Who's Cooking?

Though I have biases like everyone, for the most part, I consider myself reasonably open-minded. That said, I'm providing the Wikipedia link below to help you decide if what I'm about to confess makes me guilty of ethnocentrism.

Ethnocentrism - Wikipedia

With respect to restaurants specializing in ethnic cuisine, I'm less confident about what I'm about to eat when folks preparing my meal appear to have no trace of the ethnicity in question. Call me ethnocentric and read no further if you choose, but before anyone reports me to the PC police, hear me out. 

I don't necessarily need to hear Italian spoken by cooks in an Italian restaurant, but for me, it is preferable to hearing Russian or German. Now because I speak only English - admittedly bolstering my ethnocentric bona fides - I struggle to differentiate some languages from others. However, if any Polish or Slavic speaker working as a cook in a Mexican, Thai, or Lebanese restaurant stumbles across this post, allow me to respectfully suggest you stay silent when encountering me - or some equally prickly individual - as a customer. Even we monolinguists can usually pick out blatant auditory clues and, in my case, it could start me wondering if my meal is going to pass muster. Sorry in advance if this offends you.   

The ethnicity of cooks in a diner? A less cut and dry matter. Given the number of choices on a typical diner menu, a United Nations contingent would be necessary in those kitchens to fully satisfy my narrow requirements. However, to be painfully honest (what have I got to lose at this point?), I will almost always bypass a diner not featuring spanakopita. And I also pay attention to the name of the diner's proprietor when advertised, on the lookout for first names like Stavros or Eleni. Another technique? I listen when a diner's proprietor pronounces gyro.  If I hear something like "jiro" (hard "J" and long "i") instead of something close to "yiddo" (rhymes with "kiddo"), that could signal my last trip to that particular diner. I love my spanakopita too much to take chances. Same goes for my pasta primavera and all those other yummy ethnic dishes that have been passed down through generations of folks who originated the dish in the first place.    

Being Truly Tested

Over the span of your longest-lasting relationship, what has been the most serious test of the strength of your bond with that person?

Like most folks who have been together a long time, my wife and I have been tested more than a few times over our almost half-century together. But reading A Marriage at Sea (2024) brought into clear focus the difference between the tests most of us face and the kind of test that only the sturdiest of bonds can hope to endure.

Author Sophie Elmhirst's background as a journalist perfectly suits this tale of super-human resilience. In her debut, Elmhirst never raises her voice because it's unnecessary to do so. What Maurice and Maralyn Bailey faced during their 117 days adrift on a rubber raft in the middle of the Pacific Ocean needs no fanfare. I can't imagine an attentive reader being unmoved by this remarkable story.

  

Battling With Tears

Would you describe yourself - as I do - as introspective? If so, would you also say - as I would - that you frequently struggle to hold back tears? I've wondered most of my adult life about the link between these two temperamental traits of mine.  

I've known people I would describe as introspective that don't appear to struggle as much as me with tears. How often do you encounter folks like this? Though not proud of it, I'm obliged to admit I'm a little jealous of people like this. And though I never have, more than once I've been tempted to ask these folks to share a strategy with me. This is especially the case following an episode when my tears just don't seem to want to stop.  

Who knows? Maybe a few of those introspective folks will read this post and offer me some help. Even better, maybe the help offered to me will also assist one of you who sometimes fights the same battle as I do.

#77: The Mt. Rushmore Series

Perched near the midpoint between Memorial Day and the celebration of the nation's 250th anniversary that's poised to unfold on July 4th, it feels right to offer up four national treasures for this iteration of my most enduring series. I hope you'll join me by celebrating four uniquely American treasures you wouldn't want to do without. Regular readers will recognize my abiding passions reflected in the first three selections.

1.) The New York Times:  A feast for readers and the gold standard for responsible journalism, the Times has enriched me as a thinker my entire adult life. 

2.) Ken Burns: Without question, the greatest documentary filmmaker of my lifetime. My favorite film in his impressive oeuvre? See directly below. 

3.) Jazz: Music has been the singular driving force of my existence. And jazz is the classical music of these United States as well as being the subject of my favorite Ken Burns film. Understanding this uniquely American art form is a never-ending quest.  

4.) The National Park System: When Yellowstone National Park was created in 1872, the United States became the first country in the world to establish a national park. In 1916, with the birth of the National Park Service, another groundbreaking innovation was unveiled. At last count, I've visited thirty-five of the sixty-three national parks. Aside from those few bordering the Arctic circle and the one on American Samoa, my plan is to get to all the rest in my remaining years. Wish me luck.

How about you? Which four uniquely American treasures would you enshrine? 

 

But, However, Still ...

Without question, the largest looming issue in my current bi-coastal quandary is connected to my Act Three friendships. Because much as I want to witness every milestone in my new grandson's California life, leaving behind the friends I've made since 2010 is an unpleasant prospect.  

It would also be difficult leaving immediate family left here on the East Coast, but with one sister and three nieces already spread across the U.S., I've had years to cope with that reality. Now, with fewer years in front of me than behind, it's unsettling to envision day-to-day life without regular interaction with my newest tribe.  

Would I make new friends? Of course. How? Likely via some of the same techniques used when I moved here sixteen years ago. I'd join - or start - a book group or two. I'd volunteer, get involved with a local activist group, find people who enjoy hiking or being outdoors. My wife would try to connect with folks who love gardening and I'd try to locate musicians and other aspiring writers. One of the upsides to the Internet is how easy it can be now to connect with people that have similar interests. And staying in touch is also much easier than it used to be.  

But, however, still ... 

Troubled by a Question

"Since death is certain, but the time of death is uncertain, what is the most important thing?" - Pema Chodron

That formulation and provocative question have been on my mind for some time now. Perhaps the word "most" is what continues to bedevil me. How to be that specific? 

I recall when first stumbling across Chodron's words - used as the epigraph for a wise novel I was reading at the time - my reflexive answer to her question was family.  I suspect many people would say the same, don't you? But over the ensuing months, as I carefully examined how I often choose to spend my time, my answer started feeling less authentic. The chasm separating reflex and reality steadily grew, accompanied by a lingering unease.  

Today began uneventfully. Then, while still trying to find my rhythm, that question returned full bore and I wondered: Who am I if family is not the answer? The rest of today? Best not to dwell on that. 

 

To the Class of 2026

Invited to deliver a commencement address, what do you think would be most valuable to say to graduating college seniors in 2026?

My address will emphasize the three bullets below. The complete text is ready to be delivered the moment Harvard invites me. I decided not to include the full form here for two reasons. First, it keeps the post to a manageable and likely-to-be-read-in-full length. Second, years of studying and teaching public speaking have consistently reinforced for me the "power of three". No need to adhere to this arbitrary guideline when you comment. 

* Be kind. 

* Put down your phone regularly. 

* Before repeating or further publicizing something you read on the Internet, heard in a podcast, or learned of via social media, take some time to verify its accuracy.

Full Harvard-ready text available upon request. 

       

Resetting the Bar

No point being indirect. A Flower Traveled in My Blood (2025) is the best non-fiction book I've finished so far this year as well as being one of the best of its type that I've ever read. 

Subtitled The Incredible True Story of Grandmothers Who Fought to Find a Stolen Generation of Children, author Haley Cohen Gilliland expertly tells this riveting tale without sentiment or flourish. I guarantee the indefatigable grit of this group of Argentinian women will move and inspire you in equal measure. I was never out of the spell. The last time I can recall being as intensely involved in a book like this was while reading Patrick Radden Keefe's account of the troubles in Northern Ireland in Say Nothing (2018).

Earlier today as I finished Gilliland's tour-de-force, thoughts I'd entertained about extolling a different worthwhile book of non-fiction in my next blog post were immediately scuttled. For me, this book reset the bar. When my club discusses it at our July meeting, it will be difficult to stay in my usual role of neutral moderator. A Flower Traveled in My Blood is a home run.

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