Mailbag

    I tend to share emails that are laughably hateful or oblivious, out of hey-look-at-this amazement more than anything else. A typical specimen is:

Neil. Fascinating In the same article that you referred to the “Staff of 100 fact fixated news hounds["], you also engage in ridiculous hyperbole, to wit: “Did I mention the real chance of democracy dying in America next year?” Makes it difficult to buy the whole “fact” assertion.  Bob Johnson.

    It probably deserved no answer, but I answered anyway:

     You do know that Donald Trump is running for president? I hate to be the one to tell you. His election could mean the death of democracy in this country. That isn't an opinion. It's just a fact, one that remains true whether you realize it or not. Thanks for writing.     NS

     That said, I don't want to give the impression that ALL my correspondence consists of trolls sniping. I do receive deeply thoughtful letters, such as this:

Dear Neil Steinberg:
     Last August, you wrote a column about how you are prohibited from making political endorsements, under the Sun-Times new legal status as a not-for-profit financial entity. You finished by saying that your column, in any case, was no more than, “…a twig snapping in a bonfire the size of a barn. The entirety of responsible professional journalism has been blazing away at Donald Trump.”
     Your modesty is endearing, but it obscures the fact that your column actually is a mighty big twig in the regional and syndicated news bonfire. I’m saying this now, because I’m convinced that we each need to do whatever we can, and as often as we can, to keep a would-be dictator from becoming President.  There will be plenty of time for fatalism later
     What prompted me to write you today, is that I have just read Robert Kagan’s two recent opinion pieces in the Washington Post about the likelihood of a second Trump term. Kagan counters the current arguments used to assuage fears, and focuses on the enormous political and financial power that will accrue to Trump after he wins the Super Tuesday Republican primary on March 5. I trust that you have read Kagan’s piece.
     As for the possible fate of my beloved Sun-Times, what is at stake If Trump wins the presidency is not only its nonprofit status, but its Constitutional freedom of speech. The mainstream media, in Trump’s own words (as borrowed from Stalin) is “the Enemy of the People.” And he has announced his plans to use the justice department to go after his critics in the media.
     Now, I’m not naïve enough to think that you and your colleagues already haven’t had conversations about how far you might push the envelope in order to prevent this catastrophe. I only write today to lend encouragement to you and your coworkers to take whatever risks you think you can to stop Trump, before it’s too late.
     Finally, I want you to know that I am incredibly impressed and encouraged by how the Sun-Times has become a great paper again. And I trust you will do all you can to rouse us readers from our complacency and so prevent our democracy from becoming yet another dictatorship.
     Respectfully yours,
     Tom Golz

     An honest concern deserves an honest reply, and I thought hard, and did my best to respond as candidly as I could:

Dear Tom Golz:
     Thank you for your thoughtful letter. I too read Robert Kagan's columns, and felt they were spot-on, if lengthy, summations of the peril our nation is facing right now. The really scary part is that his proposed solution — newfound courage among Republicans — is exactly the quality whose general lack has brought us to this crisis. GOP timidity isn't a bug, but a feature, as the techies say, and I can't see that changing, certainly not before March 5. To me, the whole game is Biden winning re-election; alas, and as Kagan points out, that can be easily torpedoed by a third-party candidate like Jill Stein. Or a stroke.
     To address your thoughts on the Sun-Times leading the charge to save democracy, I brought up that very subject at an open meeting last Thursday, explaining to the powers-that-be that this is a moment of grave national peril, and did they really want to look back at it, years from now, and know they sat on the sidelines because they're worried about their 501(c)3 status? I wish I could say their answer was encouraging, but it wasn't really an answer at all. More of a we'll-get-back-to-you-on-that murmur. I'm not holding my breath.
     My plan is, as always, to say what I think needs to be said, when it needs to be said, and if the paper won't print it, despite my best arguments, well, then that is their right. As I sometimes tell readers who demand to know how I can permit some top level misstep or another: I just work there; I don't run the place. I do have my blog, which draws a respectable number of eyeballs. I've already been writing columns about the Israel-Hamas war there, not bothering to turn them into the paper because doing so causes such a quivering bolus of alarm, hand-wringing and nit-picking that it's hardly worth it. Were the Middle East waiting breathlessly for insight from me, I might feel worse about that, but — spoiler alert — they're not. That might be one reason I'm writing a two-part series on baking bread this week.
     Recognizing that I am not the greased hub on which politics twirls is not humility, it's just true. In 2016, I knew Trump was going to win, after Brexit, and said so, repeatedly. No matter. I do take comfort in knowing that Illinois went for Biden by 17 points over Trump in 2020. They don't need me telling them what to do.
     I hope that isn't timidity. I've turned in my resignation in the past, and will do so again, if need be. While you don't rack up 36 years on staff by stalking off in a huff over editorial disagreements, no writer worth his salt flaps in the wind of whoever is signing the checks. If I get sacked in the process of fighting for democracy, then I couldn't hope for a better exit. "I would not lose so great an honor," as Henry V says.
     Finally, I thank you for your closing observation about the Sun-Times ascendancy. That is, to me, very encouraging. Even with our fraught charitable status, there is much to be optimistic about. We are bringing on fresh, enthusiastic talent faster than I ever remember it being hired, and they're writing excellent stuff, covering Chicago as it deserves to be covered. As for me, I am confident that I'll be able to provide assistance to the good guys when the time comes. There are many ways to skin a cat — I suppose I'll have to write a chain of historical columns about the rise of Hitler and count on my audience to read between the lines. One aspect that Kagan dismisses that I think about a lot lately: America has always had extraordinary luck. Not at all times in all things — were that true, Trump wouldn't be the front-runner. But at key moments we caught a lucky break — we elected FDR in 1932 while Germany elected Hitler. It could have just as easily been the other way around. I like to think fate won't desert us now.
      Don't get me wrong — I don't intend to count on chance. I plan to oppose Trump with every fibre of my being up to and — if need be — after his re-election. Terrifying as our time is, it is also the rarest of things — a moment of true historic importance. I compliment you for the letter you sent — nobody else has written anything close — and hope you continue to do what you can, when you can. As will I.
     Neil Steinberg

‘I will change your life with this bread’

Dobra Bielinski

     Dobra Bielinski brought her own bread to China.
     “They have white bread,” she said, dismissively, noting that her hearty, seed-laden bread kept her alive for a two-week trip.
     Bielinski is the owner of Delightful Pastries on Lawrence Avenue. Readers on Monday enjoyed our preliminaries before settling down to work on two breads, a potato and roasted onion sourdough loaf, and an oatmeal porridge bread.
     “You can see the chunks of potatoes,” she said, tamping dough into rectangular molds with her knuckles. “You can see the chunks of onions. This is a nice dough. I love it.”
     Like any fine chef, Bielinski’s all about sourcing ingredients.
     “A ton of onions I brought from Wisconsin,” she said. “Making wild onion soup I foraged for mushrooms.”
     Why are Wisconsin onions special?
     “I love them,” she said. “They caramelize really nicely. I don’t get the big ones, I get the medium sized ones. I love roasting potatoes and onions together, This bread will go well with pate, go well with New England clam chowder. It’s going to be faaaaabulous with that.”
     Lunchtime approached. We sat down and ate ... you might want to skip this part if you’re eating, say, a bologna sandwich on Wonder bread for lunch. The envy might kill you.
     A bowl of Bigos — hunter’s stew, a sauerkraut-based pottage with pork sausage, smoked bacon, dried plums and mushrooms. Her own horseradish sauce. A superlative apple cider that made me think of the cider at Alinea. Thick slices of warm rye bread.
     “I will change your life with this bread,” she said. “Let me get some butter. Some delicious fabulous Wisconsin butter.”
     She held the loaf.

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Potato and roasted onion sourdough loaves. 

In baseball news....

     Indifference to professional sport is a hobby horse I've ridden for a long time now. It began because I was a fat kid, terrible at athletics, living outside Cleveland, whose Indians had built a comfortable nest in the cellar of the American League. Not to forget the Browns and Cavaliers, who were worse. Following sports seemed like digging a hole and staring into it. A waste of life.
     Working for a newspaper, with a whole department — the most important part, to many readers — dedicated to chronicling and celebrating sports, I felt safe occasionally raising an objection, or at least a counter-narrative, to the hullabaloo. I was proud to be the guy who almost asked Michael Jordan who he was. Proud that, the night the Cubs won the World Series in 2016, I attended a lecture at the Field Museum on tattooing in Polynesia. I wasn't alone; why not spread the word: you're allowed to ignore this shit.
     But sometimes I do manage to scare — or at least worry — myself, such as a few days ago, when I learned of the existence of Shohei Ohtani, the star on the Los Angeles Angels who signed a 10-year, $700 million contract to play for the Los Angeles Dodgers.
     Ohtani is both a powerhouse batter and a fireballing pitcher — a sui generis combination in baseball, something that even I find interesting, which was the distressing part: the idea that, by generally ignoring sports, I was missing something worthwhile. Maybe sports isn't "The same thing happening over and over," as I like to say, and Ohtani is evidence of that. Maybe I've been negligent. Heck, I didn't even know the Los Angeles Angels were a team — when did they stop being the California Angels? (in 1996; quite a while ago, really. Though in my defense, they then became the "Anaheim Angeles," and who could be expected to note that? They started calling the team the "Los. Angeles Angels" in 2005).
     Well, there's no harm in making up for lost time — heck, even I dragged myself to the United Center a few times to see Michael Jordan play (and LeBron James, to please my wife). I could see catching a game at Wrigley Field to lay eyes upon Ohtani. 
     Why? There might be something to say about it. I could argue that American baseball has been becoming more Japanese for a while now. I went to a baseball game in Tokyo, back in the 1980s: the Nippon Ham Fighters versus the Sebu Lions at the Tokyo Dome, aka "The Big Egg." That part I remember. While of course none of the actual play sticks in mind, I do recall being impressed by the food — Bento boxes and sushi rolls, which can be found at many American ballparks, finally having moved beyond peanuts and Cracker Jack. The crowds were also segregated into cheering blocks, like at college football games, and at times entire zones of the stadium would leap to their feet and start chanting (Nippon Ham! Tatakai! Katsu! "Nippon Ham! Fight! Win!") Maybe if we started doing that here, it might cut into the dolour of the games.
     Anyway, my interest is piqued, if only to see what a stunningly bad investment that $700 million turns out to be. Even not following sports, I have the conviction that as soon as star athletes get a gigantic payday they generally shut down and are never as good again. Ohtani is 29. His elbow is already hurt from last year. I better go see him in 2024, because who knows if he'll even be playing afterward. Heck, Sandy Koufax retired at 30. So maybe there is something to this sports stuff after all, occasionally. Or not.

Baking bread with Dobra Bielinski

     “Are you ready to cook?” asked Dobra Bielinski when we met Friday morning at her Delightful Pastries — both a name and an apt description — on Lawrence Avenue.
     Well bake, technically. But I wasn’t about to correct her.
     Regular readers might remember my column on Bielinski from March 2022, when I featured her for Paczki Day. The holiday isn’t until Feb. 13 this year; so why am I back now, in December?
     We got along so well — I described Bielinski as “a bubbling cauldron of strong opinions,” — that I said I’d like to return someday and see her bake bread. An offer that 99 out of 100 people would let vanish on the wind. But the Warsaw-born baker is that 1 out of 100, if not out of a thousand. She circled back and reminded me of my suggestion that we bake bread.
     Bielinski had already been at it for hours when I got there.
     “I was up at 3:45 a.m.” she said, as I donned a soft white apron. “I had to have something to eat.”
     And breakfast was ...?
     “One of my worker’s mom is visiting from Poland, so she made this potato cake — basically potatoes grated with caramelized onion and little bits of bacon, they add tons of eggs and a little bit of flour, and just put it in a cake pan and bake the whole thing,” she said. “Then I had my mom’s leftover goulash.”
     If you wish you’d been sitting next to Bielinski with a spoon, please continue reading. Otherwise, you can check back with me later this week — I have a feeling this is going to linger into a second column. The problem with fresh baked goods: it’s hard to stop.

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Flashback 2004: World should mourn if Arafat dies peacefully

"Glad You Dead You Rascal You," by Herbert Singleton (Smithsonian American Art Museum)

     I was looking over old columns to see if I ever wrote anything worthwhile about the latest denizen of hell, Henry Kissinger — short answer, No — when I came across this, written as Yasser Arafat was dying. It still remains current, alas, though I did wince a the part about him having children's blood on his hands. Not the PLO monopoly that it used to be. The part about the budget amazed me — though I'm not sure if that's because I used to get a copy, or that I would then read it. And the God Force stuff is just fun. Back then, the column filled a page, and I've kept the original headings.

Opening shot

    I hope that Yasser Arafat gets better. In fact, I'm pulling for a complete recovery. Even if he's dead by the time you read this, I hope he springs back to life. Re-incarnates. Because there is something deeply unfair in the prospect of his dying surrounded by friends and family in a hospital bed in Paris. Not when, if there were any sort of justice in the world, he would perish lying on his side on a gravel street, howling without company or comfort after having a long splinter of metal blasted through his eye.
     The man is a killer. Not only has he killed people himself, personally, but he plotted and organized murders of hundreds of victims. He is one of the authors of a philosophy of random murder that has inspired millions. That he spent years as a sham statesman, received in the White House and heaped with honors is one of the mind-boggling ironies of our ironic age. The man was given the Nobel Peace Prize, which washed away whatever shred of worth that might have clung to the once-respected bauble after they gave it to Henry Kissinger. They might as well pack the thing in a box of manure and straw when they hand out the next one.
     Arafat's worst crime? He betrayed his own people. He could have led them to peace, and instead led them down a blind alley to self-destruction and disaster.
     When he dies — any moment, judging by the reports — the news media will no doubt focus on Arab mourning. And there will unfortunately be a few Jews leaping around in Jerusalem, grinning and cheering and burning Palestinian flags, though that really isn't our style. But someone should point out what a shame it is to see Arafat go, as opposed to lingering horribly for a long, long time -- maybe just an hour for every child he had a hand in maiming. Because his manner of death is an affront to justice. It makes the most devoted agnostic yearn for a vengeful God and His furnace of hell.

Your tax dollars at work

     The $5 billion-plus-change Chicago city budget landed with a thud on my desk Tuesday.
     It's not supposed to be light reading, but I couldn't help skimming its thousand or so pages.
     What struck me was the wide range of occupations found among the city's 35,919 budgeted jobs, from Mayor (who pulls down a cool $209,915 a year) to the guy who picks up dead rats for the Bureau of Rodent Control (title: "Dead Animal Recovery," which would make a fun business card; wage: a not-bad $26.40 an hour).
     That's about a dollar an hour more than a Tree Trimmer gets in the Bureau of Forestry (I know we have lots of trees, but "Bureau of Forestry"? Urbs in Hortis indeed).
     The list goes on and on. Iron Inspector. Assistant Cable Administrator. Lamp Maintenance Man. Asphalt Raker. There are Caulkers and Steamfitters at the Bureau of Administrative Support, which also employs Hoisting Engineers and Stationary Firemen (who are, I would guess, paid less than firemen who are required to occasionally move).
     A few touches seem positively czarist. The Mayor's Office of Special Events has a Director of Protocol who oversees a staff of three. The Bureau of Streets has a Chief Voucher Expediter.
     I could fill this column and four more with tidbits gleaned from the budget -- do you know we plan to spend $3 million next year for the electricity used by traffic signals? You do now.

Save it for Sunday school

     This may come as a surprise. But I don't believe in electricity. Not in the conventional sense, of charged particles conveying energy. That is a lie forced on children in public school.
     I don't think I've mentioned this before, perhaps because the subject never came up.
     No, in my eyes, what comes out of your electrical socket and runs your toaster is God Force, the ineffable benevolence and power of the Lord Almighty put to practical use for the benefit of mankind.
     I find that makes a lot more sense than the so-called conventional theory of "electricity" -- and it's only that, a theory. I mean, where's the evidence? You can't even see the stuff.
     You might think that I'd have a hard time persuading others to consider my God Force view of electrical power. But I'm encouraged by the headlines. Down in Georgia, the courts are trying to figure out whether the government can slap a warning label on the biology textbooks, pointing out that evolution, like electricity, is only one in a range of possibilities, and we need to keep an open mind.
     Lest you think this debate is limited to Southern backwaters, up in Wisconsin, the Grantsburg city school board has changed its science curriculum to accommodate the teaching of creationism, so as not to limit science classes, in the words of their superintendent, to "just one scientific theory.'
     I'm all for that. Isn't that what education is:? Expanding our knowledge? Why not explore many options instead of cleaving to one party line? Just as the creationist origins of life should, of course, be taught in public schools alongside the theory of evolution preferred by atheists and a few activist judges, so I believe that my God Force electricity view should have widespread public airing. Teach both, and let the students decide!
     Not that I expect the struggle to be simple. For years, I've been trying to get schools to teach, alongside the standard canard that men landed on the moon, the very real possibility that the Apollo landings were a hoax. So far they have resisted. These supposed "teachers" can be so stubborn that way.

             — Originally published in the Sun-Times, Nov. 10, 2004

Become a better person with cheesecake.

     I try to be the sort of person I want in my life.
     Let me explain.
     If you are not careful, you end up running your relationships on a quid-pro-quo basis. You do for others as you expect they'll do for you. That's a recipe for disappointment, because people are busy, and distracted, and indifferent. So you become busy and distracted and indifferent too.

     The key is to behave how you wish people would behave toward you. Do unto others, etc. What they do in return is their business. Not yours. Thus I try to do small things — project kindness, say hello to people who then pass without a glance. Welcome new colleagues. Promote excellent work of others on social media, even knowing they'll never return the favor. That's alright. I'm not scanning the skies looking for signs on how to behave. I know what's right.
     Set that thought aside.

Cinnamon Dark Chocolate Cheesecake

     Now turn your attention to the left hand side of the page, if you're lucky enough to be viewing the entire blog on a honking huge iMac, the way I do at home. See the new Eli's ad? Went up Friday. Beautiful right. If you click on it, you will be brought to the Eli's home page. There you will seem among the stunning variety of goodies for sale, something called Cinnamon Dark Chocolate Cheesecake. If you are like me, or even if you aren't but have a pulse, you will think, as I did, "I want that!"
     Which brings up a peril I should mention to you. As this blog is sponsored by Eli's at the holiday season, and I am in general a fan of all things Eli's, I also try to maintain my journalistic integrity, and not lose sight of downsides that may exist. For instance, you might have read about my recent visit to Cheesecake World, and its generally positive tone. But there was something ... well, unsettling about the trip that I neglected to mention.
     We were driving away from Eli's. In the trunk was a Tiramisu Cheesecake. And a Passion Fruit Orange Guava sheet cheesecake. I'd have gotten more, but I have a rule — only three cheesecakes in the freezer. (We already had most of an Original Favorites Sampler). Yes, that might be a senseless, self-destructive edict, akin to the Calvinist ban on dancing. But if I didn't limit it to three, then we'd risk having six, and there wouldn't be room for frozen peas.
     Freezer overload is not the downside I have in mind. So I'm driving away from Eli's, having just eaten a gorgeous slice of cheesecake, with the promise of many more to come, having just enjoyed the friendliness and deep business insight of Marc Schulman. But was I happy? No. I was troubled, and this is why. This is what I was thinking:

Hot Chocolate Cheesecake

     "I should have gotten the Hot Chocolate Cheesecake."
    Because it sounds so wonderful. Hot chocolate is a flavor you just don't get enough. I once had the frozen hot chocolate at a boutique ice cream parlor in NYC, and know that it translates well to the world of cool desserts.
     But I didn't get it? Why? It all happened so fast. I had my wife and son's opinions to consider. Before I knew it, we were driving away, our decisions made and set in cheesecake.
     And that's the risk of my directing you to the Eli's web site. Let's say you get the Turtle Cheesecake and the Basque Cheesecake, which is my favorite. That means you leave the aforementioned Cinnamon Dark Chocolate and Hot Chocolate untried. And what if you were to, oh, be hit by a bus next week. You're thinking about something else. Cheesecake maybe. You assume the bus will stop at a stop sign and you step off the curb and it hurls you 30 feet in the air. And you're lying, broken, in the slush on Lawrence Avenue, and your last thought is, "Now I'll NEVER have Cinnamon Dark Chocolate Cheesecake."
     I worry about that. So the thing for me to do now is order one or both right away, suspending the Three Cakes Rule. Right? Wrong! Let me refer you to the opening sentiment. Who do I want to be? The kind of guy who indulges his every selfish whim? Who has to immediately experience everything that strikes his fancy? Or a measured, restrained, thoughtful person. Thinking of others. The kind of person who will send the delicious cheesecake that he wants for himself to someone else. Which is exactly what I did: ordered Cinnamon Dark Chocolate Cheesecake and had it sent, not to me, but to a pair of valued colleagues who have been helpful and diligent all year long. They can try the cheesecake for me, and then perhaps tell me what it's like. Meanwhile, by not trying the cheesecake, I give myself a reason to carry on living, by having something truly special to look forward to. Heck, maybe they'll invite me over for a slice and a cup of coffee. I'd like that. And if they don't, well, that's okay too.

     Today is Dec. 9. If you are lucky, there are people in your life you value, who make you less wretched than you would otherwise be — less wretched, perhaps, than you deserve to be. Why not give them the cheesecake they deserve? For Hanukkah. For Christmas. For the heck of it. They'll be better for it. And you know what? You'll be better for it too. Trust me on that.

Work downtown or stay home?

 

     Serendipity.
     One of the 50-cent words of which I’m notoriously fond. Means “fortunate accident.” Seems common enough to me. Plus relevant, regarding the high-stakes struggle of downtown Chicago to remain solvent. An issue where I’m torn.
     People discovered they can work at home. The cat is out of the bag. Deal with it. You can work at home. I can work at home, flop my fingers on the keyboard, craft something, call it a day.
     What does going downtown do? Besides waste time and money. Sometimes you take the bother and trouble, only to find yourself at a pointless meeting. The last meeting I went to at our Navy Pier office, eight people had signed up for, but I was the only person to actually appear — stupid me — so the presenter did a one-on-one, imparting little of value.
     But not a waste. I try to multitask. So while I was there, I took a colleague to lunch at Chef Art Smith’s Reunion, which served up fine jambalaya and biscuits. So there was that.
     I’ve been officially permitted to work at home since... 1997. Quite a long time, really. But even though I haven’t been required to go into the office, I still went, ritualistically on Tuesdays, because I didn’t want to be one of those people who never show their face. I found that, go in twice week and you are nevertheless considered “Always there.”
     Since I don’t know what my job entails — that is, no beat, no topics I’m supposed to cover — I never know whence my material might come. I once had a front page exclusive literally fall out of the sky, in the form of a chunk of Union Station ceiling that hit a woman in the head as we waited in line for the Madison Street exit, fracturing her skull.
     I wish I could draw a line between going into the city and writing something effective. But truth is I can spend the day crawling around Lower Wacker Drive with the Night Ministry, write a column vibrating with tragic urban experience, and the readers yawn and flip the page. While let me share a shopping trip to the Northbrook Aldi, and the online world goes berserk, vibrating for days.

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