Maybe if we put on a better show they wouldn't hate us so much.

      Lots of feedback to Monday's column about the Chicago Quantum Exchange at the University of Chicago, interviewing its director, David Awschalom. Somehow, this email stood out, from a medical doctor:

     Mr. Steinberg,
     If Dr. Awschalom is of our faith, it would have been an appropriate mention given the context of your article.
     All efforts to remind others of our worth, our contribution to society would be a benefit in this era of overt prejudice and anti-semitism.
     My thoughts are a sad commentary of our times.
     Sincerely,
     Lewis C., MD

    While Dr. C.'s remark appeared in my spam folder — he must have said something annoying in the past, though I can't recall what — it touched on a pet peeve of mine, and I thought it deserved a response:  

   Dear Dr. C:
    I disagree wholeheartedly. I don't have many personal rules of conduct, but one ironclad stricture is: don't write for people who hate you. The Jews constitute 0.2 percent of the world population, yet make huge contributions to most realms of culture and science, far outstripping our numbers. Either someone knows that already or they never will.  
    You are giving antisemites too much credit. There is an assumption in your suggestion that is common, and I would argue against: that people who are prejudiced reach that point by weighing reality, assessing the facts before them before coming to their conclusions. Just the opposite: they blinder themselves with their bigotry, and cherry pick what facts support them, when they're not fabricating calumnies out of whole cloth. 
   I see this attitude sometimes if I write about something that departs from the traditional practices of our faith —eat a pork chop, for instance. I'll hear from Jews frantic to put on a good show for the goyim. I guess we need to be all exemplars of our religion. Guess what? We don't.   
     Given the sort of people who go about unashamed, I don't see why I, or you, or Dr. Awschalom, can't do the same. I didn't mention his faith because it wasn't germane — he's not refugee, yet. Though the way our country is going, I could see that happening — no matter how many Jews are making the world a better place — so perhaps I'll have reason yet to mention his religion, prior to his fleeing to the relative safety and tolerance of a nation such as Germany.
     Thanks for writing.
     Neil Steinberg 

     I assumed it would end there — discussion doesn't seem high on anyone's list anymore. But Dr. C. did reply, in a thoughtful way that deserves sharing.

     I appreciate the eloquence and contents of your comments. However, there is a reversal, a stirring exhibited within the American Jewish communities.
Whereas until recently, we hid our Jewishness on campuses or walking down Michigan Avenue so as not to be the recipient of the wrath from irrational bigots, we now have struck a tone of “ here we are and we’re proud of who we are”.
     I do agree there was no natural transition to add the religion of Dr. Awschalom in a seemless way into your column.
     The newsroom guys, the medical colleagues, the factory workers, the small shop owners, the Amazon Prime drivers, the waitresses, the police, the construction workers, the housewives — it is directed toward them, a silent majority, that the Dr. Awschaloms of the world are the shining light, the vibrancy of our religious culture and invent the insanely brilliant stuff that benefits humanity.
     Thank you for reading this.

     It broke my heart, a little, to read that, the old-style notion of blue collar America nodding in admiration of the Jewish molecular physicist changing the world. Maybe they do — I can't speak for them. But looking at the politics of the moment, it's hard to imagine. 

     In my view, the religion would be buoyed, not by more public scientists, but by emphasizing the Jewish truck drivers, waitresses, police, construction workers, etc. — salt-of-the-earth sorts automatically admired in a way researchers are not. It dislodged an old memory. The Chicago Police Department has a Jewish chaplain, Moshe Wolfe. Intrigued by the idea of Jewish Chicago cops, I got him on the phone, and asked him to be the focal point on a story. He flatly refused — not so much because he's Jewish, I believe, but because he's a cop. The code of silence, remember, isn't just about bad apples. It's about everything. A Chicago Police Officer wouldn't want to be subject of a story about rescuing a kitten from a tree — anyone who stands up is hammered down. Not courage in the way I understand it. The whole thing struck me as very sad. 

     

Chicago's quantum computing center a benefit of tolerance

     Seeing that Chicago is the epicenter of a major effort in the future of technology, at the very moment our government is waging a glittery-eyed war on science, I checked in with the man coordinating it all.
     What's going on?
     "In the last couple of decades, scientists and engineers have been able to engineer the way that matter behaves at the atomic scale," said David Awschalom, a professor of molecular engineering and physics at the University of Chicago. "We can take the rule of nature and develop a new technology, which has unusual properties, while common in the atomic world, we don't see every day, like entangling bits of information, or thinking of a bit as not just a zero or one but an infinite combination of the two."
     While those with knowledge of physics are collecting their jaws off the floor at the suggestion of practical applications of entanglement and departure from the binary 0 or 1 holy writ of the digital age, I'll point out that Awschalom is director of the Chicago Quantum Exchange, a massive initiative based in Hyde Park but involving Argonne National Laboratory, Fermi National Accelerator Laboratory, the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign and more — over 60 partners.
     "This could really be a new way for universities, national laboratories and companies to all work together at the birth of a new technology to move discoveries rapidly into society," he said.
     One way to conceive of what this is about is to consider the first sustained nuclear reaction — Dec. 2, 1942, also at the University of Chicago. If that was harnessing the energy locked in an atom, this is finding a way to access the information hidden within.
     "It's possible now to take a number of quantum bits, entangle them with one another and share a single bit of information," Awschalom said.
     Today, if you order your dog pajamas for Christmas on Amazon, your credit card number passes through intermediaries, where it can be stolen. But someday it could be sent directly, via entanglement.
     "A special link between two points," Awschalom said. "You could transmit information in a secure way."
     The strings of 0s and 1s are shattering into an infinite set of values, "like a miniature gyroscope you can spin in all three directions." Navigation could no longer need satellites orbiting the globe but use the earth's magnetic field, the way birds do.
     "This is important given the number of spoofing attacks on commercial aircraft," Awschalom said. "If you had a quantum system, it's safe."
     Plus the creation of very small computers would reduce the enormous amount of electricity artificial intelligence currently requires.
    The question that always fascinated me about Fermi splitting the atom in 1942 was: "Why here?" Why perform an experiment that Edward Teller worried might set the atmosphere on fire in the middle of a crowded college campus in the nation's second-largest city?
     The top reasons are gloriously random. For starters, Columbia University tried to split the atom first. But their uranium wasn't sufficiently pure, and the experiment failed. And they were building a lab to do the deed southwest of the city, in the Argonne Woods. But a labor dispute shut down the work and, with a war on, the empty space at Stagg Field was pressed into service.

     So why is quantum computing happening here? Did Caltech and MIT drop the ball?
     "It's not the weather," said Awschalom, who left California to come here. "This part of the country just collaborated beautifully, quickly, with support, from the mayor at the time." Rahm Emanuel, if you've forgotten that a mayor can draw business to the city as well as drive it away. Gov. JB Pritzker was an early advocate.
     Strong community colleges are also key, supplying workers for the hundreds of thousands of "really interesting, high-paid, high-tech jobs" that might come from "scalable atomic-size technologies."

To continue reading, click here.

How to unfreeze a cheesecake

      "Ross is making us cheesecake," my daughter-in-law announced bright and early Saturday, as the snow gently fell. "The breakfast of champions."
     "It sure is in this house," I said, approvingly. 
     My older son is a gourmand — he not only notches Michelin stars on his belt like an astronomer surveying the skies on a clear night, but also cooks and bakes. One visit he whipped up a croquembouche, which I couldn't pronounce, never mind conceive of preparing — though I ate some easily enough.
     Not that he was "making cheesecake" in the sense of combining ingredients in a bowl and baking a cheesecake. That would be crazy, particularly when the superlative cheesecake in the world, Eli's, was waiting in the freezer, ready to be roused from frozen slumber. I noted, with concern, that he chose to breathe life into their pair of slices — one classic, one mixed berry —through the wonder of microwave technology.
     Now microwaving is fine for, say, heating up yesterday's coffee. I did so this morning. But, as a semi-official representative of the Eli's Cheesecake Company — their 13th season of advertising on this blog began last week — I must express disapproval of the idea of thawing a cheesecake by microwave. The box instructs patrons lucky enough to find themselves in possession of an Eli's cheesecake to thaw it by either allowing the cake to sit in the refrigerator overnight, or by placing it at room temperature for three hours.
    Strategies which posed insurmountable problems to a person, such as myself, who, inspired by the notion of cheesecake for breakfast, wanted cool and delicious Eli's cheesecake now. Not in three hours. And especially not tomorrow morning.
     So I decided, against my better judgment, to experiment with the microwave method. My wife suggested the gradual approach. I put it for just 10 seconds. There was still frost on top. Another 10, and it seemed frozen. A third 10 seconds, which had to be sufficient.
     I set it out with a cup of hot coffee. The tip was warm — not the ideal cheesecake experience. But the whole thing was not ruined — most was cold, though parts were still frozen. I still ate the slice in short order.
     I would be ashamed, as a semi-official representative of Eli's, to admit this folly on my part. But I'm sharing it because I believe it speaks to an important truth. Two important truths, in fact. 

     First, most everything good in life requires planning. You, reading this, probably cannot eat some cheesecake right now, no matter how much you want to, because you haven't any in your freezer, despite years of reading this blog and having the centrality of cheesecake to a life well-lived drilled into you. No shame there ... well, not too much shame ... okay, some shame because, really, aren't you paying attention at all? 
    No harm though — your current cheesecakelessness can be easily remedied by clicking on the Eli's web site and ordering one, or several, right now, whisked to your house through the wonder of dry ice technology. There isn't much you can do to fix the world right now. But you can have a slice of cheesecake. It'll help. Trust me on that.
     But even if, like me, your freezer is well-stocked with Eli's, a second factor comes into play: Don't do things half-assed. Be patient. Do it right. A slice of classic Eli's cheesecake is a superlative sensual experience. One doesn't rush it. Screw microwaves. Wait. Be patient. Let it properly thaw, in the refrigerator overnight or, in a hurry, with three hours on the counter. What's your rush, bub? You'll be dead and forgotten soon enough. As will I, as will everybody. 
     But we are alive, right now, given a fleeting opportunity to live our lives to the fullest, and part of that is indulging in cheesecake for breakfast. 
     As part penance, part celebration, I removed a second superlative slice of classic Eli's cheesecake and put it in the refrigerator. There it thawed gradually, as God intended. Sunday morning I first spent a delightful 20 minutes singing and talking to the baby, then patted my column into shape, then rewarded myself by padding down to the kitchen and pulling open the refrigerator. There was the slice of Eli's classic cheesecake, smiling right at me. I grabbed a fork. Mmmm, let's just say, worth the wait.

    

'The worst of the worst'

"Public Notice 3," by Jitish Kallat (Art Institute of Chicago)

      This is the Golden Age of Stupidity. Or is it the Renaissance of Ruthlessness? The Heyday of Hypocrisy? No reason it can't be all three, with an unhinged, jabbering dupe of a president, served by a growing army of craven underlings, hand-picked for their servility. Unfettered by the counterbalances and restraints the Founders intended to keep a president in check. Having himself fomented the worst act of rebellion since the Civil War, he dares fling out the word "treason" like spittle off the lips of someone having a seizure. Just one drop of venality in a continual downpour.
    No matter. It's still good to say it, loudly and clearly, from time to time. Not because doing so represents anything new. Or does any good, except remind ourselves that, no matter how accepted it has become to many, despite the silent chorus of shrugs, this is all still unacceptable. Still very wrong. This is a continuing, grotesque abuse and departure from cherished American norms. Not just another Tuesday.

     Particularly the ICE kidnappings — less prominent in Chicago the past few weeks, true, but still growing, as more masked thugs are hired, more detention camps built. Lives are being upended, parents torn from children, hard-working immigrants exiled even as they try to follow the law. 
     Yes, as the months grind on, it becomes difficult — first because one has to wonder, "What is the point?" — to find new ways to convey the venality, the gaslighting, the cruelty, the hypocrisy, the lies, the incompetence, the self-dealing, the corruption.
     Not that I am alone here. I'm blessed with smart, well-spoken readers, in the main. Yes, there are the denizens of the spam folder, vomiting back whatever Fox News told them last night — they care very much about the letter of the law, when it comes to immigrants, but when you wonder why that love of legality doesn't translate to their beloved leader's constant, blatant criminality, they flutter away. I spend little time reading their outpouring, less reacting to it, though occasionally I'll toss out a canned, "The scorn of traitors is praise to a patriot" or "It might come as a shock, but the low opinion of a dupe in thrall to a traitor doesn't carry the sting you seem to imagine it might."
     But the bulk reflects the unease, pain, despair, insight of intelligent people confronting a nation gone mad. One cogent blog reader left this comment, anonymously, and in case you missed it, I want to highlight it today, because it has truth and brevity:

I don’t really know the ‘crime’ business…but, I’m guessing that anyone who is good at it … you know, the worst of the worst … they’re probably not out mowing lawns or shoveling show. I don’t know…it’s just a guess.

     That's it, right? No more need be said. Today anyway. As for tomorrow...

Flashback 2012: This Christmas, give the gift of jerky

 ;

   My brother and I drove to the Upper Peninsula in early October, as usual. And, per tradition, stopped at Held's in Slinger, Wisconsin to load up on their magnificent jerky. And yes, I noted, with approval, this column, framed, and smiled thinking of the time I drove up with my pal Rory, and he tried to explain to the guy in an apron behind the counter that this jammoke standing next to himwas the self-same author of that very column. Which of course could not be conveyed, no matter how hard he tried, since the media is produced by some malign secret force laboring far, far away, not by anybody who might be standing here, in Slinger's, before the cases stuffed with sausage and bacon and jerky. 

     Friday is the day that our holiday buying frenzy traditionally begins . . . well, it used to be Friday. Now it seems Black Friday has become unhinged from its usual location on the calendar and is wandering back in time, to Thanksgiving and beyond, on its way towards Veterans Day, heading toward some dystopia of continual shopping.
     Horror. If you’re like me, it’s hard enough to shop in an empty store, with a clerk smiling at you expectantly while you browse undisturbed. The prospect of plunging into some sea-of-humanity chaos, fighting to snag $50 off a vacuum cleaner, is unimaginable. But hard times make for hard choices, and I don’t want to pooh-pooh anybody motivated to save money on a big purchase. You do what you must, and if you’re dabbing the scratches on your face with iodine, I don’t want to compound your discomfort by snickering in the background. Nice off-brand home theater sub-woofer system. Use it, as my mother would say, in the best of health.
     For those of us squeaking by, however, holiday shopping is not so much about getting an even bigger flat-screen as finding the obligatory love token to serve up to our significant other to prove that, despite everything, our passion has not eroded over the years but remains as bright and fierce as ever, as proven by this . . . um . . . ah . . . nicely wrapped . . .
     That’s the rub, isn’t it? Each person has his or her own set of expectations and desires, and your job, as a conscientious loved one, is to somehow figure them out, Carnac the Magnificent-like. I’ve written before that gift-giving is really a yearlong job, 12 months of constant attention, of careful observation, waiting for the small pout, that “Oh I really shouldn’t,” sigh as she sets it reluctantly back on the shelf, then noting the exact type/size/brand, rushing back to snap it up and tuck it away.
     Not that it’s always that easy. Last year, my wife admired a certain smart, black, wool, winter jacket at Macy’s. Very French, very ooh-la-la. But the price — whatever it was, a couple hundred dollars — was far too expensive compared to the minimal Kohl’s and T.J. Maxx double digit prices she’d trained herself to spend on just about everything.
     As she stepped away, I grabbed the coat, feverishly studied the label like a secret agent memorizing a code, then tripped off after her.
     It took me a day or two to get back to Macy’s. And in the meantime — and this will sound like comic exaggeration — they got in a massive shipment of smart, black, women’s wool coats. The floor was filled with them, rack after rack. I stood there, mouth agape, at this expanse of coats, then plunged in, like one of those thriller movies when the detective is chasing a porter who disappears into a mob of porters on a train station platform, and the private eye grabs each by the shoulder, spinning him around, gazing at each face while other porters, hunched, push past.
     Eventually — and I think it took the better part of an hour — I found what I thought was the right coat and had it boxed and wrapped and hidden away. Of course it wasn’t the right coat — or my wife just changed her mind, the prerogative of beautiful women, true, but a disappointment nonetheless.
     You want something desired but hard-to-find, needed but not bought already.
     The only gift suggestion I have this year — and I suppose this is more for guys than gals — is beef jerky. Not the standard gift, I grant you. But I keep thinking about this place, Held’s, in Slinger, Wisconsin. For the past few years, driving up 41 to Lake Superior, we’ve stopped by their hard-to-miss store — the company is family owned since 1886 — and bought a big chunk for the weekend. A pound of this stuff looks like something that slipped out of Rooster Cogburn’s saddle bag, deep brown on the outside, reddish brown inside. It comes in regular, spicy, teriyaki, barbecue, black pepper, hot Jamaican; $17.75 a pound.
     “It tastes like a burned-down house,” said a friend, summarizing it perfectly.
     “It tastes like tree bark,” said my son, who at 15 lacks the well-practiced determination needed to chew through the stuff, though if you slice it thin enough, it’s quite good.
     When I was there last, a slip of paper said the jerky is available for mail order, and I thought, “The perfect Christmas gift.” Some tiny part of us all wishes we could take a break from the routine and responsibility of living in the Chicago metroplex, to escape to the comfortable flannel freedom of Wisconsin, to don antlers and caper in forest clearings at midnight, howling at the moon, as Badger staters are known to do. Beef jerky from Held’s seems a way to approximate that.
     Anyway, the website is heldsmarket.com, or call (262) 644-5135. Though do exercise discretion. I thought of buying a hunk of jerky for my wife but realized that would be more unwelcome than nothing, and I’d have trouble returning it. Good luck, and if jerky doesn’t work, my suggestion is: Don’t procrastinate. Figure it out now, because it’ll only get more difficult and expensive, as life tends to do.
     —Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 23, 2012

Home

     "Home," Robert Frost once wrote, "is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."
     From his heartbreaking "The Death of the Hired Man," a short story, really, a farm couple sitting on the front porch, talking about Silas, the ne'er-do-well who works for them, sometimes. A refutation to all those who dismiss Frost as a greeting card poet of snowy evenings and yellow woods. (Along with "Out, Out—" a poem about a boy who feeds his hand into a buzz saw — though the saw practically grabs it, after the boy is called to supper, "As if to prove saws knew what supper meant/Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—")
     Dire things — and poems I've addressed before — at cross purpose with my holiday mood. There are of course happier interpretations of "home." It is the place where you walk in, drop your bags, and — even after an absence of seven months and the arrival of big changes — still immediately stick your head into the refrigerator to see what there is good to eat. Even with a freshly baked cranberry bread waiting on the counter. A ritual of familiarity, and comfort. Things change. But at home — another definition — the grinding gears of time are thwarted, for now. The familiar brands in the refrigerator. The old crib you slept in, a gorgeous rich blue, bought in the city at Lazar's, now magically returned from its sojourn with other relatives. Set up in your old bedroom, under the chess trophies, fitted with fresh sheets, ready for a new generation, home also being the place where you grow up.

"My name ... is Elmer J. Fudd...."

     Say it along with me:

     "My name is Elmer J. Fudd. I am a millionaire. I own a mansion, and a yacht."

     If you are of a certain age, you easily remember those lines from "Hare Brush," the  Merry Melodies cartoon where our bald-headed, shotgun-wielding nincompoop is morphed into a corporate CEO (not that the two conditions are mutually exclusive; remember Dick Cheney) who thinks he's a rabbit. A psychiatrist becomes involved, and a dazed Bugs Bunny ends up repeating those declarations over and over. It's the rare, perhaps unique Bugs cartoon where Elmer is victorious at the end.

     Words ground into us on countless Saturday mornings, sprawled in feet pajamas before our black and white television sets.

     It's an odd brain worm to have, in these times when inflation has made nearly meaningless the coveted 19th century benchmark of "millionaire" — 8 percent of the country are millionaires — while the truly wealthy continually shame themselves by their grasping for even more power and their displays of oblivious self-regard. But these are odd times.

     "My name ... is Elmer J. Fudd..."

     With that line tickling my ear, I regularly check my 401(k). I used to ignore it for weeks at a time. Now I look every day, sometimes more than once a day, rooting it on toward the empyrean.

      Not without a few speed bumps. A week ago Monday, the words echoing in my head, I logged on, or tried to.

     "My name ... is Elmer J. Fudd ... I am ... a millionaire..."

     Instead of the latest update, I got this message:

   
     What the heck is Cloudflare? No idea? And when had I blocked it? I didn't recall. I asked AI what I should do to unblock Cloudflare, and it told me to start wiping out caches and eliminating cookies. I'd just done that, a few weeks earlier, trying to correct some other unwelcome situation, and it's a pain in the ass. You have to sign into stuff all over again.

     Instead I deployed one of my special magic strategies that often work with computers and everything else. I waited. And was rewarded by catching a news report on the radio that mentioned Cloudflare, some huge server system the specifics of which elude me, was down, sending ripples. It wasn't just me. Which is always a comfort. Indeed, as I went about getting my column ready, fact-checking and such, I got several of these messages:

     Now that, if I may, is a useful graphic, in that it tells me what is working —me —what is not working —them — and what I should do: wait. Which I knew to do anyway. Kudos to whoever came up with that one. A human, certainly. 
     Eventually I got into my 401(k), and had my traditional morning lick-lipping glance at the room of pillows I plan to flop into midway through 2027. Tuesday we crossed the Rubicon.  And Elmer's voice whispered once again, tauntingly, in my ear.