Something Better Left Unknown

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.