because that’s what he’s always done for his family. He’s helped hold the world together for us.

Sam Dean was an inspiration during my earliest years in music. His lessons translated to everything else I’ve tried in my 72 years.

This one was a challenge to put together. I had to get the contrast just right so as not to phase out the portrait of my dad, or his handwriting. It’s one of my absolute favorites because this is what I see when I think of him. The thinker, the writer, the lover of music. The only thing that’s missing is a big bowl of pasta!

Eve was as dear a friend as I might have imagined. Her heart was gold, her demeanor sweet as honey, and she was tough as nails. In her, it was a perfect combination.

I actually took this picture while I was in San Diego in December of 2019, not knowing that it would be the last recreational trip that I would take prior to the Covid-19 pandemic. It was the photo that I chose for Eve Art after she passed. Knowing her love for the sea and travel, and how beautiful of a person she was, this photo doesn’t give her the justice that she deserves. I’m still angry that she isn’t still with us today.

Our family’s life was forever changed when we lost Tony. The question of why he chose to take his life will probably by my last cognizant thought. Courtney proves that the moment of the photograph belongs to the photographer.

My relationship with this picture stirs up a lot of different emotions. It’s one of my favorite pictures of my stepson Tony, who passed away in 2018. It’s a sweet reminder of who he was to me every time I would pull the camera out; a typical teenager, rolling his eyes at one of his parents. Although there is another person out there who likes to claim credit for this photo and who uses it frequently for her own uses, I am the actual person who caught this moment and only I know the words that were exchanged between us before I hit the button. People can steal pictures, but they can’t steal the moments.


This is just one way to express my love of New York and a good sandwich.

I don’t really have any personal attachment to this picture other than the fact that there’s a sandwich and I love sandwiches! As someone who regularly takes pictures of whatever food gets placed in front of me, I thought that this particular picture turned out well. I like the fact that the radishes in the picture were given to us by our neighbor Wendy, who is always generous to us with her harvests.


In the process of trying to stage this photo with the help of my step kids, all of whom were very young at the time, I might have inadvertently scared them from ever liking Miracle Whip for the rest of their lives. Sean-Liam will tolerate mayonnaise given the right circumstances; Evelyn will not go near anything remotely in likeness to it. We had a great time doing this together and it still makes me laugh to this day.

I had let my guard down earlier this week when I found myself feeling sorry for Ron DeSantis.

The Republican governor of Florida, DeSantis is currently campaigning to win his party’s nomination to run for president in 2024. It’s been noted (if only by me) that I would have a better chance at winning the Republican nomination unless we hear that Trump has reported to one of the private prisons owned by his biggest donors.

Cell Block 17 has an ominous sound no matter where it’s located.

Why I feel badly for DeSantis is because he couldn’t throw together a successful fund-raising beer bash. In fact, he couldn’t raise more money than a Brigham Young fraternity could, given the chance. This non-event offered a chance to buy a $50 ticket to drink beer with one of America’s newest autocrats. It was to be a red-white-and blue kegger; a town hall with a brand undecided—somewhere between the gay Bud Light and an artisanal brew whose brew meisters aren’t “woke.”

This event was to take place somewhere in New Hampshire. Had it only been a little closer (like in Vermont) I’d have tossed in the fifty and grabbed a seat at the end of the bar.

It also would have helped if I had known about this most-August event before the campaign had to lower its expectations. The event so foundered that DeSantis was left offering a $49 discount. A buck a beer is a bargain that even I—pretty much a non-beer guy—could recognize. Apparently, fewer than a dozen could.

“Fewer than a dozen” is a line that only a publicist could say with a straight face. After all, one out of twelve is fewer than a dozen.

I probably wouldn’t have much satisfaction from meeting DeSantis. I was at a party once that Steve Daines, then a candidate for the U.S. Senate, was also attending. The host asked me if I’d like to meet Daines. “I’d love to, but I’m sure he wouldn’t want to meet me.” We let the moment go to avoid creating a scene.

Like most of this season’s slate of Republican candidates, each is deferring to Trump’s political genius and is advancing the former president’s agenda. Well a couple of them aren’t. Yet.

Chris Christie, the former New Jersey governor, is currently piloting the anti-Trump tugboat. Joining him is Asa Hutchinson, the former governor of Arkansas. As drinking buddies, Asa and I would sit on the front porch of clapboard house and sip Southern Comfort neat while we chatted about the important role men play in the maintenance of women’s health issues.

Christie would have some staffer pouring us cranberry juice (a big industry in the Garden State) with Tito’s Handmade Vodka, the biggest seller from Texas. Rolling Rock is widely available.

I don’t think America is ready for a president named Asa. And Christie is just downright unlikeable.

The $1 beer bash pales in comparison to Doug Burgum’s fundraiser. The governor of North Dakota, whose most popular alcoholic beverages are Busch, Coors Light, and Boone’s Farm Apple Wine, Burgum has built a fortune in his home state and for a dollar donation to his campaign, he will give you a $20 gift certificate. Please don’t ask him about his plans for the economy.

Like the aforementioned candidates, Vivek Ramaswamy is anti-Trump. A biotech entrepreneur, he is anti-woke. The Hindi valedictorian of a private Jesuit high school, he is pro fossil fuel. I don’t know what to expect in terms of something to drink. The Rigveda, which I think is a religious text, says “Those who consume intoxicants lose their intellect, talk rubbish, get naked and fight with each other.”

I promise I’ll stop after one Martini.

Glenn Youngkin, the governor of Virginia, and Nikki Hailey, the former ambassador to the United Nations, are long shots because they’re just killing time until that time is just right to jump in. Nominally anti-Trump, they’re playing these early stages of the campaign close to the vest. Nobody knows for sure what might emerge as a game plan.

Youngkin went to Rice University on a basketball scholarship and earned an MBA from Harvard. He made a fortune leading a global investment firm before turning to politics. Presumably, he likes George Washington’s Rye Whiskey, which started in a distillery in 1790.

Hailey served as governor of South Carolina—a resort state known for golf and hurricanes. It would be sad should she become America’s first female president.

Mike Pence somehow is part of the 2024 campaign. Something of a Jesus freak, Pence is unsure of his place in the history books. He is the most hesitant man alive, fearing to stand further than a single pace from his wife whom he calls mother. It seems unlikely that he might indulge, but if spotted at a bar in the entirely blue city of Bloomington, Indiana, he might be coerced to drinking a “Hoosier Heritage,” a cocktail made with Knob Creek rye whiskey in honor of Abraham Lincoln, who moved to Indiana in 1816.

Tim Scott doesn’t drink.

Neither does Trump, but he’s convinced his followers to drink the Kool-Aid.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Martini

The martini is a cocktail made with gin or vodka and vermouth, and garnished with an olive or a lemon twist. Over the years, the martini has become one of the best-known mixed alcoholic beverages.

• 1/2 oz (1 part) dry vermouth
• 3 oz (6 parts) gin or vodka

Pour ingredients into mixing glass with ice cubes. Stir well. Strain into chilled martini cocktail glass. Squeeze oil from lemon peel onto the drink, or garnish with olive

Serve straight (or on the rocks)

For many a cook, there is no room for error when preparing almost any meal.

Julia Child, the cook who used television to instruct a few generations how to find both the joys and the vagaries of French cuisine, had a contradictory few. “Never apologize. Never explain. You don’t have to strive for perfection. After all, there is almost nothing you can’t fix.”

The fixes in Ms. Child’s cooking were referred, by her, to be “variations.”

It was Paul Bocuse, or maybe Joël Robuchon, or maybe…oh what the hell, Bozo the Clown, who recognized a kitchen mistake as being more than a variation. It was, perhaps, a “creation.” The word suggests genius. At least it points in the general direction of a Michelin star.

A Michelin star is as elusive as a wolverine and as coveted as the Nobel Prize. And even a single star points not only to the exceptional quality of a chef’s food, but the attention paid to linens, service, and China, crystal and silverware. The wine list should complement the menu and should be managed by a knowledgeable sommelier.

Mistakes at that level of culinary service are neither variations nor creations. They are mistakes that might easily cost a chef a future in the fine-dining spotlight.

Without much evidence to go on (except my own), I’ll suggest that most kitchen catastrophes arise because the chef was not properly prepared for service. It starts with the line, that place in the kitchen that starts off as a prep station before transforming into a production line to assemble the orders.

After learning about it, prep was always my favorite part of the day. The careful chopping and placement of any number of items of what the French call the mise en place. Key to the prep were the chopped onions, celery and carrots that would become the foundation of each dish on the menu. Additionally, the station would provide easy access (no opening of jars) to capers, anchovies, fresh herbs or whatever else might be needed for a specific service.

One day, a sales rep from Sysco wandered into my kitchen and tossed three bags of chopped vegetables on top of my workstation. The guy proudly announced that my days would become easier if I started buying that trio from him.

“And what,” I asked, “would I be doing if not chopping vegetables to start my day.”

He had no answer to my query.

“I’m a chef,” I told him. “This morning task of chopping food is my job.”

The fourteen-day shelf life of the onions, carrots and celery bothered me. Food should rot more quickly than what he was offering.

On the dessert end of the spectrum came a cheesecake that the sales rep from FSA said was so good I could pass it on as my own. That made me mad. “I don’t,” I said, “lie about the foods we offered at the restaurant.” Besides, my mother’s cheesecake has belonged to our family for three generations.

My mother loved to cook, and she was really not very good at it. Rather than perfecting a few menu items, she was constantly on the search for something new. The straw that broke the camel’s back was a meatloaf recipe that had green peppers and Swiss cheese.

“Is anybody else’s meatloaf cold?” I ventured.

“It’s supposed to be,” my mother answered. She had storming off in a huff down pat.

There is no shortage of people willing to tell the chef what’s wrong with the menu or the way their little taste from it could be improved. You wouldn’t go to someone’s house for a barbecue and start complaining that there was no Pommery’s Moutarde au Cognac for your Ball Park Frank. “I don’t know,” you complain,” I just can’t bring myself to using Heinz Yellow Mustard.”

Unlike my mother, my wife hates to cook. Geri’s menu repertoire is short but is actually quite good. It’s limited in scope—and therefore is limiting to my own. She will not eat wild game of any kind. Halibut is the only seafood she will eat, although I’ve recently noticed her ingesting shrimp cocktail. She likes clam chowder and hers is as good as any I’ve had. She likes smoked salmon, provided that somebody smoked it on-board a ship in the Bering Sea. She likes the way our son, Daniel, makes crabcakes.

We have a couple of unforced errors that have created fine memories in the family book of lore.

I had taken ill back in the very late ‘70s. Generally responsible for dinner for three, I couldn’t wrest myself out of bed to cook. I had some frozen sauce, I told Geri, and all she had to do was thaw it, cook some pasta, and combine the two. Voila!

She guessed she had done something wrong as the pasta, which, after more than an hour of boiling, had morphed into a gelatinous glob that suggested an iceberg. Some added black food dye and the berg becomes the blob, chasing Steve McQueen through the streets of a small town. While still ill, Geri announced, in a manner of somebody announcing the arrival of Queen Elizabeth, that she would be making an eggplant souffle.

This resulted in her creating what could only be described as wet cement. One of our dogs growled at it and took a few twirls as he circled what might have been our first course.

An improvised moment of mine came when Geri, six months or so of being pregnant with Courtney, casually mentioned that she would really like some chocolate cake. I dug around and found a boxed version. I was up to adding the milk when I discovered I didn’t have enough. I upped the ante, adding a significant amount of butter and completing the liquid amount with Grand Marnier.

I heard no complaints. Happy cooking!

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Salmone alla nuotare

3 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 fresh or 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 & slice asparagus on the bias. Set aside. Grease a skillet with 1 tbsp. butter. Sprinkle skillet with shallots. Season filets with salt and pepper; arrange in skillet. Scatter mussels around filets; pour in wine with 1⁄2 cups 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. Using a spatula, transfer fish to a baking sheet; transfer mussels with a slotted spoon to 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.

Caution: Read before moving on to the story of weddings.

Get emergency help right away if you get any of the following signs or symptoms: breathing problems or wheezing, swelling of the face, lips, mouth, tongue or throat, fainting, dizziness, feeling lightheaded, fast pulse, fever, hives, joint pain, general ill feeling, itching, skin rash, swollen lymph nodes, nausea or vomiting, or cramps in your stomach area.

Before embarking on the stroll down the aisle, be sure to note if you have trouble walking or moving due to excruciating pain. Some people have actually been hospitalized, thereby causing the father of the bride (who usually foots the bill) to threaten the caterer with physical violence. Tell your healthcare provider about any new or worsening joint symptoms in anticipation of your big day.

Remember that tensions are high on wedding days. This is not a caveat; it’s a requirement.

The story of weddings.

I feel qualified to address this whole wedding/marriage thing because as of this very day I have been married for forty-five years. What more expertise could be had?

“A wedding is a special occasion,” states an article from Bankrate, a company that keeps track of this kind of stuff.

“But its high price tag can often cause significant stress for the couple tying the knot. The high cost of venues, catering, photography, flowers, music and more can make the already high-stress wedding planning process even more pressure-filled.”

(Note that I covered most of that in the italicized paragraphs above.)

The real pressure arising from the wedding day is that, on average in these United States, somebody’s got to fork over about $30,000. It can be significantly higher if you start buying airline tickets for distant relatives whom you’ve only ever seen at other family weddings. Limousines can be expensive, as can be a fully staffed yacht for the month-long honeymoon in the Mediterranean.

I don’t have a clue how much our wedding cost. In 1978, $6,400 was what could be bought for today’s $30,000. I’m pretty sure that our wedding did not cost that much.

It was a simple, elegant wedding that took place at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Side Shrine—just a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean on Sunset Boulevard. Founded by Paramahansa Yogananda, an Indian mystic who envisioned a world in which all religions would get along. We got married at an altar behind which was mini-mausoleum that contained some of Mahatma Gandhi’s ashes. It was a cheery note that went along with the music that featured no fewer than 17 sitars and a batterie of tabla.

“I’ll have the eggroll to go,” my best man deadpanned.

Rick and my father were my—what? —ushers. No, they were co-best men. The three of us wore white tuxedos (not my idea) and as we stood on a hillside we looked like the Jewish Bee Gees as Geri, walking around the lake on her father’s arm, was not sure about Tommy’s reminders that she could just call it off. I was cool as a cucumber, having been slightly numbed by the champagne my father, Rick and I had finished in the parking lot before the Indian music started.

Brother Adamoy officiated. He got Geri to calm down as I was feeling no pain. I also had no idea what he was talking about, but I think he conjured up the aromas of flowers and reminded us that there were many paths to God.

At that point we were married, and Geri and I were rushed to the Lincoln Continental that her stepfather, Wilbur, would drive through Malibu on the way to the reception site—Geri’s mother’s house. Wilbur wanted desperately to stop at Don the Beachcomber’s for a round or two of Mai tais and a basket of fried won tons. We convinced him that it was a bad idea. Guests were arriving at her mother’s house for what was a buffet—both catered and potluck—and pool party.

We served beer and wine, although I was able to find some Scotch to give to my friend Tom, which he drank from a blue butter tub as he sat in the deep end of the pool. He was happy.

We averted a tragedy when a toddler fell into the hot tub and a friend of Geri’s dove in and saved the kid. We also had four wedding crashers. I knew them but I had no idea how they knew about our wedding date.

Although I’ve only been a groom once, I’ve been to scores of weddings as a drummer. Most of those weddings were fairly sedate; the others presented a mosaic of bad behavior, especially at those so-called shotgun weddings wherein the father of the bride solaces himself with bourbon while glaring at the groom and his entire family.

We chose not to have music at our wedding. My thinking was that I chose never again to have to hear “Sunrise, Sunset” and “We’ve Only Just Begun,” both of which are mandatory at weddings with music.

Happy Anniversary Geri!

Photography by Courtney A. Liska

Italian Wedding Cookies

1 1/2 cup salted butter

4 tsp. vanilla extract

3/4 cup ground walnuts

3/4 cup ground hazelnuts

3 cups all-purpose flour

3/4 cup powder sugar

1/2 cup powder sugar for dusting

Heat your oven to 325”F.

In a large mixing bowl cream together the butter and 3/4 cup of the powder sugar until fluffy.

1 1/2 cup salted butter, 3/4 cup powder sugar

Add the vanilla extract and little by little the ground walnuts and hazelnuts. Mix until combined.

4 tsp vanilla extract, 3/4 cup ground walnuts, 3/4 cup ground hazelnuts

Start adding in the flour little by little until mixed in.

3 cups all-purpose flour

Prepare your largest cookie sheet and using a small spoon form the cookies into balls, the size of a golf ball or smaller. You should have about 45 cookies.

Arrange all the cookies on the baking sheet without touching each other.

Bake the cookies in the oven for 20 minutes.

Remove the wedding cookies from the oven and allow them to cool off just for a few minutes before rolling them over the reserved powder sugar. It’s best that they are still a little warm so the sugar coating sticks nicely.

Arrange the cookies on a platter and dust with more powder sugar on top before serving.

After a contentious year of judicial tumult, the Supreme Court is being seen by Congress as yet another target for review. Instead of doing the important work of making sure the damn potholes are filled in front of my house, the two chambers are busy dividing themselves into no fewer than 113 committees, sub-committees, coffee klatches, and weeknight happy hours to begin what is bound to be a year’s worth of injudicious tumult.

This is a bold move by Congress because the Supreme Court answers to no authority. The checks-and-balance system envisioned by the founders never anticipated that the life-long appointees to the bench would seek major doses of capital infusion from people with cases that might come before the Court.

And in addition to the cash prizes, there were yachting expeditions, fishing adventures, and autographed memorabilia from the Third Reich, including baseball card-like pictures and statistics of Hitler, Joseph Goebbels, and Hermann Göring.

The planned hearings will be unproductive in that no fewer than four of the nine have lied under oath during the Senate confirmation hearings. There is no reason to believe they won’t lie again. And again. And again.

No, it’s time to disband the current Court and start over from scratch. But first, we’ll need to disallow any gifts to the Court’s members worth more than $127, the cost of a Big Mac and fries. Anything more than that is a sign of corruption. Maybe. Who knows?

Building a new Court is fraught with danger. The current lineup is made up of lawyers. That hasn’t worked out so well. So the new Court will have no lawyers. This will put law into the proper perspective, calling only on senses of propriety, empathy, and fairness. The members of the new Court can have their clerks present papers with such judicial practices that include precedents buried deep in the literature of case law. But they don’t have to.

I have a list of potential justices that has not been approved by anybody. I just happen to believe that anyone nominated will be thrilled to serve. My list has been carefully designed to represent the mosaic that defines America. Many of the nominees are dead.

Here we go.

The only nominee who may rightfully be seen as a Supreme is Diana Ross. She’s a Black woman who seemed very nice when I met her. While she might not possess the wisdom of Solomon, I’m sure she would never suggest cutting a baby in half to satisfy a claim of motherhood.

Richard Simmons seems a good choice to provide representation of, well…you know. He will also lead the Court in daily exercise routines to keep its members fit and virile.

The Court needs both nutritional food and a French perspective on any case that involves fashion. Who better than Julia Child, a television star whose recipes called for pounds of butter and other forms of fat. So the food will be delightful, but not necessarily healthful. And Julia is not French.

If ever there was a time in the current moments of history when we could benefit from a poet, it’s now. Wendell Berry is that candidate. Not only is he a poet, but he is also an essayist and novelist. He’s also a farmer. The wisdom he possesses from the written word and the dirt that hosts our food, makes Mr. Berry an excellent nominee.

To have George Carlin be part of this august body is a no-brainer. He’s smart. He’s funny. And he is one of those willing to call a spade a spade. And if he has to bury a hatchet, it will be buried directly into the back of a head belonging to a bigoted idiot.

Carl Sagan possessed unmatched intelligence. Curious, the scientist looked in every direction to find answers to the world’s problems. He encouraged people to spend time in the library looking for the information that would be needed to form valid opinions about the world and its disputes.

A holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel has spent his life seeking justice for those being treated unjustly. His life reflects his unbounded empathy for the disenfranchised and his sense of history proves that we must read and understand it to ever discover our potential.

Nelson Rockefeller was the last man who made the Republican party make any sense. He was fiscally conservative and socially liberal. He also owes me the dime he borrowed in 1976 to make a telephone call. He was a cool guy whose best friend was the jazz vibraphonist Lionel Hampton.

So this rogue’s gallery I’ve assembled needs some reining in to advance the rule of law in these United States. Who better than Mr. Rogers to serve as Chief Justice? Kind, soft-spoken, and down-to-earth, he expresses those qualities to help generate our own goodness.

So there’s my Supreme Court. Oyez, oyez, oyez.

Photo manipulation by Courtney A. Liska

Cioppino

Every Italian chef has his or her own cioppino. Whatever you do, make sure you’re using fresh fish and plenty of spice.

1/4 cup olive oil
1 small carrot, chopped
1 small yellow onion, chopped
1/2 green bell pepper, chopped
2 ribs celery, chopped
5 cloves garlic, chopped
1 small serrano chile
1/2 bunch fresh basil, chopped
1/2 bunch fresh oregano, chopped
1/2 teaspoon fennel seeds
1 1/2 teaspoons black peppercorns
1 bay leaf
1/2 bottle good red wine
2 teaspoons red wine vinegar
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
2 teaspoons hot sauce (recommended: Tabasco)
10 cups canned pureed tomatoes, about 5 (15-ounce)
8 cups fish stock
1 pound manila clams, scrubbed
1 pound mussels, scrubbed, debearded
1 pound uncooked large shrimp, peeled and deveined
1-1/2 pounds assorted firm-fleshed fish fillets such as halibut or salmon, cut into 2-inch chunks

For the tomato base: In a large pot, heat the oil over medium heat and add the carrots, onions, peppers, and celery, and saute until tender, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, chile, herbs, and seasonings and cook until fragrant. Add the wine, vinegar, Worcestershire, and hot sauce and reduce until the liquid is almost evaporated. Add the tomatoes and all of the fish stock, bring to a boil, reduce to a simmer, and cook for 1 to 1 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally. Strain through a fine strainer, discarding the solids. Return to heat. Add seafood and cook until the shrimp are pink.

It was mere weeks after moving here thirty years ago that we began echoing the disdain our new-found friends had for tourists—tourons, in the local vernacular. Few of our new friends made their livelihoods directly off the visitors who seem to pack the town and clog the streets from June through September, that latter month devoted to the newlyweds and nearly deads who wait for the children to return to the classroom before venturing into a world populated by people in Bermuda shorts with cameras hanging from around their necks.

I never could have imagined that some ten years later I would be the chef/owner of a restaurant which relied heavily on those four months of tourism trade to help offset the winter’s dread.

Being a local business was a high priority. I didn’t want to cater to the tourists and ignore the locals who would sustain the business year round—those who would brave the snows to have a plate of pasta and a glass or two of wine. It was a good decision. When I shuttered the place after almost twelve years it was the customers at the tables and the heat of the kitchen that I knew I would miss the most.

I wasn’t wrong.

If there was a third thing to miss, it would be the funny stories and the insights into the human condition that can be gleaned from observing people who have chosen to step out of their element in pursuit of adventure. One of the big questions that emerge from these observations is how some of those people manage in their real lives if they can’t quite handle the rigors of a vacation. The stress of sightseeing alone is enough to drag a family of four into a brawling afternoon of Sturm und Drang.

I might have mistakenly referred to our tourist population as being clad in Bermuda shorts. This being Montana, the cowboy look prevails. Stetson hats, Levi’s, snap-button Western shirts, and Tony Lama boots. The boots are decorated with leather inlays of cacti—boots that have never seen the wet middle of a cow pie.

As it happens, I know several cowboys. Their costumes consist of well-worn jeans, a T-shirt that may or may not host an advertisement (same as the baseball cap) and Timberland work boots with a length of duct tape around the sole and arch.

The best “I’m not from around here” award goes to a man wearing a black satin cowboy shirt with silver trim and fringe. He looked like a goth Christmas decoration. He was with a couple of other people, and they ordered turkey sandwiches and a bottle of Barolo. The wine cost $140 and was the most expensive on my wine list. Naturally, the fringe guy paid with a black American Express card. The card has no credit limit and people have used it to buy hotels and yachts.

They left and there was about an ounce or two of the Barolo left. I carefully divided it into two glasses for me and the waitress. We both spit it out immediately. It was corked and tasted like vinegar.

I suddenly didn’t feel too bad about not having a black AmEx card.

Steaks were never much featured on my menus but there is a certain expectation of having steak when visiting a state with more steers than people. The steak I liked the best was a thick-cut T-bone that had come from an Italian breed (Piedmontese) that had been imported to Montana. I char-broiled the seasoned steak and garnished it with a sprig of rosemary dipped in olive oil.

The order came in for the steak, well-done, with a Port wine reduction. No chef likes to be told how to prepare a dish. It’s one of those things that you just have to get used to. I wouldn’t have prepared the sauce even if I had any Port wine. He later told me that it was the best steak he’d ever had, despite it being over-cooked.

For the record, I once couldn’t provide ketchup to Matt Damon because I didn’t have any. He lived.

One customer once wanted to know how long my spaghetti was. Until that moment I didn’t know it was twelve inches long and I will never know why he wanted to know. Does it matter?

We had a woman with a gaggle of children who stormed out in a huff because the little brats wouldn’t eat anything but French fries, another menu item I never had.

We had kind of a fussy woman one time who asked way too many questions about where we sourced our food and if it was organic. She quit asking questions when my waitress couldn’t keep from laughing when the customer asked if our zucchini was free-range.

Any business inside a tourist zone is peppered with questions about the local environs. For the most part, we’re pretty proud of where we live and will answer to the best of our abilities.

We’ve also been asked if we could fax a document. One guy wanted to buy a large piece of art we were showing; he changed his mind when I told him he would have to arrange for its delivery. I always liked those who came into an Italian restaurant claiming to be allergic to garlic and onions.

And then there was the guy who wondered why we didn’t have trout on the menu.

“The Yellowstone River is just a few blocks away,” he noted. “You could catch a few every morning and cook them up.”

Uh, no.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Swordfish Syracusa

This is a delightful grilled fish from Sicily. It allows the meaty flavor of swordfish to shine. Serves two.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/2 celery stalk, finely chopped
1 medium onion, minced
2 Tbs. capers, rinsed
10 large or 20 small green olives, pitted
1# plum tomatoes, peeled, seeded, and chopped
2 swordfish steaks, each 3/4″-thick
Flour for dredging
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 Tbs. white wine vinegar
1 Tbs. minced Italian parsley
1 lemon, cut into wedges

In a skillet, heat olive oil over medium-high heat for 2 minutes; add the celery and onion and cook until soft, about 5 minutes, stirring frequently. Reduce heat to medium; add the capers, olives, and tomatoes, and stir well. After 1 minute, pour in 1/3 cup water, stir, and cook for 10 minutes, or until the liquid in the sauce has reduced somewhat.

Grill the swordfish; sauce; garnish with parsley & lemon wedges. Serve over linguine or boiled rice.

It was sometime in the ‘60s—post-Beatles, pre-Woodstock—that my sister was all riled up about what a huge waste of land burial sites were. With a sense of foot-stomping authority usually reserved for dictators, she laid claim to the fact that all told, cemeteries in these United States took up land equal to the size of Connecticut.

I chose not to engage in her discussion as I was not interested. Also, this was in a time before Google and to gather the information that might be needed to refute her declaration would have taken the better part of a day. It would have meant going to a library and searching painstakingly through the library’s index and then locating the books and finding the answer to said question.

Again, I was not interested.

Given my preoccupation with death and all that goes with it, I knew it was only a matter of time before the subject might arise. Indeed, I happened to find a photograph I took at the Old Jewish Cemetery in Prague, Czech Republic, and I started wondering if my sister’s argument had any merit. The last burial at the Old Jewish Cemetery took place in 1786. Years before, in 1478, another Jewish cemetery was closed; its excavated land becoming what would be called New Prague.

Maybe there was a land shortage and, if so, might the U.S. also be running out of space to bury its dead?

I felt a sense of urgency to discover answers. In fewer than thirty minutes or so, I found out that there are approximately 3.5 million acres in Connecticut and today, so many years after my sister’s posit, I learned that approximately 144,000 acres across the country are devoted to providing a final home for the deceased. Surely there were fewer acres dedicated to the deceased then than there are now. Even if all American cemeteries were in the predominately Presbyterian Connecticut, there’d still be room for the state to supply the world with all the nutmeg we’d ever need.

Land use is no longer much of an issue. Fewer and fewer of us are choosing burial as a final option, instead, going the cremation route or being hoisted high in the air on an elk’s hide to rot under the summer’s sun. Only a handful of us will have our cadavers pushed to sea in a burning boat—kind of an at-sea cremation inspired by the Vikings.

Jews, we are told, are to be buried before the first sundown following our death. We are also told not to eat pork or shellfish. At a local restaurant the other day, three of us Jews had clam chowder soup. There was bacon.

Not to be too maudlin, but I’ve been wrestling with my wishes about my final resting place.

Burial appeals to me only to the extent that I’d get a tombstone that I could use to inscribe with some final dash of wit and/or wisdom. I’m also claustrophobic and afraid of being buried alive. I know the argument that I’d be dead (unless I’m not) and that there’s nothing more to do than just slowly turn to dust.

But the dust would most likely be trapped in a satin-lined casket and therefore not available to replenish the earth.

Although only three states require that the dead be in some kind of container, the funeral industry presses hard to sell caskets, frequently using sales tactics that make the next-of-kin feel like schmucks because they opted for the pine box.

Fire is another one of my fears. That brings into question cremation. Again, I know I’ll be dead and I’ll not feel anything (unless I do). The problem is that I’m making these decisions while I’m alive and it sends shivers up my spine.

Under no circumstances do I want to be embalmed. I remember the smell of formaldehyde from freshman-year biology. Why anybody would wish to be preserved like a laboratory frog is beyond me.

The idea of turning my death into a crime that a few of my friends could commit appeals to me. They could get together and steal my body from wherever it is and then transport it to some mountain ridge where the bears and the magpies could consider me dinner. Over time, there would be nothing left of me but bones—bones that would be found by some curious archeologist and pondered for several months. Perhaps I’d have been covered with a millennia or two worth of dirt, much like the woolly mammoths.

To be part of scientific discovery appeals to me.

My sister stuck to her disdain of cemeteries and willed her body to science. She had a rather grandiose vision about what her death would provide to the world of medicine. But rather than providing any insights as to how the brain worked (as was her hope), she became a practice body to somebody on the way to becoming a doctor.

But the real benefit of bequeathing your body to science is that when you die, a phone call brings the meat wagon to pick up the deceased and deliver it to some scientific institution. There are no charges for anything once the plan is in effect.

Granted, there are no ashes to put on the mantle; nor are there any comforting words about the deceased that may come up during a funeral.

I don’t want to be buried just so my friends come and lay the occasional flower or wreath against the tombstone. I’m going with the science program. I’m instructing my survivors to erect a tombstone somewhere with some pithy remark that will reflect on a life I’m glad I had.

I just hope that I have enough time left to come up with a suitably entertaining comment.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Mushrooms on Toast

This is a wonderful appetizer, full of the meaty taste of the mushrooms.

2 Tbs. unsalted butter, more as needed
1 pound thinly sliced portobello or cremini mushrooms
1 tsp. chopped fresh thyme
2 small garlic cloves, minced
Salt and pepper
Splash of sherry or Marsala (optional)
¼ cup crème fraîche
4 thick slices country bread, toasted and each slice cut into four points
2 tablespoons chopped parsley

Heat a wide skillet over high heat and add butter, swirling pan. When butter begins to sizzle, add mushrooms and cook over medium heat, stirring, until lightly browned, 6 to 8 minutes.
Add thyme and garlic, and stir to coat. Season well with salt and pepper and continue to sauté for a minute more, then add sherry, if using. Add crème fraîche and let mixture simmer for 2 minutes.
Meanwhile, toast bread slices until golden. Lightly butter them and place on individual warm plates.
Spoon mushrooms and juices over toast points. Top with chopped parsley.