Allelopathic

 

Black Hills Spruce, left, with branch from Black Walnut, right.   

     You never know when you are going to learn a new word, or a whole new concept for that matter.
     The guy from Advance Tree Care was poking around our yard estimating what it'll cost to do some work—take out a dying pine threatening to topple over onto the back of the house, prune and treat an ash that we may just have shepherded past the waning emerald ash borer disaster. We found ourselves by this black hills spruce I had kidnapped from the property of my pal Rick Telander in the wilds of Michigan's Upper Peninsula. The tree grows like a weed and I like to point it out to visitors. The Advanced Tree Care man observed out how the black walnut nearby has grown toward it, and the spruce has shrunk away from it.
     "The black walnut is allelopathic," he said. "Notice how the spruce has fewer branches on the side near the black walnut."
    Ah. I hadn't noticed that. Plants developed 10,000 or so various chemicals that have nothing to do with their growth, per se, but part of a group called "allelochemicals," toxins that keep them from being eaten, or prevent pathogens from taking hold, or make the surrounding soil inhospitable to organisms other than themselves. Ironically, the compounds that give herbs flavor are mostly allelochemicals. They're basically chemical "KEEP OUT" signs designed to discourage the competition. More water for us.   
     And the black walnut—who knew?—is the Boss Daddy Bad Ass of allelopathic plants. It has a chemical called juglone that's so strong, it's used as a herbicide. Juglone is in the leaves, the heartwood, the bark, the roots, the nuts (causing their orange stain) even in the tree's Latin name, juglans nigra. The spruce is particularly sensitive to what the Morton Arboretum calls Black Walnut Toxicity, but my little tree seems to be placed far enough away that it isn't being affected, yet. Still, I'm going to go hack the black walnut branches away, and make sure the walnuts don't roll in its direction. Tree books encourage you to minimize the contact of black walnut debris with the soil.
     My columnist's sense tells me there is some kind of allegory waiting to be drawn out of this—if our benign friends the trees are hardwired to poison the competition, well, that might explain humanity and its we-don't-want-you bigotries and stay-away biases. But I don't want to go there. We're smarter than trees, supposedly.

What if wearing masks makes us more free?

     The funny thing is ...
     Not “ha-ha” funny, but sad and ironic funny, which is about the only funny we get nowadays.
     Anyway, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, by myself, the funny thing is, if Americans actually cared about their freedom, they wouldn’t manifest that care by throwing these you-can’t-make-me, blue-in-the-face toddler fits over convenience store policies requiring masks.
     Rather than refuse to wear masks, as the extra contagious Delta variant rips across the country, they would insist on wearing masks in public, not merely to ward off infection, but to escape the net of cyber surveillance tightening around the public every day. They would wear masks now, and keep on wearing them should COVID-19 ever recede, an increasingly remote possibility approaching “when pigs fly.”
     Masks not only screen out viruses, but also add a fig leaf of anonymity that might be helpful soon. This week, the Illinois State Police, joined by the city and state transportation departments, announced they will install cameras to read the license plates of every car on the highways, in the face of a surge of expressway shootings. The idea is: it’s enough of a hassle to drive the Dan Ryan from Point A to Point B without also having to worry about another motorist shooting you and getting away scot-free.
     Will it help? More cameras doesn’t seem to be translating into more safety, just less privacy. Add highway license plate cameras to the police, business and municipality security cameras already in operation, plus private residence doorbell cameras. Sooner or later those cameras will all be hooked up to a central location. Mix in face-recognition technology, and we’re nearing, if not already at, the point where you can’t scratch your ear in public without risk of the moment ending up on a flatscreen monitor in some basement control room with your name flashing underneath. Someday, you’ll rub your lower back on the ‘L’ platform and your Twitter feed will start recommending Bengay.

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Do we really need to kill them?

     Monday's column on my battle to kill a wasps' nest on my porch drew a lot of reaction, but I want to share these two reader emails. They have a valid point, one that never crossed my mind. I'm still not entirely convinced: you can't have your front porch becoming a gigantic wasp colony. But definitely food for thought....

Dear Mr. Steinberg;

     I just read your article about your wasp encounter in the Monday edition of the Chicago Sun Times and would like to comment. Wasps, like many animals, are a useful part of the ecosystem. If you destroy all the wasps, many destructive insects and grubs will flourish. For example, many people hate the Japanese beetle which devastates fruit trees and numerous garden plants. In addition, if you do not disturb wasps they will not sting you. You must admit you did not know you had wasps until you saw some. They were not attacking you or your plants or pets. They were just killing insects and doing their part in improving the ecosystem. Finally, the insecticides you spray on them introduces poisons into the environment. These insecticides are often long-lasting and kill other useful insects. Many affect hormones in humans and animals.
     So my advice, next time you see wasps, just let them alone and they will do the same to you.
     Sincerely yours;
     Rich Lange

Dear Neil,

     I looked up the benefit of wasps. BBC reports that wasps eat a bunch of insects that can affect plants that are growing. But of course I understand why we are afraid of wasps. I understand your try at handling the issue. And of course, we have to thank God for your wife. I think I was stung once by a wasp, that stung several times in the same area. Not fun at all.
     We move into a natural area and then we cannot abide Nature taking up residence. Just like all those fake dear I see on lawns locally. I sure do not like them. We get rid of Nature at our peril.
     Nature, the PBS program recently had a program on predators, and what happens to an environment when a predator leaves. It started with a scientist picking up all the starfish he found locally somewhere in the world I don’t remember The whole local environment perished. Same when lions and tigers and bears and foxes are removed. Predators make a whole environment whole and lively. Just like when we depress fire because people build homes in Nature. But then we have vegetation that creates wildfires and takes those houses with the fire.
     Mother Natures gets back at us.
     Janice Gintzler

     Thanks everyone for writing.

Wasps, or how to see what’s right there

A wasp.

     Did you miss the warning about this summer being especially bad for wasps? Yeah, me too. Even though our 115-year-old farmhouse has all sorts of eaves and hollows, places where wasps gather.

     Though you believe it, right? Of course you do. If you’re like me, the one-damn-thing-after-another quality of the past year has led to dull acceptance of almost any horror.
     If I ran into a neighbor carrying a bucket of water and a ladle, and he explained, “It’s for the burning frogs falling from the sky. They scorch the lawn, but a quick ladle of water fixes that,” I’d shrug and think, “Oh right, the burning frogs. Better get a bucket ...”

Photo by Tony Galati

     

     Then that’s me. I look at people simply denying one obvious situation or another — COVID, global warming, systemic racism — with blinking incomprehension. It’s ... right ... there. Just ... open your eyes and ... look.
     No? Can’t do that? Not into the whole perceiving-what’s-in-front-of-you game? I guess that’s your way of coping with the stress of bad stuff: ”If I don’t see it, it’s not there.” But c’mon buddy, graduate kindergarten, put on your big-boy pants and join the adults.
     Yes, grasping trouble can be a process. The tendency is to ignore or minimize problems. Most summers, the wasps spout from a chink in the brick foundation in front of our house. Out of harm’s way.
     This summer, naturally, the wasps took up residence under the window box jutting onto the porch, inches from our front door. As we came and went, we’d see wasps coming and going, a wasp parody of our routine. Still, a situation I can handle, or so I thought. I’m not immune to underestimating perils.

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Summertime.

    The Glenwood Ave Arts Fest began Saturday, drawing as always an eclectic crowd: Rogers Park locals, mostly, artists, of course, several politicians, couples with dogs, couples with children, young people and old people, white people and black people, street people and curious suburbanites, such as my wife and myself, who went because we always go. My brother-in-law, Alan Goldberg, helps organize it, and supporting your loved ones in their endeavors is what family does. You show up.

    Besides, it's fun.

    We cruised the booths and chatted with the artists, including a 14-year-old boy who caught my eye and said, "Come look at my paintings." So we did. I asked if the paintings, squares of color, had titles, and he improvised them on the spot for our benefit. I would have bought one for that alone, on general principles, but my wife nudged me onward and, figuring that disappointment is part of every artist's education, tried not to feel badly about it.

      After an hour, we drifted toward the car, I suggested we park ourselves on a pair of metal chairs by the empty bandstand.

     "I don't think there's an act until 4:30," my wife said. It was 4:10 now, and I understand that to mean, translated from the wife language, "Let's go."

     "Let's sit," I said. "We don't just sit enough. It's summer."

      So we just sat, watching children dance to the 1960s hits being broadcast from the stage. They were joined by a trim older gent, who danced by himself to several songs, obviously very pleased to be doing so, and we watched him dance too.

      "This is the best part of the festival," my wife said, of the sitting interlude.

     When we finally got up to go, I spied a gentleman in a red hat whom I had seen, from a distance, and of course noticed for his dramatic ensemble. He was about to dig into a plateful of dinner in a doorway, and after we passed him I pulled up, excused myself and went back and introduced myself.

     "Can I take your picture?" I asked. He said I could. He produced his business card, and I produced mine, and we made the exchange. His says he is Tamarie T., and his band is Thee Elektra Kumpany and their genre is "Exotik Funk." I asked what instrument he plays, and he said he is the front man, and they would be playing at 6 o'clock. It was tempting, but we decided to slide up to Evanston instead for a bubble tea.  That was fun too, and we ended up walking in the sand at Greenwood Beach, holding our shoes, and I realized it was the first time I had set foot in Lake Michigan in three years, maybe more. Though if I could do it again, I might wait the 90 minutes and hear Tamarie's band play. Next time.

     

Ravenswood Notes: Ginger

 

The Music Lesson, by John George Brown (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

   My wife has a saying that I like, "It's better to be kind than right." A truth that Ravenswood Bureau Chief Caren Jeskey explores delightfully today. Her Saturday report:

     "We don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are.” One of my favorites, Anaïs Nin, is credited with this combination of words.
     I find that all of my good ideas have come from others in one form or another. Whether receiving direct advice from a mentor or elder (yes, including you Mom & Dad), instruction in school, or picking up on the essence of those I admire, I’ve gleaned a lot from the people around me. I was once told that we are a conglomeration of the six people we spend the most time with. True or not, since then I’ve made an effort to surround myself with those I’d like to emulate for their desirable qualities. Calm, funny, warm, creative, forgiving, caring, intelligent, and those who can admit their flaws and have a sense of humor about themselves. Those who are willing to bend when they have something to learn.
     Today had its ups and downs. The ups were waking up in my cozy new Chicago apartment with wood floors and a gorgeous built-in hutch filled with gifts of rugs and furniture from good people welcoming me back. I had Telehealth sessions with clients, an honor and a privilege. I ordered a personal deep dish pizza from Giordano’s. I had a flute lesson. Then I left to find a spot to settle in and work, since I tend to work better at outside establishments with wifi, whereas at home I might get drawn into a project or another episode of Ted Lasso. As soon as I ventured out, everything went kaphooey. First stop, garbage bin. Why oh why do folks throw their garbage and compostables in the recycle bin? Why do my neighbors leave the back gate open when they walk their dogs rather than simply closing it and pulling their key out when they return? Why does no one smile when we pass on the sidewalk? Am I invisible? Then I hit the road. Why does no one stop at stop signs? Why do people race around on little side streets?
     I finally made it to a coffee shop with a patio. Why was the waiter so rude that I decided to leave? I almost went home and called mingling with society a wash for the day.
     Instead I drove around listening to music until I got an idea. Jerry’s Sandwiches on Lincoln. Right on the Square with the fountain, just south of Lawrence. Free wifi, tasty fare, and a laid back vibe. I settled in with my laptop to get my work done. Chariots of Fire theme in my bluetooth ear bud, I was ready to go. Alas, wah wahhhh. Think the sad, mocking sound in a TV game show where you’ve gotten the wrong answer. No wifi for me on the patio this fine night. The signal was too weak. The waiter kindly invited me inside where the signal is stronger, but with Delta? No way.
     Just then I realized: it’s blog time. No wifi needed. Time to write.
     I decided to broach the topic of wanting to avoid all human beings today. Feeling disconnected from my fellows. Then I realized that my own irritability had a lot to do with it, and remembered that the world can be different for me if I change into my rose colored glasses.
     I decided to kill the waitstaff with kindness. Sometimes I forget how hard COVID times have been on the service industry. They have had to show up—if they were lucky enough to retain their jobs— when many of us were able to stay at home, safe and sound, if we so chose. I went to the Comedy Showcase at Navy Pier this week, a part of the Chicago Humanities Festival. (I’m sure the Fest was much less hardy than it was in 2019. Two short years, and the whole world has changed). One of the performers entertained us with a song that sardonically reminded us of our privilege, and implored us to check it at the door or the opening of the patio when dining out in these hard times.
     The result? I won. My server responded to my kindness and we bonded. Turns out, they are a Comedy Drag Queen named Ginger Forest who worked for years with Second City. More recently, they host a children’s story time at Gerry’s on the third Sunday of each month, which is on hiatus thanks to Delta, but will hopefully return soon. They told me that their main message to the kiddos at story time is to be kind rather than judging others.

     Ginger shared their philosophy of life. “Know thyself. Look inward towards your own personal growth and journey, and use the people around you to inspire you. There is nothing wrong with saying ‘I need a little help.’ You need to be open and accepting. If you can reach beyond your personal boundaries, you’ll be amazed at what you’ll find. Look outside of your personal bubble. Find people who are different from you. Find your similarities with them, and build on them. The differences make you grow, and the commonality will bring you together.” Well said.

Culinary Artists Week #6: Pressure Cooker, Pt. II

     This is the second part of my 1996 GAMES stories on the Culinary Olympics. For part I, click here.

Cooking cakes (Metropolitan Museum)

     Though constantly in motion, the chefs seldom rush. They always seem to be deep in concentration, as if constructing atomic bombs instead of meals. Periodically, they stop what they're doing and study a situation, hands on hips, faces grim. The assistant, seeing the chef motionless, hurries over to find out what's wrong. Together chef and assistant stare at, say, a tray of cored apples. Then the chef mutters something to the assistant, and the two snap into action.

     Immediately after a mess is made, everything halts until it is cleaned up. The counters remain spotless—nothing is left sitting out in the open. Partially finished dishes are stored on wire racks. After six hours of constant cooking, the kitchens looks almost as clean as they did at 7 a.m. Of course, some are cleaner than others, and the judges take notice.

     While the chefs sometimes refer to their watches, not one of them uses a timer. Experience allows for shortcuts most amateurs would never contemplate. Hugelier holds a blue Morton canister a foot above a roast and pours an unmeasured white stream of salt. Stacy Radin, the pastry chef at Desserts International, Merion, Pennsylvania, reaches into a 25-pound bag of sugar and tosses handfuls into a mixing bowl. 

     But moments of crisis do arise. While Seigfreid Eisenberg, the executive chef at the Opryland Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee is diligently filling orange-flavored ravioli with duck paste, the pot of duck consume, unwatched, boils over onto the floor. Chef and assistant gasp simultaneously and rush over to attend to the spill. Eisenberger blows uselessly on the roiling surface of the 10-gallon pot, then turns and begins angrily dicing carrots into splinters, leaving his assistant to sop up the consume. Fortunately for Eisenberger, the judges, chatting among themselves across the room, don't seem to notice.

     Chefs who are not cooking that day hang around, planning strategy and ribbing their fellow competitors.

     "These guys are sickening," declares Jeff Gabriel, the executive chef a the Grosse Pointe Yacht Club, in Grosse Point, Michigan. "Sea bass and venison! These guys got nice ingredients. I wish I would have gotten that. You always wish you got what the other person did."

     Gabriel points through the glass at Mark Erikson, the chef-manager of St. Andrew's Cafe, hyde Park, New York. Erikson is glazing the coveted venison with honey and thyme. "Venison and sea bass. You're sickening!" Gabriel shouts. Erikson looks up, smiles, stick the thumb of one hand into his ear, and wiggles his fingers.

     When the chefs are not watching each other cook, they are eating each other's food. The day after Catherall prepared Cornish game hen, he sits at a table sampling Lawrence Ryan's cooking. But no sooner has he taken a few spoonfuls of the cold carrot bisque than he calls over a busboy.

     "Send this back to the chef," he says, suppressing a smile. While waiting for Ryan to receive the insult, Catherall explains that he had tried to find out whether he could bring his own plates, had been unable to get an answer, and ended up using the plates provided. Chefs are sensitive to every nuance of food presentation, ad Catherall believes these plates did not display his cooking to its best advantage. "Ryan didn't bother asking," say Catherall. "He just brought his own plates."

     Ryan walks over with a big grin on his face. "I heard you did well yesterday," he says, shaking hands. "Almost a gold...."

     The strategy employed by chefs is fairly straightforward. It's good to be creative, but not so creative as to risk failure. The menus for the most part reflect the current trend toward regional cooking: Eastern Shores Sea Bass with Shrimp Leeks, Connecticut Garden Salad Dumplings Minnesota, Minnesota Wild Rice Soup, Minnesota Bread, Medley of Seafood Back Bay, Seafood Medley Oregon.

    Some chefs show off more than others. Thus while Radin turns her white chocolate into mere White Chocolate Mousse, Northmore transforms his into Terrine of White Chocolate Mousse with Raspberry and Vanilla Sauce. And for good measure, he converts the nasturtiums into a Flower Tart with Fruit Sauce.

Preparing dough, Tomb of Rekhmire (Met)

     In general, the mystery box does not pose much of a problem, since a chef's normal day in a restaurant begins by looking in his refrigerator and then planning a menu around the food on hand.

     "I had a general idea of what to do," says Foster, after putting the finishing touches on his last pastry. "If I couldn't make one dessert, I'd make another. I was kind of surprised how smoothly it went."

     "The way I looked at it, items I had more of were for the entree, items I had less of were for the appetizer," says Larry Banares, executive sou chef at the Disneyland Hotel, in Anaheim, California. 

     "Before I came, I already planned on something neutral. I would make a seafood mousse, regardless of what seafood I got," says Tan Hung Heng, executive sous chef at the Waikiki Sheraton, Honolulu, Hawaii. "I had to think a little bit to make some adjustments—I got chicken. I had planned turkey."

     There is disagreement as to whether chefs need to practice for the competition. Robins says he practiced each night for hours after coming home from work.

     "If I practiced like that, I wouldn't be married or have a job," says Banares.

     "They all have to practice," says Hermann Rusch, a judge. "A jockey has to practice with the horses, a chef has to practice with the carrots."

     Gabriel demurs: "Not much you can practice. how many ways can you bake a potato?"

     As in any competition, the mood of the contestants is sometimes cynical, and their strategies often pragmatic. After all, only four chefs will be chosen for the national team, with an additional 10 picked to form the regional team, members of which travel to Frankfurt as assistants and to compete independently in certain cold food events. The difference between being on the national team and the regional team is the difference between driving in the Indy 500 and being on the pit crew.

     Three off-duty chefs gather in a corner near one of the kitchens. They all wear blue blazers with gold buttons, and none of them wants his or her name used.

     "Even though Jeff Gabriel put up real garbage yesterday, he'll be on the team," a chef with an accent says darkly. "I can name you six people who will be on the team no matter what."

     "I think there will be surprises," another chef says.

     The discussion moves into the real-politik of the competition: It's a good idea to prepare German food, seeing that most of the judges are German; give the items on your menu vague, general names, so however the food turns out, you'll be safe; no temper tantrums in the kitchen, no looking frantic—a bad attitude will sink you faster than too much pepper; the younger chefs have less of a chance, because they have less experience.  

Pounding meal (Met)

     Though the judges deny favoritism, they admit they don't want to try out any novices on the national team, no matter how sublime their food tastes.

     "I like to bring them into the support team and evaluate them," says Galand. "Everyone who goes to Frankfurt on the American team was on a previous year's support team. It's a good idea to bring them up that way, almost like a farm team."

     As 12:30 p.m. approaches, the action intensified. Eisenberger, running with a bag of powdered sugar from another kitchen, overshoots his own kitchen and puts on the brakes. "Missed," he says, sheepishly, backtracking. he mixes the sugar into his shallot mustard dressing, pours a bit into a small bowl, and drinks it. This is to be mixed with his "Melange of Greens," which will accompany such other creations as Duck Consume with Duck Ravioli, Corn Crepes, Seafood Medley Oregon (composed of sea bass, sturgeon, and shrimp  in a dill sauce), and a Venison Loin "Autumn" on a Bed of Split Peas.

    The six judges take their places at a table on a raised, gold-carpeted platform. They all wear white lab coats with red, white and blue USA CULINARY TEAM patches on the breast pocket. A trio of musicians plays nearby. The first appetizer is served—a shrimp-stuffed pear on a bed of carrots. The judges approach it carefully.

     "Very good flavor."

     "I liked the smoked shrimp."

     "Now that is beautiful."

     "Before you cut that up, let me get a taste of the center. Let's see how he's done this."

     The judges eat only a mouthful or two of each dish. Television cameras, film crews, and still photographers record every bite. After each course, they make notations on their clipboards and deposit their dirty silverware on a plate covered with a peach-colored napkin. Then they take fresh silverware rom a pile in the center of the table and await the next course.

     "Very important to have eye appeal," says Roland Shaeffer, a judge who went to Frankfurt with the American team in 1980 and 1984. "If it looks good, you're ahead of the game. Naturally, if it tastes good, too, you have a winner."

     Despite the great pomp surrounding the judging of taste, it is the least important factor in the competition. The judges assign 12 points apiece to the categories of Presentation, Creativity, and Workmanship, and only four points to Composition, the category that relates to the actual palatability of the food.

     After four days of competition, when all the chefs have displayed their talents, the judges add their hot and cold food scores and divide by two to arrive at the chefs' final scores. Anyone with a 34 or higher qualifies for the 1988 competition, though the judges have considerable latitude when it comes to selecting the final team roster.

Sifting meal (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

     When the scores are totaled, Lawrence Ryan has been chosen the captain of the U.S. Culinary Team for 1988. His three teammates are Mark Erikson, Daniel Hugelier and Hartmut Handke, executive chef at the Greenbriar, White Sulphur Springs, Virginia. The captain of the regional team is Jeff Gabriel, and his nine teammates are Thomas Catherall, Seigfreid Eisenberger, Ruben Foster, Stacy Radin, Chris Northmore, Carolyn Claycomb, chef at Pates and Things, Columbus, Ohio, Michael Russell, chef de cuisine at Travis Pointe Country Club, Ann Arbor, Michigan, and Rudolph Speckamp, chef/owner of Rudy's 2900, Finksburg, Maryland.

     Those not selected for the team will not be forgotten, however. In culinary competition, there is always tomorrow.

     "Yes I'm very disappointed," says Michael Robins, after the results are announced. "I'll still go to Frankfurt in 1988 as an independent competitor. When you come this far, you can't go back."

     He says his cold food scores dragged him down. With a strong stable of hot food chefs from previous years, the judges were looking to boost the cold food effort in Frankfurt.

     "I'm still very young," says Robins, who is 23. "Just to go to Chicago was a very big honor. You have to be ready to keep your name up there and be a good sportsman. And I can't rule out that in the next two years they'll need a little help. That has happened before. If not, they better watch out in 1990, because I'm going to be on the team."

     

Editor's note: Michael Robins eventually won three gold medals, with perfect scores, at the World Culinary Olympics in Frankfurt. At 26, he was also the youngest person to attain a "Master Chef" ranking. Today he runs Integrated Culinary Systems, a consulting firm that assists clients in developing and commercializing food products for retail and Foodservice Sales.