Eli's Cheesecake: a holiday tradition

Marc Schulman, Eli's president since 1984, shows guests through Eli's Cheesecake World.

     You know the holiday season is upon us in earnest when the Art Institute's proud lions are wreathed in greenery, the air is filled with festive music, and Eli's Cheesecake ads go up on everygoddamnday.com. 

     To mark the occasion, the family headed over to Eli's Cheesecake World on Saturday to get a quick tour from its owner, Eli Schulman, who took the family around his expanded factory — business is booming — before we settled in to coffee, conversation and, of course, cheesecake.

Passion fruit curd olive oil cake cheesecake

    The challenge being, if presented with the delightful dilemma of being invited to dig into literally any type of cheesecake that Eli's makes, from chocolate chip to key lime, apple streusel to blueberry swirl, peppermint bark and salted caramel, which one to choose? You can browse the available flavors at the Eli's website.
     As difficult as that sounds, it was actually an easy decision: passion fruit curd olive oil cake cheesecake made with mascarpone mousse, inspired by Natasha Pickowicz's "More than Cake" cookbook — because really, how often do you get the chance? (Who is Natasha Pickowicz, you ask? For shame! She is only the wildly popular "NYC pastry wunderkind" and "The Queen of Sticky Buns." Okay, I had to look her up, but I was glad to get to know her — eating cheesecake and learning about the new generation of rising pastry chefs)
    So how did her cheesecake taste? Smooth. Sublime. Lovely. Light. I usually like my cheesecake with a heavy dose of chocolate crumbled over it. But this was obviously something more advanced. My wife raved.
     I also learned the meaning of "POG" — it stands for "Passion Fruit Orange Guava" and was the flavor of one cheesecake we took away with us — at Eli's Cheesecake World's store you can get all sorts of exotic flavors, unavailable to the masses who have not made pilgrimage to the mothership.  I think otherwise you have to be flying First Class on United to Hawaii to be given the privilege of trying the POG cheesecake, which was extraordinary. As was the Tiramisu Cheesecake, which was the other. I'd have gone home with more — I have my sights set on the Hot Chocolate Cheesecake, which sounds heavenly. But I limit myself to three cheesecakes at a time in the freezer. Restraint.   

     So welcome the traditional holiday cheesecake ad, which you will notice on the left side of the EGD homepage. Click it, and you'll be ushered into the world of gustatory delight that is Eli's. Today is Giving Tuesday, and while I hope you are digging deep to help those less fortunate than yourself, I'd also advise you to remember yourself, and your cheesecake needs — doctors say that the average American only consumes 25 percent of their daily metabolic requirements for cheesecake. 
     Oh, that's a lie. While cheesecake is good, and nutritious, there isn't an actually FDA requirement for it, though imagining how delightful a world it would be if there were. Even though a certain tone of fabrication infects social media, more and more, we try to play it by the book here on EGD, which is why we hope you'll support us by giving yourself the gift of cheesecake.
     Let me take this opportunity to say how glad I am that EGD, now in its 11th year, has been supported by Eli's Cheesecake for every second of its existence. Many, if not most, Chicagoans love Eli's Cheesecake. But how many can truly say they are loved back? Enfolded in the cool, sweet embrace of the nation's foremost cheesecake.  It's a wonderful thing, and I consider myself blessed that the holidays have rolled around again, bringing light, laughter, family, friends and lots of Eli's cheesecake. And that's the delicious truth.
 

Not scared.

     One of the most fascinating aspects of my several conversations with 107-year-0ld Black Chicagoan Edith Renfrow Smith was related to her recollections of the Civil Rights era.  While the typical — almost inevitable — stance of people alive during that troubled time is to puff up whatever relationship they had to the great struggle, she was 180 degrees opposite: it didn't affect her. Not her concern. I was dubious, almost incredulous, and pressed her on the matter — c'mon, you said you couldn't shop at Marshall Field's. What about that? 
     “I don’t want to go there anyway,” she said defiantly. “They don’t have anything I want."

    She had decided that these issues didn't affect her. And that was it. She was going to live her life as a full person as good as anybody else — "Nobody's better than you" — and if others chose to think differently, that was their problem, not hers. 

     My personal take on being Jewish in America is something similar. It isn't that anti-Semitism doesn't exists, or isn't spiking in reaction to the war in Gaza. I see that. It's just that, personally, it doesn't touch me. Maybe I'm oblivious. Or just lucky. The anti-Jew mob, with their torches and nooses, was going east on Monroe when I was walking, hands in pockets, whistling west down Madison, admiring the buildings.

     Part of it was growing up only a couple decades after the end of World War II. At times, it seemed like the whole religion was about the Holocaust. A sort of death cult. Judaism was Auschwitz and the Warsaw Ghetto with pauses to light candles and spin dreidels. I hated that. It felt suffocating.

    The reality has to be more complicated than that. Maybe because, when I meet anti-Semites, I immediately discount them, because their scorn is coming from a hater. Consider the source. It isn't about me, it's pus from a wound. Their wound, not mine. Nobody is a hater because they're so brave, and Jews are the oldest, largest, easiest target in the world. That collegiate Americans would decide to sign on to Team Anti-Semite is sad, but also typical, the familiar blend of enthusiasm and ignorance that so defines the young.

     Now that I think of it, I get anti-Semitic screeds almost every day — gathering unread in my spam filter, waiting to be flushed away.  Most aren't even read. Flushed away with the rest of the shit. If I do happen to notice one, they seem more mentally ill than anything else. Who cares why a mentally ill person you never met decides to fixate on something? If the source of that fixation happens to be me — what are my responsibilities toward that person? None. I'm not a doctor. 

     Why let the poison in? Why be any more conscious of their presence than you have to? You can't make them go away, or change. People in marginalized groups have the distressing tendency — and I think this is really what Edith Renfrow Smith is pushing back against — of acting like they're auditioning for the people who despise them. I'll get notes from Jewish readers ponderously chiding me for this or that opinion because they feel that it makes the Jews look bad in the eyes of anti-Semites, as if the haters are coolly evaluating us, and forming conclusions based on our behavior. When in reality they start out by hating us and cherry pick facts they feel shore up that hate. This isn't a contest. 

     Israel's actions in the war in Gaza are just an update on the Jews killing Christ. The bad thing that Jews did that permits them to be locked in their synagogue before it is set it on fire. That rationale, the specific bad thing Jews did changes, but it is always there, and always will be. If the creation of Israel — the naqba — was such a shock, then what did the Jews do wrong in 1947 and 1946 and 1945 and 1944 and 1943 and 1942 and 1941 and 1940, what was our crime then that so agitated so many people against them? Oh right nothing. Mere existence. Their original sin. Our original sin. We're heeeeeeeeere! 

     The photo above was taken in September in the tiny Jewish quarter in Amsterdam, now a tourist site.  I was taken aback — somewhere between surprised and aghast — to see they'd put up a big yellow Magen David in the middle of the street, the way the Puerto Rican stretch of Division Street in Humboldt Park is marked by a stylized PR flag. 

     The yellow star? Really? Maybe it's unintentional. Historical. Maybe it's trying to take control of the touchstone used against you, the way gays repurposed "queer." Maybe there's some other cultural factor at work I don't understand. But I found it ... confusing, at best. The Germans used this exact device to single us out for abuse ... and now we embrace it. Okay then. How's that workin' for you?

      Maybe that's my approach. I don't embrace anti-Semitism, I register that it's there, intellectually, then step around it, like a turd on the sidewalk. The less I think about that shit, the happier I am. I suppose I could be afraid — people obviously are afraid. I see that — and I don't want to discount their fear. It's awful to be frightened. But that's also what the haters want. Not being afraid, not even caring, seems the best revenge. 

A fine time

     Wonder should not be picked apart. It's too delicate, too fragile. Best appreciate it in real time, while it's happening. Then label it simply, "We had a good time," and set aside on a shelf in memory. No point writing a treatise about it. You wreck it that way.
     And so much gets wrecked as it is. Like any good cynic, I take a dim view of the forced festivity that takes place this time of year. Often quoting, in my own mind — nobody wants to hear it — lines from "Cold Comfort," a Michelle Shocked dirge: "You know, winter will soon be here. And except for the holidays, except for the holidays, it's a fine time of year."
     True, generally, and maybe that mood will set in well before Christmas.
     But it hasn't yet. This year, with the relentless dispatches of horror from Israel and Gaza, plus the ominous — no, terrifying — political situation at home — a few days off seemed in order. Time to regroup, and visit with the boys and their beloveds, our houseguests.  To do little and think about less.
     A recipe for ... surprisingly ... something special. This year the holidays caught me off guard, and I not only am enjoying them, but realized I really needed them. It wasn't so much Thanksgiving itself, which is like planning the Normandy invasion only with food. But immediately after. Just having people around. The boys and their fiances and Edie and I all went to the Chicago Botanic Garden Lightscape  Friday night. 
    And it was all so ... magical, not a term I often  employ. So much, I did something unusual, for me. I decided not to even try to write about it. The music, the sense of difference — you enter through the side of the Garden, through an enormous glowing wreath, and with the dark and the music and glowing spheres, tunnels of arches, sweeping lasers, flashing, twinkling lights, the familiar grounds become strange and wonderful.  I didn't even take many pictures, except of the kids, and I'm not sharing those, lest social media decide to judge them. 
     I hope you'll forgive me. "Not everything's for the newspaper" I sometimes say. Or the blog. I'm sure you can manage to wring wonder out of your holidays on your own. No need for a road map from me. At least not today. I don't even know if I can dredge a point out of this, to stick my landing at the end. Maybe the key is that I wasn't particularly looking forward to Lightscape — we had such a good time last year, what were the odds of topping it? And it was so warm last year — a rare November day in the low 60s. It was so cold, in the low 30s Friday. That could be trouble. And would these four adults, in their late 20s, enjoy it? As if they might not be charmed by whimsy and music and hot cocoa. In the hours before we left, my mood curdled, and I found myself exhausted and annoyed. Which turned out to be exactly the coiled crouch I needed to spring into the air, and the momentary sensation of flight, of being airborne, free of all this. Gloom turned to fascination. 

     Which might be a contradiction — seek but don't expect it. Request but don't demand. Work hard then relax into the holidays, and let them flow over you. Go and see what happens. Hang out with those who love each other and you and wait for it. Anyway, five weeks and it'll all be over and we'll find ourselves blinking at the dark, frozen expanse of January and February and March. Enjoy this if you can, while it lasts.

"Eternity's hostage"

"The Romans Taking Old Dutch Men as Hostages," by Antonio Tempesta Italian (Met)

  
     "He that hath wife and children hath given hostages to fortune," Francis Bacon writes in one of his most famous essays, Of Marriage and Single Life. "For they are impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or mischief.
     True enough. But the key concept in Bacon's first sentence is "given" — there is an unmistakable sense of the voluntary around the first definition of "hostage" in the Oxford English Dictionary: "Pledge or security given to enemies or allies or the fulfilment of any undertaking by the handing over of one or more persons into their power."

     Nothing voluntary in this recent batch of hostages, the Israelis captured by Hamas during their Oct. 7 attack, and it's painful to realize that once enemies would sometimes willingly hand over people to make sure agreements were kept. We think of the past as far more brutal than today, but we seem to be holding our own when it comes to barbarism. 
     Which makes etymology a welcome distraction from the headlines. While waiting for Hamas to release the first group of hostages on Friday — 13 Israelis, 10 Thais and a Filipino — more are supposed to be released today — I found myself focusing on the word "hostage" itself.
     "Hostage" has gone through changes over the past thousand years. That initial "h" tends to come and go, depending on what language is massaging it — the original Latin, obsidatus, "being a hostage," blending with hostis — "stranger, enemy" — turning into hostia, "victim, or sacrifice," which is how the Eucharist in the Catholic Church became known as a "host."
     Looking over the way the word and its cognates have changed, it's almost as if the  opposite views of how outsiders in your midst are to be treated is engaged in a verbal tug-of-war, the dichotomy in clear relief. There is "hostile" and "hospitality," "host" as in welcoming guests and "host," as in the body of an army.
     The very act of ransoming hostages seems more Biblical than modern, and indeed, there's hostage-taking in the Bible, as when a King of Judah breaks down the gate to Jerusalem in 2 Kings: "He took all the gold and silver and all the utensils which were found in the house of the Lord, and in the treasuries of the king’s house, the hostages also, and returned to Samaria." The whole "Christ the Redeemer" concept pivots on Jesus being the guy who pays our ransom with his suffering.

      In the Talmud, redeeming captives is a mitzvah, or charitable act, one so important it has its own name, pidyon shvuyim, and tops all other good works because being a hostage incorporates most of the ills that charity tries to address.

      "The redeeming of captives takes precedence over supporting the poor or clothing them," wrote Maimonides. "There is no greater mitzvah than redeeming captives for the problems of the captive include being hungry, thirsty, unclothed, and they are in danger of their lives too."
      It might sound odd at first, but if you think about it, there is something humane about hostage-taking, compared with simply killing enemies. It's a practice based on the value of life, the idea originally being that your kinsmen or country would buy you back (Proverbs 13:8 says that rich men purchase their safety, while the poor are never even threatened — which is wistful; more likely, the poor are simply killed, without hope of ransom). There is something strange to see Hamas, eagerly murdering everyone in sight Oct. 7, but also tucking these folks away for future reference, a kind of grotesque parody of mercy that of course is all about self-interest. They had just started the war and were already looking to purchase the cease-fire that their advocates around the world have been demanding.
     The process of exchanging hostages shows how artificial war is — two sides shift from trying to kill each other with all their might to conveying a fortunate few back from the dead through intermediaries. A reminder of the enormous range of human behavior, how we slide from vile to noble and back again, depending on the circumstances.

     As I write this, the news has begun to trickle out. A list of names. That the returned Israelis range in age from 5 to 85. What horrors they must have endured, what stories they must have to tell.

     The Russian novelist Boris Pasternak wrote a lovely little poem, "Night," that suggests all creative people are hostages, obligated to see the broad sweep of life and convey it. The poem begins with the image of a pilot flying over sleeping cities, then shifts to the insomniac writer trying to grasp it all. The clunky translation I found online ends:

Fight off your sleep: be wakeful,
Work on, keep up your pace,
Keep vigil like the pilot,
Like all the stars in space.

Work on, work on, creator-
To sleep would be a crime-
Eternity's own hostage,
And prisoner of Time.

     That penultimate sentence felt a little awkward, so I checked the original Russian — "Ты — вечности заложник" or, literally, "You: eternity's hostage." Also true. But would make the ransom ... what? Death.

"When Black Friday comes..."

Book Bin owner Alli Gilley
with one of their more popular items.

     Another Thanksgiving in the bag. How was yours? Fantastic, I hope. Ours was filled with so many great moments, I can't begin to count them all. At one point our kitchen was practically vibrating with conversation, coffee flowing, opinions and observations flying. We all piled in the CX-9 — six of us, the third row of seats, used at last! — and went out to Buffalo Grove to visit my parents. And the two fiancés were in conversation with my mother, and one slid her chair in, to be a little closer, and seeing that small gesture made me very happy.

     And that was before the holiday dinner itself. Two dozen guests, hours of eating and drinking and talking and laughing. The clean-up was ... if not a breeze, then at least nearly finished by the time we all staggered off to bed.
     Of course one holiday down means another looms. Two really. Hanukkah and Christmas; for some mixed families, both. And with them the challenge, if not the curse, of gift-giving. Maybe I can help. I realized that this past year the blog added hundreds of new readers — thank you Charlie Meyerson, thank you Eric Zorn — who might not have been around last year, when "Every Goddamn Day," the book loosely based on this blog was published by the University of Chicago Press. You might not realize that The Economist called it one of six books you must read to really understand Chicago. You can read the enthusiastic review in Newcity here.
    So I'm writing this today to suggest a holiday gift for that special person on your list — or yourself. If you buy it from the Book Bin in Northbrook, they'll shoot me an email and I'll bike over and sign and inscribe it, a nice small town touch that will set your gift apart from the generic impersonal crap. Plus you get to help out one of the best independent bookstores in the Chicago area. The Book Bin will mail it out for only five bucks and even gift wrap it for free if you like. The book was a popular holiday gift last year — the Book Bin sold more than 100 — and in case you've got a bookish sort, or a Chicago fan, you're looking to check off your list ahead of time while giving a present that is certain to please that special someone, please consider calling the Book Bin at 847-498-4999 to place your order. You can also order it online from the Book Bin here.

 

Giving thanks in scary times

     “Do you think 28 pounds of turkey is enough?” asked my wife, as we stood by a freezer case in Trader Joe’s.
     She had just muscled two Kosher birds, one 15 pound, one 13, into the cart, waving away my offer to do the lifting, the “as if I haven’t been flinging these things around a kitchen myself for years” being unvoiced.
     “Well,” I ventured. “Twenty five guests, about a pound per person should ..."
     “A lot of it is bone,” she interjected. Not to inform me, I hope. I don’t think she really feared I’m so culinarily clueless as to imagine whole turkeys are solid chunks of meat — I do sometimes carve them, though invariably am body-checked away by a relative capable of more finesse with a blade.
     Last year we had three turkeys — one roasted, one deep-fried, one smoked. That was deemed “too much turkey,” though not by me. I want to spend the next few days assembling plates of cold leftovers, turkey and stuffing, and eating them standing in the kitchen, and assume every guest does too.
     “You are making five pounds of salmon,” I observed. For the pescatarians — those who shun meat, but whose moral code nevertheless allows them to eat fish: sentient creatures, innocently plying the waters, nuzzling their young with human-like affection, at one with nature and the divine until a cruel hook yanks them into the suffocating air.

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Hawk v. squirrel

 

     I did write a column for the paper for today, but it got held for content, in a good way. Since the column is about Thanksgiving, my editors felt it should run on the day itself, and I agreed. So this episode, not the most pressing for certain, was called in, as an understudy topic. 

     So I look out the kitchen window and — damn! — there is this bad boy, a Cooper's hawk, Accipiter cooperii. I've seen one in that exact spot before, but they usually fly away before I can snap a photo. This one didn't. He — or she — just stood there, passing the time, gazing around. I'm standing in the kitchen, marveling, and suddenly, enter stage left, a squirrel. Not oblivious. Steven Squirrel clearly sees the hawk, but looks like he's going straight for him. Up the porch stairs, to the base of the post the hawk is standing on.

     Which strikes me as odd. Would not the prudent squirrel be stealthily fleeing in the opposite direction, away from the hawk. What gives?
     The hawk meanwhile is ... oblivious. I'm figuring it's snack time for him. I'm waiting for the hawk to notice the squirrel, while trying to suss out the squirrel's strategy. Maybe he figures the closer he is, the less of a dive the hawk can go into. Maybe hawks just don't notice prey literally at their feet. 

     The squirrel is practically going on its hind legs, turning up toward the hawk, as if trying to catch its attention. As if to say, "Hey stupid! I'm here! Right here!"

      Then the squirrel passes, under the hawk, and keeps going across the porch. I see the hawk finally notice the squirrel. I see him — or her — see the squirrel. The hawk spreads its wings. Here it comes, I think. And flies away. A few flaps and it's gone.

     The truth, as least as gleaned from minutes of research on online nature sites, is that Cooper's hawks are not that into squirrels. Oh, they'll eat them in a pinch. But all things being equal, hawks prefer small birds to squirrels, which are too big and put up too much of a struggle. Sometimes it seems the hawks taunt the squirrels, even sort of play with them, before flying off to pick on someone not quite as close to their size. 

     So there you have it. The hawk sighed and flew away. The squirrel moved off without so much as a backward glance.  Though I did notice its tail was puffed up like a bottle brush — trying to look bigger to scare off the predator. It worked.