And you shall anoint your beloved with cheesecake

     February already. Which means that Valentine's Day is ... two weeks away. And you have done ... nothing, right? No idea what special to do for your beloved. That's okay. Well, sad, but also okay, because I am here to help you.
     And a good thing, too. Because left to your own devices you would ... what? Merely buy something. Something random, last minute. A trinket. Some thoughtless cheap crap that will indict more than delight. What a sad commentary on both you and your love. Or would be, if I didn't save you. Which, luckily, I will. 
     Instead of doing something half-considered, why not go to trouble and expense while telling a story old as time?
     Why not be inspired, by how, two thousand years ago, the ancient Romans had trachemata — "second tables" — that were set aside for what we could consider "dessert." Laden with pancakes, sesame seeds, wine. The Greek playwright Diphilus lists a few delectables: "some myrtle berries, almonds, a cheesecake."
      Cheesecake? But what sort of cheesecake? Here the glozing hand of history is kind to us. Cato the Elder sets down no fewer than three distinct cheesecake recipes in his De Agri Cultura, a guide to managing estates written 2200 years ago, Eugenia Ricotti calls Cato's favorite cheesecake, Savillium, "the oldest known dessert" in her Meals and Recipes from Ancient Greece and claims it was found in the tomb of Ramses IV in the Valley of the Kings. First you mix 14 ounces of ricotta cheese with one and a half cups of flour ... actually, it gets rather complicated. You need a cookie press or pastry bag, plus boiling fat. 

     Far easier to simply order an Eli's Cheesecake. You might have noticed the festive holiday ad at the left of my EGD home page. But if that choice is overwhelming — so many kinds — let me draw your attention to the Belgian Chocolate Hazelnut Heart, perfectly shaped for the holiday. Look at it. You could drive yourself crazy trying to make that. You could hole up with your Cato, translating from Latin, messing with jugs of olive oil and such.   Or you could plan ahead and have it tucked away and ready in your freezer Feb. 14. "Rich chocolate cheesecake topped with a crunchy hazelnut and chocolate confection, baked on a chocolate cookie crumb crust in an elegant heart shape." How could it not be received with gratitude? Who does not want to love with similar dark intensity? Or one of my favorites, the Salted Caramel Cheesecake, if only for how it echoes Homer, who in The Illiad praises "the sacred offering of the salted cake."  Of course the Romans took cheesecake from the Greeks, along with so much of their culture, including this holiday, Cupid being the Roman version of the Greek god Eros. 

     Salted caramel not your style? I recommend the Basque Cheesecake, its burnt parchment wrapped evocative of the rough simplicity that wealthy Roman philosophers like Seneca paid lip service to, along with simple baths and unadorned pottery. Red is the color of Valentine's Day — which began at the tail end of Roman times, first set on Feb. 14 to honor the martyred Saint Valentine by Pope Gelasius in 469 A.D., just before Rome fell and the last emperor, Romulus Augustulus, was deposed ... anybody? Do they teach you nothing in these schools? ... seven years later, in 476. So you can't go wrong with Strawberry-Topped Cheesecake. Just look. Are these not the "flame-red berries" Virgil lauds in Georgics? Or Cherry Vanilla Bean Cheesecake. Just say it out loud. "I love you, and so bought us this Cherry Vanilla Bean Cheesecake for us to enjoy together in bliss. "A thick layer of housemade Montmorency cherry filling and Madagascar vanilla bean cheesecake, topped with tart cherry gelée, baked on an all-butter shortbread cookie crust." 

     I know what you're thinking: "Neil, was not Cato the Elder something of a prude?" Yes, you are correct, no doubt remembering Pliny's Life of Cato, particularly this passage:

     Cato expelled another senator who was thought to have good prospects for the consulship, namely, Manilius, because he embraced his wife in open day before the eyes of his daughter. For his own part, he said, he never embraced his wife unless it thundered loudly; and it was a pleasantry of his to remark that he was a happy man when it thundered.

     Does that last part not contain a mischievous twinkle you could appropriate and present as your own? And a private setting is entirely fitting to the holiday. Why go out to a restaurant, on amateur night — prices up, service and quality down — when you could enjoy Eli's Cheesecake in the secluded bower of your home? 

     You could mention, opening the box, that Cato's libum was a savory cheesecake intended to be an offering to the gods. But that, like Prometheus stealing fire from the workshop of Hephaestus,, you have spirited this divine dessert away from its home on Mount Olympus and brought it here, now, for you both to enjoy on earth. Let eagles rip your liver for all time as punishment. Your loved one is worth the sacrifice....

     Okay, maybe that's corny. Maybe it's better to say nothing. Maybe you should bear in mind Cato's famous dictum: "He is nearest to the gods who knows how to be silent."

     Wordlessly remove the cheesecake from its sturdy cardboard freezer box and set a perfect slice on your best plate. Take one fork yourself, hand the other to your soulmate. Or better yet, skip the forks. Lock eyes with your adored one and whisper that the ancient Romans, whether soldiers or slaves or senators, would eat with their hands. Give yourself and your heart's true passion permission to do so now in celebration of your timeless bond and Valentine's Day, and let nature take its course.    

Fighting fascism is in our bones

German American Bund leader Fritz Kuhn speaks at a meeting. New York, 1938.

     This newspaper was forged in the fight against fascism; born to serve as a soldier in the endless battle of freedom against totalitarianism.
      It’s a good story. In 1941, with war raging across Europe, the mighty Chicago Tribune was a voice for xenophobia and isolation. It was more than happy to let Hitler — whom the paper admired — keep Europe (as were, it should be remembered, the vast majority of Americans).
     So Marshall Field III begat the Chicago Sun, as a newspaper that would have President Franklin Roosevelt’s back as he tried to prepare a reluctant nation for the ordeal he could see looming ahead. The Sun rose on Dec. 4, 1941, and three days later, the Japanese attacked the American fleet at Pearl Harbor, drawing the U.S. into the war.
     The bad timing — the paper lost its primary purpose 72 hours into its existence — is a reminder that newspapering was always a struggle. That is why, in late 1947, the flickering Sun joined forces with the Chicago Daily Times, which I usually identify as a scrappy, photo-packed, sports-obsessed tabloid begun in 1929. And leave it at that.
     But there was more to the paper. I did not realize until this week that the Times also went after fascism in a big way. Not until my attention was drawn to “Nazi Town, USA.” The latest installment of the PBS American Experience series dropped this week (You can watch free online). It looks at the German American Bund in the 1930s, a nationalist organization ready to remake the country.
     “The Bund’s vision was an America ruled by white Christians,” historian Bradley Hart says early in the program. “And they thought that Nazism was entirely consistent with American ideals.”
      Americans who aligned with Hitler tried to build an active support network for Nazism, drawing in families with a national string of wholesome-seeming summer camps. All the while vigorously denouncing Jews. Preparing an organization of eager traitors, ready to facilitate takeover when the Germans finished with Europe and decided it was our turn to bear the yoke.
     “They were against democracy,” says historian William Hitchcock, “and thought that America would be a kind of star in a constellation of pro-Nazi governments around the world.”

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Cat transportation news

     We always eat well when we visit our younger son. Either because he always eats well and we get to join him doing so. Or — my suspicion — he lines up high end places for us to take him to when we're in town and of course foot the bill. I suspect that's it.

     A couple of weeks back, we were in Phoenix, with no other purpose than to enjoy the pleasure of his company. He suggested we grab breakfast at Essence Bakery Cafe. Very French — the scrambled eggs with dill in them. The cheese croissants had a blend of gruyere my wife still talks about with wonder. After we settled in our little table and were enjoying our coffee and a selection of pastries, a customer passed with this novel cat carrier arrangement. We struck up a brief conversation. No, the cat didn't mind being in the backpack at all — rather liked being out and about, she claimed (the woman, not the cat). As did the owner, like having her cat at hand, that is.
     I can vouch for the portability of cats. It was last August I went through O'Hare to deliver one of my son's cats to Phoenix — he missed him. The boy, that is. Missed the cat. As for the cat's feelings, well, who can tell?
     And while the cat, Casper by name, was quiet and compliant, and didn't make a peep on the nearly four-hour flight, I can't see myself getting in the habit of hauling felines around. Not just for the heck of it. Still, no criticism. Not everyone is me. It's a free country. For now. 

     The bag, by the way, is a Texsens Bubble Backpack Cat Carrier — you can pick it up on Amazon for under $40. one of many backpack cat haulers that are sold, some featuring an enormous clear setting for your cat. Though the big clear packs seemed too exposing. It seemed to threaten the mysterious dignity of a cat. They're not exhibitionists. I mean, I think they're not. It isn't as if I'm familiar with all cats. Just a few.

     I found a quite extensive review of this product by Oregon breeder Clair Chesterman on her TechnoMEOW website (and no, I didn't not make that up. She's been reviewing cat gadgets for five years now). 

     "Warning #1" she wrote. "Your cats probably will hate it." That sounds right.
     Warning #3 was regarding bothersome strangers such as myself: 
     "You will become popular with Texsens cat backpack" she wrote, noting that wearing one invites the attention of "Senior high school kids, senior citizens, off-duty cops, nurses coming home from the night shift, drunk vacationers at the beach, visiting groups on a tour… You name it."

     I guess I'm in that second category now. Sigh. Well, be who you are. There was only one thing to ask after that: the cat's name. Well, two things to ask. I then checked the spelling of the name, and a good thing I did, because I would have spelled it with an S-K... but no, she spelled it "Scootch." Cute cat.

Elon, boychik, welcome to the tribe!

Another local Jewish person contemplates Elon Musk in 2018.

     Elon, my man! Bagrisn aheym mayn bruder! Welcome home, my brother!
     Oh sorry, Getting ahead of myself. Last Monday, the world’s richest man, Elon Musk, visited Auschwitz and declared himself “aspirationally Jewish.”
     As someone who is not aspirationally but actually Jewish, that is a slow pitch right down the pipe. A guy’s gotta swing.
     Judaism is a great religion. That fact often gets lost, what with all the people hating us and wanting us dead. Great food. Great traditions. Not a lot of rigid rules, except for the Orthodox.
     But is Jewishness something one “aspires” to? Does anyone need to aspire? The bar is very low. You wanna be Jewish? Be Jewish. It’s not like anybody’s going to stop you. Buy a pair of candlesticks. Say Sabbath prayers.
     You don’t even have to do that. In my book, you’re Jewish if you say you are.
     Which Musk pretty much did. Though he seems to think Judaism is something you get from close contact with others, like pink eye.
     “Two-thirds of my friends are Jewish,” Musk said. “I have twice as many Jewish friends as non-Jewish friends. I’m like, Jewish by association.”
     It doesn’t work like that. Having Christian friends doesn’t make me Christian, I hope. Rule of thumb: If you’re using your friends from a certain group as a human shield to deflect charges that you’re actually a bigot who hates that exact group, then you probably are.
     Which reminds us: Musk’s remarkable theological self-transformation doesn’t spring from nowhere. It was last November, not that long ago, particularly when discussing a faith that goes back to ancient Babylon, when Musk declared the idea of Jews — then a people quite apart from himself — pushing “hatred against whites” while welcoming “hordes of minorities” to be “the actual truth.”
     To his surprise — isn’t he supposed to be some kind of business genius? Because me, I’d have seen that coming (savviness; an alleged Jewish trait) — the X advertisers started bolting in droves. Leading to Musk’s in-the-trenches conversion.
     Supposedly. Skepticism is another Jewish quality. So let me roll my eyes and be so bold — again Jewish, though we call it chutzpah — as to point out that Musk doesn’t really want to be Jewish. Rather, he’s reading from the “Heck, I’m Jewish myself” playbook, a cliche among haters.

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Flashback 2013: Seeking colleges, finding ourselves

At Swarthmore

     Writing a newspaper column is a responsibility I try to take seriously. But sometimes you just don't see a problem coming. After this column ran, I heard from an angry party regarding an aspect of the piece. See if you can guess what the matter was. I'll reveal it after the column.

     "We can all fit,” said the sophomore, starting our tour of Swarthmore.
     In the hall, that seemed unlikely. But all 21 prospective students and their parents trooped into the gal’s bedroom for a gander. “I’m living with my friend Sophie,” she said.
     She was indeed, the two single beds pushed together. Our guide spoke more, but in truth it was a background hum, as my eyes lingered on that double bed, a stuffed bunny peeking benignly out from under the covers.
     American society has made rapid progress extending civil rights to gays — gratifyingly quick for a culture still clinging to copper pennies. And I’ve been applauding that for 20 years. But somehow, to my surprise, defending the humanity of an oppressed group is different than taking a college tour and being confronted with a literal love nest — that Hamlet line, “the rank sweat of an enseamed bed,” flashed in mind. Maybe I’m just a prude. But it startled me, as did my knotted reaction. I busied myself reading the “Prenuptial agreement” posted on the wall, multi-colored pen on pink construction paper, including line items regarding grape gummies, “The Hunger Games” and hugs.
     My 17-year-old and I were at the elite school in Pennsylvania because he wants to be a neuroscientist, and he heard he’d get more lab time at a liberal arts college — direct work with professors instead of sitting at the back of a huge hall listening to grad students.    

     That notion died for us on the wooded walkways of Swarthmore somewhere between that dorm room and the library, with its big supply of comic books in the lounge, plus the school’s swimming requirement — an early 20th century anachronism that lingers at a few colleges — and the candlelight ceremony at the outdoor amphitheater.
     I kept contrasting this with the day before, our visit to Johns Hopkins, the Baltimore university famous for its medical school. We met with a neuroscience professor, and while I didn’t take notes, his comments will forever live in my memory as: Oh sure, you can go to some liberal arts school, where you’ll have “good teachers” who will instruct you on the brain. Or you can go to a top research institution like Johns Hopkins where you’ll be working side-by-side with future winners of the Nobel Prize in Medicine. You can spend four years reading journals like Science and Nature. Or you can do work that ends up published in Science and Nature.
     I worried: Is my boy ready for that?
     In Swarthmore’s defense, they presented as eloquent an argument for a well-rounded education as I ever expect to hear.
     “You are being prepared to be a socially and civically responsible global citizen,” said admissions staffer Ruby Bhattacharya. “Swarthmore is challenging. Swarthmore is hard. We are constantly asking students to think why they think the way they think.” To that end, the first freshman semester is pass/fail — no grades. “You start to ask yourself a very different set of questions,” said senior Nate Lo. “Why do you take a class? You look for some value beyond a number.”
     For one delicious moment, I mused if this might not be better for my kid. A less grueling path. But he shook off that idea with a shudder, like a dog after a bath. Some don’t mind being a number. Some really like numbers. Some have pi memorized to 100 digits.
     The next day, at the University of Pennsylvania, nobody mentioned swimming or candle ceremonies. We started at BIBB249 Cognitive Neuroscience — they encourage you to sit in on classes — in a big seminar hall with 100 kids. The lesson was on equilibrium potential of ions of potassium and sodium when passing through a membrane.
     “What were the quantities that go into the Nernst equation?” the professor asked.
     My heart sank. The prospect of an hour of this was dismaying to me, forget a year or 10. These waters were too deep, and I had pushed him in. My fault. I glanced over to the boy whose dreams would now drown. He was leaning forward, focusing on the professor.
     “Here’s the question,” the prof said, directing a bright ruby laser pinpoint to these words: “What happens to the net force on the K+ ion if the membrane potential moves away from -75mV in the positive direction?”
     “Any idea?” I whispered, jokingly.
     “It would move outward,” he replied.
     I sat back, startled, almost frightened. “What makes you say that?” I asked.
     “Based on my 20 minutes in class,” he replied. “Because the diffusion force will be greater than the electrical force.”
     “The net force is out,” the professor said. “I hope that is evident to everyone.”
     More evident to some than to others.
     “This is easy!” my son whispered.
     Children are enigmas that arrive as 8-pound parcels and depart, 18 years later, their mysteries often intact. I shouldn’t still be surprised at this point, but I am. Maybe he’ll figure out the neurological basis of that.

       — Originally published in the Sun-Times, January 25, 2013

     So who complained? The mother of the unnamed sophomore. She felt the privacy of her daughter had been intruded upon. Though what was really driving her displeasure was this: she didn't know, of her daughter's arrangement, or even of her inclination, until someone forwarded her the story. I did feel bad about that — I hadn't intended on outing anybody — and said I was sorry for her dismay. However. You have to be a hard ass in this job, at times, and I do remember pointing out: a) the expectations of privacy after inviting dozens of strangers into your bedroom is quite low, or should be and b) I'd think her complaint would be with her daughter, not me. I'm just the messenger, which is the role of the media. Oh, and my older son went to Pomona College and became a lawyer.

Work in progress: Jack Clark on writing in Paris

Alexander III Bridge

     There are many romantic images about writing. The hard-drinking writer — I've tried that personna, and discarded it, out of necessity. The tortured genius — I'm neither of those. And the writer in Paris — ever since Uncle Ernie scribbled his short stories about Michigan in Left Bank cafes a century ago, that myth has held firm. I've barely written a postcard from Paris, but former Chicago cabbie Jack Clark, who contributed an essay on Schuba's in June,  is there now, working. I had to ask: What's that like?

Writing in Paris

     My first story was in the Chicago Reader in 1975. It was — according to the story itself — a janitor’s-eye’s-view (please note: those words were edited into the story) of the Chagall mosaic, which had recently been unveiled in the First National Bank plaza. I’d been a janitor at the bank when the mosaic was first announced in 1972.
     Since that story, I’ve written quite a bit about my working life, about cab driving, furniture moving, and trucking. But I haven’t written much about writing itself. What would I say? You sit down and try to make sense of something or another, and when you get to the end, you go back to the front and try to make it better. Repeat this process until you’re either satisfied, you give up, or you sell the damn thing.
     When we were discussing what I might write here, Neil suggested I talk about writing in Paris, which is where I spend a good portion of my time. I can’t afford to spend my days at Hemingway’s old cafés on Boulevard du Montparnasse. Instead I’m a mile or so away, sitting on a brand new stool in the spare room of my fiancée’s apartment. For me writing here is not much different than writing in Chicago. But, I must admit, it’s been much better since the stool arrived. Sometimes the hardest part is just keeping your butt in the seat.
     I’ve written six books in the dozen years I’ve been going back and forth to Paris. Back Door to L.A. is a sequel to my novel Nobody’s Angel. They’re both told by Chicago cabbie Eddie Miles. Honest Labor is a memoir about my days as a long haul furniture mover. Nickel Dime Town features Chicago private detective Nick Acropolis. It’s the fourth book in the series. The B Side of Misty is a novel centered on a Chicago diner and the homeless man who shows up one day. Murder Reporter is a novel about a kid from a “changing” West Side neighborhood who becomes a crime reporter for the local alternative press. Paris in a Bottle started out as another Eddie Miles novel, but I couldn’t make it work. I replaced Eddie with another Chicago cabbie, Robert Rhodes. He’s in mourning for his daughter, who died of a fentanyl overdose, and his best friend, a fellow cabbie who killed himself in the wake of Uber’s destruction of the Chicago taxi business. Rhodes wants out of Chicago. He picks France, where he searches for traces of his namesake uncle who died there during World War II.
     Stop! Do not run to your favorite bookstore. Do not go to Amazon. You’ll find nothing but Back Door to L.A., which was self-published back in 2016. The other books have never seen the light of day.
     But I had some luck recently. Back in February in an Amazon Celebrity Pick post, Quentin Tarantino said that Nobody’s Angel was his favorite novel of the year. It’s my first book, self-published as Relita’s Angel in 1996. Initially, I sold it out of my taxi. I then revised it and sold it to Hard Case Crime. I got the rights back in 2021 and self published it once again. And now Hard Case Crime is going to publish a new edition next month with Tarantino’s words prominently displayed on both the front and back cover. An editor said: “What a cool thing to happen to an older book.” I couldn’t agree more. Of all the pulp novels in the world, how did Quentin Tarantino happen to walk into mine? I don’t know, but I’d sure like to thank him.
     But the real good news is that with Mr. Tarantino’s words, I found myself an agent again. Robert Diforio of the D4EO Agency is now busy trying to peddle my various books. If you’re a publisher yourself, you know what to do. The rest of you, please keep your fingers crossed. I’m hard at work on a new novel. I wouldn’t mind spending a bit more time in those inspiring Parisian cafes.
     Jack Clark
     January 12, 2024

Sun might get us before atomic bombs do

 

Slim Pickins rides a hydrogen bomb in "Dr. Strangelove"

      What is it with scientists and clocks? Yes, determining the duration of phenomena is important to research, not to forget seemingly unconnected realms like navigation — Britain ruled the waves for centuries, thanks to John Harrison’s clock, accurate time-keeping being the key to determining longitude.
     Clocks also serve science as metaphor — start with Albert Einstein, struggling to jibe the fixed speed of light with his aborning theory of relativity, looking at the medieval clock tower in Bern and realizing that time is not fixed, but elastic. He started sending notional clocks zipping at the speed of light in thought experiments, trying to nudge we dullards into comprehension.
     The practical value of Einstein’s 1905 musings was dramatically demonstrated at the University of Chicago in 1942, when the first controlled, self-sustaining nuclear reaction was midwifed by Enrico Fermi.
     So it makes sense that another fine Hyde Park institution, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists — founded in 1945 by Einstein, J. Robert Oppenheimer and friends — would in 1947 use a clock as its logo, its hands set at seven minutes to midnight to convey the risk of nuclear Armageddon at the start of the Cold War. The editors took to moving the hands forward and back, warning the world how close to nuclear annihilation it was at the moment and — not incidentally, in my view — continuing the best marketing campaign for a publication other than Sports Illustrated featuring swimsuit models every February.
     That didn’t end so well for them — Sports Illustrated fired its entire staff Friday, effectively ceasing as a publication. But the Bulletin is going strong, and on Tuesday announced the clock would remain at 90 seconds to midnight, same as last year.
     “Ominous trends continue to point the world toward global catastrophe,” is the doozy of an opening line in the Bulletin’s announcement.
     I paid particular attention this year since the University of Chicago’s International House is hosting “a conversation on the existential crises facing our planet and and how we can turn back the hands of the Doomsday Clock” on Feb. 6, featuring Rachel Bronson, president and CEO of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists and Daniel Holz, a U of C Physics, Astronomy and Astrophysics professor and chair of the Bulletin’s Science and Security Board. They asked me to moderate the discussion.

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