Journal

With projections by the U.S. Department of Agriculture that eggs will reach a record high of $37 a dozen by Easter, many Americans are foolishly planning to raise chickens. That same group of Americans, concerned that a 24-ounce caramel, creme de menthe, white chocolate powder, butterscotch, English toffee, peppermint, and white coffee will soon cost $79.50, are considering buying their own coffee plantations in South America or Jamaica.

These people tend to be like the stars of Hallmark Channel movies in which highly motivated, successful businesspeople in New York give up their lavish, Park Avenue lifestyles to become florists or cupcake decorators in dinky towns that celebrate every Christian holiday with fruitcakes and covered dishes.

I once fancied myself a chicken farmer. I was in the fifth grade.

My family had deserted the concrete jungle that was (is) the West Side of Chicago for an idyllic plot of farmland featuring waves of tall grasses that could only remind one of Walt Whitman in one of his more romantic moods.

Although our family “farm” wasn’t all that big, it was potentially big enough to install a commercial operation that would give Tyson a run for its money.

I had no notions of such grandeur. In fact, I had never thought about chickens or eggs unless I was about to eat them. What happened was that in the back pages of Boys Life magazine was an advertisement promising untold riches from raising chickens. I was intrigued and I had in hand the three cereal box tops and $3 cash in took to get, if memory serves, three dozen baby chicks. It might well have been four.

After sending off the remittance, I forgot about the chickens. Of course I failed to mention them to my parents.

My mother rarely greeted me from the front porch as I made my way from the school bus. When she did, it was likely that I had done something terribly wrong. One spring day, I saw my mother standing on the front porch. “There’s a package for you on the back stoop,” she said, her voice in an agitated state. “My chickens!” I shouted.

I ran to the back of the house and sure enough, there were three pallets of squeaking yellow chicks. I tore open the packaging and soon the little birds were running frantically around, pecking at the ground and each other. As I recall, it was quite exciting and amusing.

And then I noticed that my father had arrived on the scene. He was less amused than my mother. He ordered me into his car, and drove me to the library where I spent the next few hours reading about chickens.

I don’t remember much about that research assignment. What I do remember is that chickens tend to stay near the first place they learned was their new home—in this case under the clothesline right outside the back door our of house. I also observed that my chickens are nasty little animals that used to scurry about my mother and attack her ankles. She didn’t care for that.

I used to strew a mixture of grains about the yard twice a day. When the grain was consumed, the chickens would spend the time before their next feeding pecking madly at the ground in search of insects and worms.

I learned that it is a long time before baby chicks will grow old enough to start laying eggs, and that’s only after encounters with roosters. I’m not exactly sure how that works, although I have always been intrigued that in Pennsylvania—it has been rumored that there is an actual law on the books prohibiting men from having sex with chickens. I assume that such activity was prevalent enough to cause the legislature to take action.

From my experience with chickens, they’re not very cuddly and one would not want to try to kiss one. They lose their cuteness in a matter of weeks.

At some point, we had plans to build a coop and fence in a part of the yard in which they could live. That’s when the work begins. Their floors must be kept brushed of droppings and the use of semi-automatic feeders and water dispensers become necessary. As chicken farmers, we never got that far. When chicks had grown to about eight inches in height, my father, early one Saturday morning, told me to get rid of the chickens. “Today,” he added.

We had an old Ford station wagon and, using a broad aluminum scoop, I shoveled the chickens into the back. I then drove to the houses of legitimate chicken farmers and donated to their cause. In five or six trips, we were chicken-free and my mother felt safe to return to drying the family’s clothes outside.

The only evidence of there ever having been chickens was a few shed feathers. And poop. Lots of poop.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Risotto milanese

One of my favorite dishes, we frequently will have this as a main course. I also like to add fresh, chopped mushrooms sauteed during the final steps.

5 1/2 cups chicken stock, preferably homemade
1/2 cup dry white wine
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
1 medium shallot, finely chopped
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 cups arborio rice
Pinch of saffron threads
1/2 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
2 tablespoons chopped flat-leaf parsley

In a medium saucepan, bring the chicken stock to a simmer; keep warm. In a large saucepan, heat the olive oil. Add the shallot, season with salt and pepper and cook over moderate heat, stirring, until softened, about 5 minutes. Add the rice and cook for 1 minute, stirring to thoroughly coat. Crumble the saffron into the wine and add it to the rice. Cook, stirring, until the wine is absorbed. Add 1 cup of the warm stock and cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly, until nearly absorbed. Continue adding the stock 1/2 cup at a time, stirring constantly, until it is nearly absorbed between additions. The risotto is done when the rice is al dente and suspended in a thick, creamy sauce, about 20 minutes total. Season the risotto with salt and pepper. Stir in the cheese, butter and parsley and serve immediately.

There is a daily barrage of imbecilic surveys my computer coughs up. Somebody, somewhere wants to know my least favorite vegetable, my earliest television memory, the first LP I paid for with my own money or the name of the first girl I ever kissed.

I don’t participate in those surveys as I’m suspicious that my answers might create something that will lead to somebody gaining access to my MasterCard account. Since I’ve yet to be hacked as far as I know, I feel safe in answering the questions posed above here: Broccoli, the assassination of John F. Kennedy, “The Shape of Jazz to Come” by Ornette Coleman, and Evelyn (we were in kindergarten).

My coffee mate was attracted to one of these surveys that asked to name airline companies you’ve flown that no longer exist. He thought of Braniff International, a Texas-based carrier that ceased operations in 1982. While never a passenger on Braniff that I can recall, I have flown on Continental, Pan Am, TWA and North Central, the latter of which had a “Herman the duck” logo painted on its tail.

In the 1960s, North Central flew daily round-trip flights from Chicago’s O’Hare to Traverse City, Michigan. The plane it flew was a Convair 440, a twin engine plane whose passengers loaded from the ground and pulled themselves up the steeply tilted aisle. I remember the flights as being slow and bumpy. On one such flight was Allen Funt, founder of the popular television show, “Candid Camera.” We were worried that he was surreptitiously filming something we might have been doing.

Like my friend, I didn’t complete the on-line survey. I was satisfied just with the conjuring of memories.

Another survey question I saw intrigued me even more: “If you were to know the day you were going to die, how and with whom would you spend your last day?”

The question presumes that I will be well enough on my last day to actually do something. In all reality, I’m not particularly healthy enough to do much of anything today. (Dying, I should note, is not on my schedule for tomorrow.) Chances are pretty good that when my time comes, I’ll be strapped to a bed and tethered with any number of tubes.

But I’ll go along with the game and pretend that my last action on earth will involve my breaking the tape in my first, last and only marathon.

But before the starter’s pistol is fired, I will have spent the entire twenty-four previous hours pursuing any number of activities—most of which involve food and wine. I shall not waste even a moment of that time sleeping.

I will insist that my family accompany me on my last day on earth. They are what is most important to me throughout my life, and I want to share with them the activities of my last day. I only wish that I could experience their presumed sorrow. But who knows, maybe I will.

I don’t know where on earth I will take my last breath. I’m hoping it will be in Italy or France.

If Italy is the spot, I want to enjoy espresso in the morning. There is none better. Lunch should be a simple pasta with a boar ragu; an aged Brunello would be a fine accompaniment. If in France, it is a café au lait and a croissant with jam to start the day. Lunch will be steamed mussels and sole meuniere. A full-bodied Viognier would be brilliant.

At some point during the day I will spend an hour or so calling old friends to tell them of my coming demise. “We’ll not talk again,” I’ll say. “Tell me a secret I can take to my grave.”

I wouldn’t mind taking in a Cubs game at Wrigley Field or hearing some live jazz in a New York nightclub. I’m pretty sure I would spend a little time with my books, each of which brings me to recall those moments in my life when I spent reading them. Others are left unread and will remain so.

The original question can’t be answered because only those awaiting execution know that precise time they will die. They’ll likely spend the day before doing nothing different than many other days before.

I don’t know that I would want to know the answer to the question.

Some things are better left unknown.

Photo artistry by Courtney A. Liska

Roast duck (Pečená kachna)

My maternal grandmother was a terrific cook. Roast duck was one of her specialties. Braised red cabbage and bread dumplings should round out the meal.

1 whole duck, 5-6 lbs.
1 Tbs. kosher salt
2 tsp. whole caraway seeds

Rinse the duck well under cold running water. Dry with paper towels. Cut the wings off.
Salt generously on all sides. Pour the salt into the belly cavity as well. Rub the caraway seeds into the skin of the duck.
Put the wings in the bottom of the roasting pan. Place the duck on top of them, breast side down. Cover the pan with a lid and place it in a preheated oven at 325 °F for 2 hours.
After two hours, remove the lid from the roasting dish, turn the duck breast side up. Increase the temperature to 375°F and let the duck roast until a crispy crust forms on the surface. This takes about half an hour.

After two years of cancelled or curtailed holiday plans because of Covid, untold thousands of holiday celebrants this year have had their flights and road trips cancelled because of inclement weather. Covid also plays a part in this year’s holiday season, although the careless among us think differently. No matter what, it just seems increasingly difficult to wish our friends and families a happy or merry anything.

This is the year many of us were looking to celebrate. By mid-morning, the floors should be littered with torn wrapping paper. Whoever is in charge of the day’s feast should be madly figuring out oven times so the turkey and dressing can share that once-a-year time to emerge well heated. The stove top is yet another challenge: seven sides on four burners. Somebody is in charge of seating twelve people on ten chairs.

Mostly, things work out just fine, even if you did forget the yams.

All things considered, we are lucky to have such problems.

While three years of missed celebrations might seem something of a hardship, or at least a bother, we should take a few minutes to think of those whose holiday festivities must be put off because of their commitment to providing services that know no holiday. Yet others have no holiday plans because they are beyond their scope.

Hunger, pain, poverty and loneliness won’t take the day off because it’s Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa or any other of the twelve or so days that are celebrated during this part of the Gregorian calendar. Those are the people who deserve our aid and attention to fully express what every religion demands: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Our nation’s workforce is unfairly asked to sacrifice for others. Most don’t seem to mind. First responders are those most needed as accidents, acute illnesses and natural disasters occur with no warning and no respect for time or place. EMTs, firefighters and police are on the job 24/7 to assure that the public’s health and safety are well protected.

The staffs of our community hospitals are strained, but ever present. Doctors, nurses, aides, housekeepers, administrators and kitchen staff all contribute to assure the well-being of those relegated to hospital rooms. Many of those are left alone—their families in distant places, unable, perhaps, to afford transportation to visit an ailing relative.

Geri retired from Livingston Health Care last year after twenty-five years of service. She started out in Admissions and one Christmas she was required to work. Her lunch break came late in the afternoon and the kids and I, along with my mother, joined her in the basement cafeteria for a dinner of mac ‘n cheese, ham sandwiches on spongy white bread, and canned soup. Of the forty-four Christmases we’ve spent together, that was the most memorable.

Poverty, to me, is the most heart-breaking of reasons for the holidays to be less than joyful. Illness is unpredictable and we face its wrath with no notice. Poverty is shameful. We live in the wealthiest country in the world and yet countless babies, adolescents and elderly go to bed hungry, their prospects for tomorrow no better than yesterday.

My illnesses prevented me from continuing with our volunteering on Christmas to help feed the hungry. It was a satisfying experience as we helped prepare and serve the food at the county fairgrounds to people who were perhaps less hungry than they were lonely. A two-minute conversation with an elderly woman over a hotel pan of mashed potatoes made my day. It might have made hers. I hope so.

The most obvious of our needs for others to lend emergency services should be noted that truck drivers, train and other transportation workers are important to the lifeline we follow. So are grocers and restaurant workers, the latter of which give up holidays to provide service to diners who chose not to celebrate at home—for whatever reasons.

When I had my restaurant, I refused to open on Christmas, Easter or Valentine’s Day. People needed to be home on those days, I thought. At least my staff didn’t need to work on days that should have been spent with family.

My son, Daniel, is a merchant marine who is captain to the voyage that will dock in a day or two in Seattle. His work takes precedence over a holiday that can be spent with his wife a day or so later. I can hear Courtney in the next room, madly wrapping the gifts for her stepchildren—our grand kids. For years Geri and I would be up until two in the morning wrapping and assembling gifts and toys.

The heroes of our holidays are those who give to those who we know don’t but are in need. Volunteer at the food bank, cook for the hungry, drive neighbors to the Elks lodge or American Legion who are trying to make today—and every day—a special time of love and belonging.

For all of my friends and family who celebrate, I wish you each a Merry Christmas. And please remember the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Chocolate Mousse

1 pkg. gelatin in 1/4 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.

We’re on the cusp of the annual appearance of some forty-six holidays celebrating whatever religious sects celebrate such things. Each of them owes an ancestral debt to the pagans, a lively group whose spiritual identity includes trees, fire, ice dancing and potato latkes. They don’t mind it at all if somebody wishes them Happy Holidays.

What all of this means at this juncture of the metaphysical confluence of improbabilities is that we’re expected to go into enough debt to satisfy our gift-giving needs. Being a small part of this capitalistic ritual, I can speak to those who may wish to give me something to celebrate in my case, Hanukkah.

I don’t really want anything. Really. Not a thing.

When senior citizens get together, we talk about our ailments, our children and grandchildren, and about how we’ve accumulated so much crap over the course of sixty or seventy years. We wonder what to do with it, other than leaving it to our children to deal with. During the next five years or so, we can probably get along with nothing more than what we already have. Our children will thank us someday.

To give or not to give, that is the question.

Speaking on behalf of seniors everywhere, I can assure you that we don’t want any sort of kitchen gadgets. We can cook for one or more with everything we already have. The last thing we need is a pasta strainer that looks like a lacrosse stick or a set of color-coordinated cutting boards.

And we don’t want another cookbook. When we want Thai food, we can go to a restaurant. Let them keep the thirty-six herbs and spices needed to create a single dish from that cuisine. There comes a point in one’s life, I’ve noticed, that the weekly menu looks pretty much like last week’s—dishes familiar enough that no written guidelines are needed.

Speaking of books… For those of us who love to read, we don’t need to be gifted with a book that might not pique our interests. A great way to gift a book lover is a gift certificate that covers the average cost of a new book ($30.00). Better yet, a gift certificate for that same amount will buy three or four books at a used bookstore. And that gift can be made really special by taking your book-loving Aunt Alice to the bookstore and then going out for a coffee. Both you and your aunt will enjoy a memorable time together.

There are so many practical gifts that appeal to us old folks: hand sanitizers and lotions come to mind. Note pads and pens, many of which can be found for free at banks and clinics. Some linen papers and envelopes for sending letters to friends and family. Boxed thank-you cards and postcards.

A book of stamps is particularly wonderful.

Gift certificates to the local movie theater are welcomed, as are tickets to the local playhouses’ productions offered by community theater groups. And don’t forget about symphony concerts. A spa day or manicure is always a thoughtful gift.

Of course, payments made to cover utility bills and cell phone charges would be more than welcomed in these hard times. A gasoline fill-up would be greatly appreciated.

Perishables are generally a bad idea, especially if the recipient lives alone and therefor has only a few days to eat the entire banana nut bread. A notable exception is a fruitcake, which is neither perishable nor an actual food item. Jars of fancy preserves or honey are nice, as are gift certificates to a nice restaurant or favorite coffee shop.

When I was a kid, it was common practice to give cartons of cigarettes to friends and relatives who smoked. Holiday-themed editions of the packaging were even printed to lend a certain festivity to the act of smoking. Ho-ho-ho.

Pets are a really bad idea when it comes to gifts.

But whatever you choose to give, make sure it is something you would want because someday it might be yours.

Happy Holidays!

Photo Illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Latkes (potato pancake)
A staple in most eastern European countries, latkes 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.

In just two weeks, the 2022 World Cup final match will be played in the Lusail Iconic Stadium in Lusail, Qatar. At its final moment, all of those whose DNA does not include the soccer chromosome (xyxvy) will cast our collective last “Huh?”

Watching soccer on television is basically all I have done since The Beautiful Game began its quadrennial tournament on November 21. While I’ve enjoyed it, I’m left wondering why. This, after watching about 218 hours of competition, not counting stoppage. In all that time, it’s clear to me that I know about as much about soccer now as I did when I was made an assistant coach of my son’s youth soccer team.

“It’ll be fun,” head coach Jay said to me as he thrust a clipboard and whistle into my chest.

Since we ended every match—win or lose—at Baskin-Robbins, it was fun.

I grew up in the era of assuming that soccer was a Commie sport. I don’t know why. And I don’t know why we never played the game, which is kind of a cross between keep-away and kick ball in which you can’t touch the ball with your hands. The goalie, however, can touch the ball as much as he wants and is allowed to wear gloves the size of catcher’s mitts. He is also required to wear clothes that don’t match any of the other players. Another mystery.

In the meantime, in yet another soccer fashion statement, a goodly number of any team’s players wear smocks that might indicate that they are finger painting between halves or auditioning to become caddies in the PGA. What is with the smocks?

A French man who lived in my neighborhood when I was a kid drove a truck that delivered candy, nuts and packaged cupcakes to various places. His name was Bob, though he was generally called “Frenchy” by the adults in the neighborhood, which was the giveaway to his national origin. The neighborhood kids were always welcome at his corner house to eat day-old product. We’d gather in his basement where, in a corner, was a black-and-white television about the size of a breadbox. It had rabbit-ear antennae with a strip of aluminum foil bridging the span between their ends. Its grainy image was that of Mexican soccer captured through UHF broadcasts from, I’m guessing here, Mexico.

The cupcakes were more important than the games, and so an entire neighborhood of six-year-old Chicago boys remained ignorant of just about every aspect of soccer and slightly under-nourished by the copious amounts of sugar intake.

That all changed when we grew up and had kids of our own. That was when we wouldn’t let our kids know of the pleasure of Hostess products and we made them play soccer because it was slightly less dangerous than football. Soccer took hold of our nation’s psyche as a part of a worldly education, right up there with math, sub-particle physics and other Yuppie concerns; the earliest soccer moms drove Volvos, switching to Dodge Caravans when the need for more gear was noticed. Youth soccer was as PC as one could get in the 1980s.

Next to cricket, soccer is the least understood sport since the Egyptians created badminton. Injuries are a constant, making the whole game seem to be a ballet in which most of the lead dancers fall down. The players are all graduates of Lee Strasberg’s School of Method Acting so it makes it difficult to determine if any injury might be real. Those that seem real is enough to have two trainers come running onto the pitch to render assuring words and Powerade or, in the case of the team from France, assuring words and a choice of three wines—a richly tannic Bordeaux, a fruity Pinot Noir and an elegantly fragrant Viognier.

The referee, who seems as friendly as can be with the players, is equipped with an ear bud and a microphone headset. Offsides is an infraction of soccer rules, but there’s nobody who can give a definition. What happens is that as soon as one of the announcers says somebody is offsides, the referee calls the foul. Or not.

The referee is also able to call a variety of infractions, from tripping, pushing, shoving and various other things that cause a player to crash to the earth. He, although it might be a she, has a little yellow card that looks like a paint chip from Sherwin-Williams. If a player happens to crush an opponent’s knee, that player is shown the yellow card, with a stern warning to stop that kind of behavior. If he crushes the other knee, he is shown the yellow card, followed quickly by a red card. That means the offending player must spend the off-season watching slo-mo replays of the guy getting his knee crushed.

The other players get to spend the off season getting tattooed in Marseilles.

My devotion to The Beautiful Game seems something of a mystery. I love the speed, the tactics, the wanton disregard for rules or safety. I love the fact that each team, recognized by nationality, only needs one native from each country to compete. That means that the rest of the Argentinian team, for instance, can be from Greenland, Laos and the far reaches of Siberia.

Soccer is soon to be over, and I intend to spend the winter studying cricket. Might as well enjoy two sports I don’t understand.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Wine Braised Short Ribs

This is some serious comfort food. Serve with torn pieces of baguettes.

5-6 pounds bone-in beef short ribs, cut crosswise into 2-inch pieces
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
3 Tbs. vegetable oil
3 medium onions, chopped
3 medium carrots, peeled, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
3 Tbs. all-purpose flour
1 Tbs.tomato paste
1750 ml bottle dry red wine (preferably Cabernet Sauvignon)
10 sprigs flat-leaf parsley
8 sprigs thyme
4 sprigs oregano
2 sprigs rosemary
2 bay leaves
1 head of garlic, halved crosswise
4 cups beef stock

Heat oven to 350°. Season short ribs with salt and pepper. Heat oil in a large Dutch oven over medium-high. Working in batches, brown short ribs on all sides, about 8 minutes per batch. Transfer short ribs to a plate. Pour off all but 3 Tbsp. drippings from pot.

Add onions, carrots, and celery to pot and cook over medium-high heat, stirring often, until onions are browned, about 5 minutes. Add flour and tomato paste; cook, stirring constantly, until well combined and deep red, 2-3 minutes. Stir in wine, then add short ribs with any accumulated juices. Bring to a boil; lower heat to medium and simmer until wine is reduced by half, about 25 minutes. Add all herbs to pot along with garlic. Stir in stock. Bring to a boil, cover, and transfer to oven.

Cook until short ribs are tender, 2–2½ hours. Transfer short ribs to a platter. Strain sauce from pot into a measuring cup. Spoon fat from surface of sauce and discard; season sauce to taste with salt and pepper. Serve in shallow bowls over mashed potatoes with sauce.

With more than 600 mass shootings under our collective belt so far this year, it is likely that the powers-that-be won’t recognize that the inherent problem of gun violence is, well, guns.

Misinterpreted readings of the Second Amendment have led to stubborn demands that no law or regulation be enacted that might keep an AR-15 style assault weapon out of the grubby hands of camo-clothed Bubbas playing soldier at Trump-inspired gatherings. They, of course, are the jack-booted players in a game of impotency—their images ludicrous, albeit discomforting, in their posturing before Confederate flags and swastikas.

The real gun violence comes generally in the hands of disturbed, young white males with easy access to weaponry—usually their fathers. Inadvertent patterns have emerged, each tied to a particular setting which shows its participants vulnerable and defenseless.

If Congress, that once passed an assault weapon ban in 1994 under President Clinton and that lapsed under the Bush-Cheney administration ten years later, won’t do anything about legislating gun control, there are other controls that would protect both life and the liberty to arm oneself to the teeth.

From Sandy Hook to Parkland to Uvalde, schools are the frequent targets of mass murderers. Nobody knows why, though it’s likely that the shooter might have had a bad experience in fourth-grade social studies. What’s needed, of course, is to get rid of those places where children once gained an education and suffered only the indignity of crouching beneath their desks in acts of self-preservation in the event of a nuclear attack from any one of our many enemies. Fortunately, most of our enemies don’t have nuclear weapons or, in the case of India, an air force to transport said weapons to any specific target.

The nationwide closure of schools would mean that children weren’t gathered in any single place, which would, of course, not be an attraction to those hoping to deprive others of life and liberty. Unencumbered by any lessons in math or reading, the kids would be free to gather in small clusters that would not attract the attention of mentally ill shooters.

This would make Republicans deliriously happy.

Number one, the under-educated have recently been willing to support the party that promises everything not considered to be socialistic and delivers tax breaks and deferments only to the 1-percent, which is, of course, socialistic in and of itself. Secondly, gun manufacturers would be free to profit without regard to any kind of regulation, including background checks and waiting periods. No longer would gun retailers have to distribute questionnaires to potential buyers that have as a true/false answer to: “Do you wish you could have killed your father before he killed your mother?”

Not all gun shops are inherently evil. The ones where I live cater to hunters. Those on the south side of Chicago or the east side of Cleveland? Not so much.

Owners and sellers of assault weapons represent cowardice and weakness stirring within their damaged hearts.

But enough about schools. Clearly, Walmart and other such outlets offering cheap goods from China have been frequent targets of the armed and deranged. Perhaps it is a reaction to the fashion statements made by some Walmart shoppers. But that shouldn’t matter. If we mandate the closure of such retail outlets, we might save scores of lives of innocent shoppers no longer exposed to gunfire.

Churches and synagogues have become something more than convenient places to assassinate those who believe in something different than a shooter. What more could that be? About fifty percent of the faithful are vulnerable to attack. The rest of us are vulnerable in other locations. Places of worship have to go; they must be closed.

Outdoor concert venues have drawn the ire of a handful of violent murderers worried that the music in a Las Vegas parking lot might not be the preferred choice. Kill the crowd, but don’t shoot the piano player.

There were nearly a half-million of us at Max Yasgur’s farm in the summer of 1969. Nobody died. There were no injuries. At least one woman brought a new life onto a troubled planet.

Peace. Love.

And it seems like we should close down all the bars and clubs and discos—places were people go to have a couple of drinks and dance the night away. Too often, the dance is interrupted by gun shots from those who believe the LGBTQ+ community shouldn’t enjoy the rights of the rest of us. Imagine seeking solace in a place where it’s safe to hold hands with a lover and then be assaulted by a gun-wielding, homophobic maniac.

And there is little assurance of safety in the grocery stores, public parks and dog parks, and the summertime farmer’s markets.

There’s only one element that has changed everything about the lives being lived in today’s America: guns.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ham in Cider (Jambon braisé au cidre)

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

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

By the time you’re reading this, the world, literally, will be immersed in the first World Cup game of a nearly one-month long series of competitions to determine the best soccer team of 2022. Thirty-two countries are represented in a tournament contested with eight round-robin groups followed by a knockout round for 16 teams.

This morning’s match has Ecuador playing Qatar, the “impossibly wealthy” Persian Gulf peninsula that, until 1971 when gas was discovered under the sand, was a last bastion of poverty among the Arab states. Today, the tiny state is one of the wealthiest nations in the world.

FIFA (Fédération Internationale de Football Association) is the governing body of international soccer and is one of the most corrupt organizations known to mankind, barely keeping up to that found in the Trump Administration.

Qatar, which does not have a strong tradition of futbol, wanted to host the World Cup for one obvious reason: money. Despite the country’s wealth, there can never be enough.

Qatar lobbied hard to win the competition. Although the Cup is usually held in summer, Qatar features 100-degree daytime temperatures during that season. No problem. To show its commitment, the tiny country built an outdoor, air-conditioned stadium, more than besting the five-acre tract Liberace kept cool at this Palm Springs estate.

Although impressed, FIFA decided, in its awarding the games to the state, to move the game dates to late fall.

But summertime heat notwithstanding, there were other concerns with awarding the Cup to Qatar. It needed to build seven stadiums and refurbish another. It also needed an entire network of roads and rails to transport fans between the arenas and dozens upon dozens of hotels to house them.

The promise of a $220 billion nation-building project impressed FIFA. So did the under-the-table transfer of unknown millions of dollars to its directors and executives. FIFA leadership has been suspected of corruption, bribery, and vote-rigging related to the election of FIFA president Sepp Blatter. These allegations led to the indictments of nine high-ranking FIFA officials and five corporate executives by the U.S. Department of Justice on charges including racketeering, wire fraud, and money laundering.

What was still missing, of course, was that pesky notion that Qatar had no soccer culture.

To address that issue, Qatar bought the French team, Paris St.-Germain, and started pouring money into a Qatari-owned sports television network by buying up broadcasting rights to European soccer.

Back to the World Cup. Apparently, the powers-that-be failed to recognize the revenue stream that beer sales could create from the millions of beer-loving soccer fans, not to mention the electronic signage that dashes around each arena. So, without owning any of it, they banned the sale of alcohol except in small, designated areas that remind me of the old smoking lounges at American airports.

There are several other restrictions that Islam offers, none better than its ban on homosexual activity. Followers of the faith believe that the entire LBGTQ- community suffers from brain defects. At least one two teams—England and Wales–will a be wearing a “One Love” armband at the Qatar World Cup and are willing to suffer the consequences.

For the record, Qatar’s treatment of women is hardly stellar. And it is rumored that immigrants building the stadiums and hotels were treated like slave labor. There is no record of how many might have died in the process.

Speaking of politics… We’re about 102 weeks away from the next general election and at least once candidate has thrown his red MAGA hat into the ring. This excites all of his followers, with the possible exception of those January 6 insurrectionists who are currently in prison.

By starting this early, the Orange Menace is purposely keeping his name in front of American voters with the help of media that can’t resist reporting his each and every move. Thank God the media at least doesn’t have access to the room with the gold toilet. Left, right and center will keep Trump in the news at every turn, thereby contributing to his rising popularity among voters.

We can be thankful that his kids seem to have faded away, except for occasional news of possible indictments. And half of everybody is pleased that he was re-instated by Twitter.

Though we’re all eager to jump to 2024, we must pay attention to what just happened in the 2022 mid-term elections. Both sides promised the American people the moon, addressing the important challenges that face us as a nation. Now that the Republicans have taken the House by a margin of six, they are eagerly demanding to know, to the penny, how much we spent trying to help Ukraine forces with supplying MREs.

And, lest I forget, the Republicans, first and foremost, need to—finally—find Hunter Biden’s laptop.

If they think he’s that brilliant of a criminal, how can they not think he could figure out a way to dump the laptop into an incinerator that would melt both content and hardware? And how many murderers have failed to notice that the murder weapon could be tossed in a river?

Clearly, the Republican-controlled House needs to start a new search for Hillary’s emails.

Hint: I think they might be on Hunter’s laptop.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Greek Lemon Potatoes

2.5 pound medium-sized potatoes
6 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1-1/2 tsp. dried oregano
4 Tbs. fresh lemon juice
1 tsp. honey
¼ tsp. mustard powder
¼ tsp. garlic powder

Heat oven to 350°.
Peel the potatoes and cut them into wedges about 1.5-inches thick.
Add them to a 11 x 7-inch baking dish.
Drizzle the olive oil on top. Sprinkle the potatoes with the oregano and season them with salt and pepper.
In a small bowl or cup add the mustard powder, garlic powder, honey, and lemon juice. Mix well and pour over the potatoes.
Rub the mixture all over the potatoes. Then pour 1 cup of water into the pan from the side (so you don’t rinse the potatoes).
Cover the pan with aluminum foil. Bake for about 1 hour and 15 minutes..
Remove the aluminum foil and raise the oven’s temperature to 400°.
Bake for another 15-20 minutes until the potatoes get deep golden on the edges.
Remove the potatoes from the oven, cover the pan again and let stand for 30 minutes before serving.

Mssr. S–

Thank you so very much for your recent inquiry about my well being, as well as a cautious reminder that my subscription to your fine journal has expired. The two are intertwined in such a way that demands explanation and I will offer such in a way I hope will explain the intersection of such seemingly unrelated things.

I remembered that when my last volume of the journal arrived, it had a coverlet, which I know is a piece of bedding but still sufficed to tell me that the issue would be the last. I made note of this, entering it into my calendar on the day following what was to be a needed surgery. One never knows what to expect in the wake of a surgery, but the worst-case scenario would have me facing death in spite of whatever chemical concoctions could be offered to delay the inevitable.

In recognition of my advanced years and my effort to be thrifty with whatever limited funds I have at my disposal, I have long ago stopped buying large jars of mayonnaise. The same would apply to any subscriptions I might have. Currently, your journal and The New Yorker are the only two. I have tried to subscribe to a local paper but alas, the 800 number doesn’t work. Such is the way of modernity, I guess.

Anyway, I didn’t hear the results of the surgery until this past Friday, which I found to be an unnecessary inconvenience, not to mention the edge-of-my-seat stress over the matter for that long. To that end, I decided to forgo making any remittance to your publication’s office on the off chance that I might expire before the next issue arrives.

The intervening twelve days between surgery and diagnosis gave me time to become enlightened about stress, something I’ve already mentioned. Somebody whose name I didn’t recognize said “the truth is that stress doesn’t come from your boss, your kids, your spouse, traffic jams, health challenges, or other circumstances. It comes from your thoughts about your circumstances.”

There are a lot of opportunities for dialog in that statement, most of which I disagree with. I have no boss, my kids are grown, my spouse is just fine in spite of a pelvis with multiple fractures, and I no longer drive due to an infirmity of my feet that does not allow me to feel the pedals of an automobile. My health challenges, despite that ridiculous naming, are the only circumstances that are currently driving me to a level of stress perhaps unknown to the universe. They do, however, stem from my thoughts about my circumstances.

To that end, I must admit that my days seem filled with a certain melancholy, heightened, as it were, by my rather arduous schedule of study I’ve undertaken. As you may remember (although why would you remember such an odd fact of my intellectual pursuits?) I’m now in my twenty-third year of my daily dissection of Plato’s Protagoras. It is a painstaking slog I’ve faced that makes me wish I had a formal understanding of the Greek language. Few words seem to be repeated by the twenty-one attendees, despite their shared views about the teachability of virtue. I have come to the conclusion that virtue can be taught, although only by a tenured Hasidic rabbi. However, I’ve still a long way to go and Plato (were there so few people then that a single name was enough?) just might have a surprise ending in store.

Why I chose French to study at the Academy instead of Greek (or Latin, for that matter) remains something of a mystery. It was quite useful in my discovery of Gustave Flaubert’s L’éducation sentimentale (Sentimental Education) and La Tentation de St. Antoine (The Temptation of Saint Anthony). You must admit that Gus really nailed the irony and pessimism stuff that came with the French Revolution of 1848.

And when I decided to cook for myself (good kitchen help is difficult to find, making it impossible to develop the hierarchical brigade de cuisine system) it was the language of France that allowed me to breeze through Escoffier’s Le Guide Culinaire. I can now create souffles and sole meunière with satisfying aplomb (provided I can find sole).

But during the darkness which characterized much of my own existence, there was utter despondency, that sense of loss and little courage to move in the direction of gaining any knowledge of human nature.

And, at last, my doctor gave me a clean bill of health for the tiny part of my body to which he tends.

I asked one of my staff—none of whom possess the skills needed to join my well-imagined brigade de cuisine—to issue a cheque to pay for your journal. On second thought, I will immerse myself into the world of electronics and use my MasterCard to guarantee another two years of delightful reading.

In, the meantime, let’s not forget the words of Fydor Dostoevsy: “Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.”

Whatever.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Sole meunière

Adapted from The Way to Cook by Julia Child.

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

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

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

It’s long been acknowledged that Americans tend to vote their pocketbooks. Ideologies aside, we worry that our wages can’t keep pace with the ever-increasing prices at the gas pump and in the grocery aisles. Therefore, many of our votes go to those whose campaigns promise to keep the cost-of-living increases to a bare minimum and housing starts booming.

Now that we’ve been enlightened by random Google searches, our worries transcend the mere costs of things and offer a view of a larger, more comprehensive picture. Last week, there were respectable polls suggesting that 51 percent of (presumably) eligible voters have as their first political concern, The Economy.

It seems doubtful that The Economy, along with Inflation, at least as viewed in this midterm election cycle, encompasses much more than concern over the cost of a gallon of gasoline or a gallon of milk. While The Economy at once sounds more erudite than lower-case the economy, it just sounds that way. What it represents is, in all reality, very little knowledge of a very complex subject.

I studied economics at the University of Illinois in what seems a lifetime ago. The department wasn’t located in the Political Science Department, but in a separate building across campus, sharing quarters with the College of Capitalism. The Department of Advertising and Marketing were, oddly enough, in the Poly Sci building. My hours in the lecture hall and the handful of papers I wrote earned me the equivalent of a minor in the subject. I was hoping to land a job as an economics reporter at a Pulitzer-winning newspaper. That didn’t happen. I’m glad, in a way, because what I would have brought to such a gig would have been as questionable as my covering the Fairy Dust beat.

In the early ‘70s, the textbook I studied was Economics, an introductory textbook by the American economist Paul Samuelson. The textbook was first published in 1948, and has appeared in nineteen subsequent editions, the most recent in 2009. It was the best-selling economics textbook and still is, despite the number of Nobel Prizes in Economics that have been awarded that must reflect at least some advances in thinking in economics.

What this has to do with Fairy Dust is that an enlightened tract on basic Keynesian economics has maintained its stature despite the award-winning challenges to its very tenets. In other words, there are volumes of information that prove we don’t know squat.

And that’s just among academics. The rest of us don’t stand a chance in hell.

While many of the issues facing us in Tuesday’s election seem simple, black-and-white ballot measures, others require examination of vast gray areas of little concern or consequence. Yet, there they are on the ballots. Each demands our attention and clearly effects The Economy.

For instance, just this morning we had all of our electronic timepieces changed magically by Jeff Bezos. This is a twice-a-year ritual that has us alternately losing an hour of sleep or gaining one. Nobody knows why we do this. This past March, the Senate passed a bill to make daylight savings time permanent—this, despite the increase in potential health risks like obesity and depression. The House chose not to act on the Senate bill because the House can’t even agree on whether indoor plumbing is a good idea.

I’d like this matter to be settled before Spring, so I don’t lose another hour of sleep.

Crime is always an issue, mostly in densely populated cities with rat-infestation problems. Even those of us out here in the boonies are against crime. But which crimes are the politicians talking about? And why do some gun-toting lunatics seem to think that crimes committed while armed should be met with the citizen good guys shooting the bad guys. This is why we have cops.

Speaking of narcotics, both of the Dakotas are considering if recreational pot use should be legalized. I’ve traveled through both of the Dakotas countless times. Legalizing pot could only help.

Congress seems to be pushing items off of its legislative agenda and onto the local ballot boxes.

Can’t some elected official in Washington decide what music should be played at State dinners?

And why is it up to us to decide if saucers filled with a lethal mixture of Mountain Dew and arsenic are an acceptable way to kill cockroaches? Is it because they don’t want to be blamed for the inadvertent deaths of house cats?

What about flies? Show me one politician who would address the issue of Fall flies—those tiny little buzzing bastards—and I’ll show you a politician we’d all want elected.

I realize that what I am proposing might be seen as an effort to weaken the First Amendment, but can’t we figure out some way to make racism and antisemitism illegal? Maybe if we’re not allowed to be a racist, in a generation or two it might have faded away. Currently, it seems the biggest cost of being a bigot is to be suspended temporarily from your job and losing your Twitter account and a few endorsement deals.

And I can’t think there’s a Jew alive who would care be part of a community outreach with Kyrie Irving. I believe that no amount financial loss or in-service hours can erase the fact that Mr. Irving has already shown us his true colors.

Finally, on the issue of abortion, most Americans want Roe v. Wade to be upheld. Not most Democrats, Republicans, or Independents; most Americans. Period. That reflects a political stance of not listening to one’s constituents, and not believing that women are fully capable of making their own decisions about their reproductive health.

Like the whole LGBTQ thing: It’s none of the government’s damn business.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Ribollita

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

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

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

There are two realities that are unwelcome in my wheelhouse.

The first is to learn that European cars are now generously equipped with cup holders. The second is to be referred to a urologist for further investigation of trace amounts of blood in one’s urine.

A third, though not promised in this essay’s lede, is to learn that Kanye West, now known as Ye, is in your outer office waiting to talk about his branded Yeezy shoes. An outspoken antisemite, Ye has tweeted that he was “going death con 3 On JEWISH PEOPLE.” This was an apparent reference to the U.S. military’s DEFCON 3—an increase in force readiness. Where do these people come from?

Okay, so the third didn’t happen to any of us, except the Skechers folks in Los Angeles. The first two, however, happened to me.

As a longtime partisan against cup holders I would play the defiant role in suggesting that Europeans were considerably more elegant and civilized in their consumption of liquids. While Americans were wildly celebrating a plethora of such conveniences by up to 17 such cup holders in a single vehicle that could host ten more holders than passengers, Europeans were insistent on stopping a road trip multitude times to sip as espresso and ingest a light snack while standing at a tall-boy table in the shadow of the gas pumps.

“How long will it take to get to Normandy?” I asked my son’s mother-in-law in her suburban Paris home.

“It depends on how many times we stop,” she said, somewhat incredulously.

If memory serves, we stopped four times, thereby doubling the travel time to our destination. We weren’t after all, in any kind of hurry. I enjoyed the refreshments and noticed that there were no Big Gulps in sight.

My son and his wife spent the month of September in France, dividing their time between family homes in Paris and Picardy. I was jealous, recalling my own times there that were nothing short of wonderful. I remembered during my time there—as well as in Italy—that none of the compact vehicles in which we traveled had cup holders.

“That’s not true anymore,” my son informed me, as he drove me to my appointment at the Perioperative Services Clinic.

I was crestfallen. Maybe even more than when I discovered an American-inspired supermarket in Mers les Bain. It’s where the six of us stopped on our way to Normandy to buy bottled water, which had to hold in hand because there were no cup holders. Near the front of the store was like a store within a store. Meats, cheeses, bread, and wine were displayed where older French people shopped for what I assume were their daily meals.

It’s how Geri and I dined when we spent a week in Paris 45 years ago, staying in a fifth-floor walk-up in the Latin Quarter. I would rise each morning to roam the streets of the West Bank in search of open markets to buy the wine, sausage, cheese and a fresh baguette for our own moveable feast. We’d spend the day going to museums and galleries before trudging up the stairs in late evening to have our dinner sitting on the rickety brass bed and laughing about the four different wallpaper designs that passed as décor.

I’m glad I have that memory of romance in the City of Light.

The visit to the Clinic followed an earlier procedure called a cystoscopy–a test that allows the urologist to look inside the bladder using a teeny camera called a cystoscope. Think of Clark Gable peering into the periscope of the submarine in Run Silent, Run Deep.

The results of that test proved inconclusive. It was determined by the doctor that I have a procedure called a TURBT, which suggests to me a model of an early 60s Plymouth. Actually, it stands for Transurethral Resection of Bladder Tumor. From what I can ascertain, it’s more elaborate than a cystoscopy. It also must hurt like hell because I will be knocked out—an epidural to keep me from kicking anybody while prostrate on the operating table, and something else to keep my top half from twitching uncontrollably. Or caring, for that matter.

When I awake, I will have a new friend called a catheter. It will be draining into a colostomy bag that will collect, well…you get the point. Apparently, this inconvenience will be for a mere ten days until I see the urologist again.

During that time, I’m to live a leisurely life. I do that already without having to tend to the two bags—one of which will sit upon my lower leg like a shin guard; the other hanging from my bed.

When you first hear the word “tumor,” the mind begins playing tricks. I think a different sort of mind game is played when you hear the word “cancer.” I’d like not to know.

In the meantime, I’m reminded of an old joke about a woman’s hesitancy to wear a colostomy bag because she couldn’t find shoes to match.

Photo illustration by Courtney A. Liska

Rillettes

A delightful addition to any charcuterie board, rillettes is easy to make and wonderful spread on small toasts.

1 pound lard
3 onions, chopped
One 4 to 5 pound boneless Boston butt pork roast
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
5 cloves garlic, chopped
1 celery stalk, halved
1 quart chicken stock
1 cup white wine
2 sprigs fresh thyme
2 bay leaves
1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

Melt the lard in a large enameled cast-iron pot with a lid over moderate heat. Add the onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are very soft and translucent, about 10 minutes. While the onions are cooking, cut the pork into large pieces and season with salt and pepper.

Add the pork to the pot along with the garlic, celery, chicken stock, wine, thyme, bay leaves, and pepper flakes. Increase the heat to medium-high and bring to a gentle boil. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and slowly simmer for 3 hours.

Remove the pork from the pot and place in the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, and mix on low speed.

Remove and discard the celery, thyme sprigs, and bay leaves from the pot. Slowly add the remaining broth from the pot to the meat in the mixing bowl, continue mixing on low speed until all the broth has been incorporated back into the meat. Season with salt and pepper. Pack the cooled pork in a terrine or in small, sterilized jars. Cover well and refrigerate. Jarred rillettes will keep for 6 months.