There are three words that have become more popular in recent years that you should know about. The three words are often used interchangeably, even though they mean slightly different things, and they all could factor into the future of our democracy.
The first word is oligarchy, which means “rule by the few.” Like all the words we’re discussing today, oligarchy is a Greek word.
Next is kleptocracy, which means “rule by thieves.
And finally, plutocracy, which means “rule by the wealthy.”
The reason these words are so important and could potentially bear on the future of our country is that the relatively few wealthy, who are often viewed as corrupt (i.e., thieves) are leading the charge toward authoritarianism in the United States.
Although Donald Trump (himself, a want-to-be oligarch) is the face of this movement, it is much deeper and more committed than just Trumpism. It has gathered many disparate players from traditional Republicans, white supremacists, neo-Nazis, militia groups, other far-right groups, and evangelicals (particularly Christian Nationalists) who view the turn toward an autocracy run by oligarchs as a way to achieve their individual political agendas.
We often associate—with good reason—oligarchs with Russia. The reason for this is that the people who benefitted most from the fall of the USSR were the people who spirited away millions and billions of dollars (or rubles) from the national treasury to line their pockets. The money helped these people, including Vladimir Putin, to gain and exercise power in the newly formed Russia.
Its this hunt for money that makes our current turn toward authoritarianism different from what we saw with the rise of Hitler and Nazism in Germany in the 1930s, or the rise of fascism under Benito Mussolini during that same period in Italy. Those movements, much like the administration of Viktor Orban in Hungary today, were grounded in fanatical patriotism. While patriotism can be a good, constructive thing, fanatical patriotism tends to support country at the expense of civil rights, particularly for marginalized groups.
What we are seeing in the United States is more akin to an oligarchic autocracy. Also known as a kleptocracy or plutocracy, it plays on the patriotic fervor of those on the far-right, but it’s true aim is to enrich (or further enrich) the few at the top of the movement.
To be sure, there are some common hallmarks shared by the money-grubbing Russia-style autocracy and the nationalistic-based authoritarianism. For instance, both create laws favoring the wealthy. In the United States, we have seen tax breaks for the rich, government subsidies to corporations and wealthy landowners, and suppression of voting rights, especially impacting the poor and marginalized groups.
The impact on the poor and marginalized groups (including women) is another shared trait. Rights gained through years of hard-fought advocacy are often lost during authoritarian regimes. Often, leaders will pay lip service to civil rights, but in practice, will work to curtail them.
Yet another commonality between these two groups is the use of violence. In the United States, we saw a rise in violence against citizens during the Trump administration, including the use of government law enforcement personnel in a storm trooper-type role, national guard troops breaking up peaceful demonstrations, and the normalization of citizen-on-citizen violence for political purposes. In addition, we witnessed an attempted violent coup against the government that was largely excused by those supporting authoritarianism, and for the first time in our history, we failed to have a peaceful transition from one presidential administration to another. The specter of violence continues to be a daily concern, with right-wingers threatening another civil war and asking their leaders when they can start shooting those that defend democracy.
A contributing factor to oligarchy in the United States is the Supreme Court decision in Citizens United v Federal Elections Commission. In essence, the Citizens United case gave corporations and other outside groups the right to spend as much money as they’d like to influence political campaigns. This invited wealthy individuals and corporations into politics, giving them unlimited ability to not only influence the outcome of elections, but to have undue influence over a candidate once they had been elected to office.
Giving wealthy individuals and corporations the ability to spend to their heart’s content on elections also had the effect of reducing the influence a citizen of ordinary means has in an election. This act of moderating, or even eliminating, the power of the non-wealthy is a cornerstone to the rise of oligarchy in the United States.
According to the Brennan Center for Justice:
“With its decision, the Supreme Court overturned election spending restrictions that date back more than 100 years. Previously, the court had upheld certain spending restrictions, arguing that the government had a role in preventing corruption. But in Citizens United, a bare majority of the justices held that “independent political spending” did not present a substantive threat of corruption, provided it was not coordinated with a candidate’s campaign…As a result, corporations can now spend unlimited funds on campaign advertising if they are not formally “coordinating” with a candidate or political party.”
To understand what is happening in the United States from a political perspective, it is important to understand the meaning of oligarchy, kleptocracy, and plutocracy. They will be playing an increasingly important role in our national discussion, and sadly, in our future.
To better understand oligarchy, PHILO-Notes, the online philosophy teaching project, put this video together that does a good job of explaining oligarchy in just three-and-a-half minutes.
I grew up about 40 miles outside of Chicago. Like a lot of families in our area, we ate pizza often, either as a meal or a late-night snack. The two pizzerias we patronized the most were Gario’s (still in business) and Tony Weed’s (out of business). In later years, when I was old enough to drive, Ach-N-Lou’s pizza became a favorite. If we were having frozen pizza, it was almost always Tombstone.
I loved pizza, but as a kid, I didn’t know that Chicago had the reputation for being the pizza capital of North America, a title that New York-style pizza fans might dispute. In fact, I was in my late 20s or early 30s before I ever had deep-dish pizza, that gastronomical delight that most people associate with Chicago.
In those days, I was blissfully ignorant about the pizza scene in the Chicago area. I loved our local pizzerias, but I also took them for granted. I didn’t realize that I was eating some of the best pizza in the nation. But once I was introduced to Chicago-style deep-dish, my eyes were opened to the many different varieties of pizza on offer at pizzerias around Chicago, and from coast-to-coast.
Chicago vs New York City
Let me take a quick side trip to address the Chicago vs New York City pizza debate. In a recent poll conducted by USA Today, 49% of respondents proclaimed Chicago as the pizza capital of the United States. Thirty percent voted for New York City, 12% said they’d eat pizza anywhere (that seems like a cop out to me), and 9% voted for another city or region in the United States.
Although I’m gratified to see that Chicago won the poll (I’m nothing, if not a homer), I think it misses the point. New York-style pizza can be great. My go-to place in my new home is a New York-style pizza joint. It’s fantastic. To me, the big difference between New York and Chicago, at least when it comes to pizza, is that pizzerias in New York overwhelmingly serve New York-style pizza, while pizzerias in Chicago serve a wide variety of different types of pies. It’s the variety that, to me, makes Chicago the true pizza capital of America.
The following is not a comprehensive list of pizza styles. I’m a pizza snob, but in many ways, I’m still a novice when it comes to the art of pizza making. With that caveat out of the way, here are the type of pizzas you might consider the next time you have an urge for a little bit of Italian-inspired happiness.
Oops…One final caveat: Many of the types of pizzas I’m about to discuss overlap from one style to another. For instance, there are a lot of similarities between thin, Chicago-style thin, and New York-style pizzas. And yet, they are completely different. When it comes to pizza, the details really matter.
Okay, enough caveats. On with the list:
Thin Crust Pizza
While you could argue that “thin-crust pizza” is a generic term, there’s nothing generic about eating a thin-crust pizza. To qualify as thin-crust, one obvious criteria is that the crust must be thin (duh!). To put a finer point on it, the crust is not deep and not pan, but it’s also not as thin or crispy as a Chicago-style thin (see below). It tends to be a little thicker and chewier than a Chicago-style thin, which has a crispier bite.
A thin-crust pizza has a rim of crust that can be used as a “handle” when eating a slice. The crust is usually firm enough to carry the load of cheese and other ingredients, unlike a New York-style pizza that often has a flimsy crust. Thin crust pizzas can either be cut into wedges (like New York-style pizza) or into squares (known as the “party cut) like Chicago-style thin.
A good example of a thin crust pizza is served at Italian Fiesta Pizzeria, a favorite of the Obamas. The pizza at Italian Fiesta is cut into squares and has a slightly thicker crust than a Chicago-style thin. It also has the crust “handle” that further separates it from a Chicago-thin.
If you can’t make it to Chicago for thin crust pizza, pick up a Home Run Inn frozen pizza at the store. It’s not quite as good as the pizza you’d be served in one of their numerous pizzerias around Chicago and the suburbs, but it will likely be the best frozen pizza you’ve ever had.
Chicago-Thin Pizza
Imagine you’re a Chicago bar owner in the early part of the twentieth century. You want to increase business, but you don’t have a ton of money to spend. What would you do?
What some bar owners did was make inexpensive pizzas with extremely thin (but sturdy) crust to feed to the after-work crowd. The hope was that by feeding their customers, they’d stick around a little longer rather than rushing home to dinner, and if the pizza they served was a little salty, maybe the customers would buy another beer or three.
Initially, the pizzas, which were cut into squares to make them more like a snack, were given away free. But in time, they became so popular that bar owners began charging for the pizzas. Some even transformed from bars into pizzerias.
Chicago-style thin is also known as tavern-style due to its history. Despite reports to the contrary, Chicago-style thin is the true Chicago-style pizza. Chicago-style deep dish or stuffed pizza is more for out-of-towners or special occasions. I love deep-dish, but only have it a couple of times a year. Chicago-style thin is on the menu much more often.
As the name implies, a thin crust is a hallmark of Chicago-style thin. It’s thinner than regular thin crust, yet it’s still sturdy enough to carry the load of ingredients. Unlike thin, there is no “handle” of crust along the edge. The cheese goes all the way to the edge, making it slightly more difficult to eat, but well worth the effort. Chicago-style thin is always cut into squares, partly because it doesn’t have the crust edge.
In Chicago, two of the most well-known Chicago-style thin crust pizzerias are Vito & Nick’s on South Pulaski Road, and Pat’s Pizza and Ristorante on N. Lincoln Ave. Be warned, if you visit Vito & Nick’s, bring cash. They don’t take credit cards.
New York-Style Pizza
Until now, I have supported the notion that Chicago is a better pizza town than New York. Let me throw a little love New York’s way. One way New York City outshines Chicago when it comes to pizza is in the number of “By-the-slice” options they offer. If you have a hankering for pizza at lunchtime in Chicago, you’re most likely going to have buy a whole pizza. In NYC, there’s practically a “By-the-slice” joint on every other block.
The most famous New York-style pizzeria (at lest to people who don’t live in NYC) is Sbarro’s. But don’t be fooled into thinking Sbarro’s is typical New York-style pizza. In the same way Chicago-style deep dish has an out-sized reputation in Chicago, Sbarro’s has an out-sized reputation in NYC. It’s not what locals eat.
New York-style pizza has a thin crust, but unlike either thin crust or Chicago-style thin, New York-style crust is more flimsy. Almost always cut into wedges (or slices), the lip of a slice of New York-style pizza will droop. To beef it up a bit, aficionados of New York-style will fold the slice in half lengthwise, so as to not lose any of the ingredients onto the ground, or worse yet, your lap.
It has been my experience that most New York-style joints skimp on the sauce, at least in comparison to Chicago-style pizzas. And because that crust is not as firm, the bite is often chewier than either thin or Chicago-style thin.
A good representation of New York-style “By-the-slice” pizza in Chicago is Dimo’s Pizza on North Damen Ave. or North Clark Street. Another good New York-style joint is Paula & Monica’s Pizzeria on West Chicago Ave. But be warned, New Yorkers claim that you can only get true New York-style pizza in NYC because of the NYC water that is used to make the dough. I’m not sure if that’s true, but thought you should know.
Chicago-Style Deep-Dish
There is a story that has been around for a long time that claims that Ike Sewell created the first Chicago-style deep dish pizza in the 1940s in his Chicago restaurant, Pizzeria Uno. While it’s almost certainly true that the Chicago-style deep dish originated at Pizzeria Uno, it almost certainly wasn’t Ike Sewell who created it. It’s much more likely that his partner, and the main cook at Pizzeria Uno, Ric Riccardo, is the man we have to thank for Chicago-style deep dish.
What started off as a lark in Ric Riccardo’s kitchen soon became a Chicago hallmark. Other restaurants began imitating the deep-dish creation, and soon, the likes of Gino’s East,Lou Malnati’s, and Connie’s began springing up around town.
Chicago-style deep-dish pizza is a cross between a pizza and a casserole. It’s made in a deep-sided, round pan. The dough is spread across the pan and is pressed so it goes up the sides. The crust itself is thin. The cheese, sauce, and other ingredients make it deep. In contrast, the crust is thick with thick crust pizza. It is a common misconception that deep dish and thick crust are the same. They are NOT! The pizzas may be roughly the same depth, but they are made very differently.
Next, the pizza is made in reverse order to a thin crust. The cheese goes on first, directly on the dough. Next comes the ingredients, such as sausage, pepperoni, or, if you’re a true Chicagoan, giardiniera (If you’re not a true Chicagoan, you may need to Google it). The sauce goes on top.
Let’s take a second to talk about the sauce. In some ways, Chicago pizza culture is split right down the middle. Generally speaking, the Southside prefers a sweeter sauce, so many Southside pizzerias add sugar to their sauce. Northside pizzerias usually forego the sugar. Of course, life is never that straight forward. Over the years, Southside pizzerias have expanded onto the Northside, and vice versa, spreading their unique sauce into new territory. Today, there still is a bit of a North-South split, but it has become much more of a mish mash of styles and sugar content.
I’m a fan of Gino’s East, Lou Malnati’s, and Connie’s, but the best Chicago-style deep-dish pizza I have ever had was at My Pi Pizza on North Damen Ave. (If you Google it, you’ll see it referred to as “My Pie, My Pi, Mi Pie, and Mi Pi, Officially, the name is My and the mathematical symbol for Pi, but that doesn’t work on the internet, so the web address is Mypiepizza.com, even though they refer to themselves as “My Pi.” Go figure.) For me, it was tastier and less filling than Chicago-Style deep dish I have had elsewhere.
Chicago-Style Stuffed Pizza
Think of Chicago-style stuffed pizza as a variation on a theme. It’s like deep-dish, but there are differences. Just like a Chicago-style deep dish, the stuffed pizza is built in a deep-sided, round pan. The dough is spread across the bottom of the pan and up the sides. Next, the ingredients are added, then the cheese, usually shredded mozzarella. This is backwards from how deep-dish pizza is made.
Rather than sauce going on next, a thin layer of dough goes over the top of the cheese, separating it from the sauce, which goes on top of the second layer of dough. Parmesan cheese and oregano are often sprinkled over the top of the sauce after cooking.
I like stuffed pizza but have to admit that something is lost when the sauce, cheese, and ingredients don’t mingle while cooking. It’s not a big difference, but depending on the pizzeria, can be noticeable.
Giordano’s is the biggest name in Chicago-style stuffed pizza. After all, they created it back in the 1970’s. Nancy’s is also really good, and like Giordano’s, they have several locations around the city and suburbs. A place I hear is good, but have never tried, is Suparossa, with two locations; one on North Central Ave and one on West Lawrence Ave.
Thick Crust
Thick Crust pizza is actually a generic name for a few different styles of pizza. For years, Pizza Hut has offered a thick crust pizza that is in reality, a variation of a Sicilian-style pizza. Technically, French bread pizza would also fit in this category. Detroit-style pizza also qualifies as thick crust pizza.
Another area that New York excels over Chicago is when it comes to Sicilian pizza. Until recently, there were very few Sicilian joints in Chicago. However, that is changing.
To qualify as Sicilian, or what New Yorkers call Grandma-style, the dough must be thick, and the pizza must be cooked in a rectangular bakery-style sheet pan. The dough itself is left to rest and ferment for anywhere from one to five days. The longer it ferments, the more moisture it absorbs, creating a spongy texture.
Like thin crust pizzas, the sauce goes on the dough, followed by the ingredients, then the cheese. For my taste, Sicilian-style pizzas often have too little sauce and not enough cheese. However, that’s a personal preference. Others might feel differently.
Properly made Sicilian crust, although thick, should be light and airy. If not, the crust will be dense and overpower the rest of the pizza. This is one reason I don’t like French bread pizza. Too much bread.
In New York, and increasingly in Chicago, Sicilian-style pizzas are made in bakeries. This usually leads to a fluffier, flakier crust that supports the pizza, but doesn’t dominate it.
Full Shilling Public House on North Clark Street (near Wrigley Field) makes an awesome Sicilian-style pizza. But be warned: although they serve food all week long, Sicilian-style pizzas, which are made by Anthony Scardino (who goes by the handle “Professor Pizza”), are only available on Fridays and Saturdays.
Similar to Sicilian-style pizza, Detroit-style pizza is made with thick crust in a rectangular pan. However, the Detroit-style pizza crust is different. Detroit-style pizza crust dough uses bread flour, which increases the gluten content and makes the dough more elastic and chewier. Properly made Detroit-style crust should be similar to focaccia bread. Like Sicilian-style crust, if not made correctly, Detroit-style crust can be dense and overpowering.
Cheese is pushed up against the side of the (normally aluminum) baking sheet, giving the pizza a browned edge where the cheese is charred. To get a good, dark charring (and for taste), Detroit-style pizzas are often made with higher-fat Wisconsin brick cheese. This charring on the edges is often the favorite part of the pizza for Detroit-style lovers.
Detroit-style sauce is acidic with a hint of sweetness. It is applied sparingly, either just before cooking or on top of the pizza right after it is taken out of the oven. Although any ingredients can be used on a Detroit-style pizza, the iconic ingredient is traditional circle pepperoni, which cups and chars, holding a tiny bit of liquified fat, which is tasty, if not healthy.
In the interest of full discloser, I have to admit that I’ve never had a Detroit-style pizza that I liked. It may have been that the crust wasn’t made properly, or it could be that I just don’t like thicker crust pizzas (I tend to think it is the latter). Even so, I have heard that Fat Chris’s Pizza and Such on West Foster Ave has excellent Detroit-style pizza.
Artisan Pizza
What makes a pizza an artisan pizza? That can be a difficult question to answer. Often there are big differences from one artisan pizza to another. However, the common similarity between artisan pizzas is the passion for changing and improving the pizza that the chef puts into their creation.
Artisan pizzas are usually not mass-produced, and rarely, despite notable exceptions, are these pizzas available at more than one location. The chef usually starts their experimentation with the crust, trying different flours, temperatures, and fermentation times to develop a crust that offers a unique bite.
Next, they source the freshest ingredients and offer gourmet-type toppings normally not found in other pizzerias, such as smoked lake fish, chili, kimchi, and pickled onions. Different sauces might also be used (like creamy taleggio and scented truffle oil), as well as artisan and gourmet cheeses not usually found in pizzerias. Then, the entire concoction is often cooked in a wood- or coal-fired oven. The result is a pizza unlike anything you’ve likely ever had before.
California-style pizza is a type of artisan pizza, but gets it’s own category due to it’s popularity. Introduced at Spago, the hip Hollywood eatery owned by Wolfgang Puck, Chef Ed LaDou created California-style pizza in 1982,
California-style pizza crust is a thin version of a Neopolitan-style pizza, but the toppings are often unique, including thai chicken, pineapple and ham, carne asada, broccoli, kale raab, and arugula.
A couple of California attorneys saw the potential of Ladou’s creation and started California Pizza Kitchen, the largest purveyors of California-style pizza in the nation. They have 250 locations nationwide, including locations in Skokie on Old Orchard, Northbrook on Lake Cook Road, Schaumburg on East Golf Road, Deer Park on North Rand Road, and in Oakbrook on Oakbrook Center.
Roman Pizza
I have to admit, I’m not familiar with Roman-style pizza, or what is more properly called Roman al taglio (“by the cut”). For this new-to-me type of pizza, I’ll turn to my pizza mentor, Steve Dolinsky,* to explain:
“The ‘al taglio’ refers to a process involving scissors. You tell the employee behind the counter how much of the pizza you’d like—using your fingers or other pantomime—then they’ll cut it from the rectangular pan and weigh it. You pay by the pound. The slices are topped with all manner of seasonal and regional specialties. Personal favorites include a thinly shaved zucchini accented with freshly ground black pepper and bright lemon zest, but you’d be struck by how good the potato-mozzarella is, or the octopus. They (Bonci) recently started making an “Italian Beef” flavor with the namesake, thinly shaved, plus homemade giardiniera.
“The pizzas are stretched and baked in large steel rectangular pans, but after they’ve baked on the stone decks of the Castelli ovens imported from Italy and you’ve placed your order, the employee will reheat the slice in a different oven, then cut them into tiny, almost tapas-sized squares for easy eating. The focaccia-like interior is the result of three flours, a lot of water in the dough, and a thirty-six-to-seventy-two-hour fermentation. The second bake ensures a hallmark of all Roman pies: they must be crispy.”
I am struck by not only how different a Roman al taglio pizza is, but how the entire ordering and preparation process is different. It almost feels like Roman-style pizza is pizza in name only, like it’s a different class of food. Even so, I’m open to giving it a try.
If you’d like to try it, check out Bonci on North Sangamon Street. According to Steve Dolinsky, Bonci will soon be expanding to New Orleans and Miami.
Neapolitan Pizza
Purveyors of Neapolitan-style pizza are serious about their craft. The pizza, which originated in Naples, Italy, must be made according to certain instructions which are promulgated and enforced by the Vera Pizza Napoletans (VPN).
Some of the instructions that must be followed include:
Only use “00” (highly refined) flour in the dough
Water must be at a certain pH level
Sea salt and compressed solid yeast must be used
San Marzano tomatoes must be used
In addition, there are rules for how many times the dough must rise and even what type of oven the pizza is cooked in.
Purveyors of Neapolitan pizza are represented by the Association of Neapolitan Pizza Makers, a trade organization that publishes an official guide. The guide explains how the pizza should look and taste once it comes out of the oven:
“The consistency of the pizza should be soft, elastic, and easy to manipulate and fold. The center should be particularly soft to the touch and the taste and appearance of the pizza must be evidenced by the red color of the tomato. For the Pizza Marinara, the green of the oregano and the white of the garlic must be homogeneously spread, while, in the case of the Pizza Margherita, the white of the mozzarella should appear in evenly spread patches, in contrast with the green of the basil leaves, slightly darkened by the cooking process. The crust should possess the flavor of well-baked bread. The slightly acidic flavor of the densely enriched tomatoes, mixed with the characteristic aroma of the oregano, garlic, or basil ensures that the pizza, as it comes out from the oven, delivers its characteristic aroma of fresh and fragrant typical Mediterranean product.”
Wow! That’s impressive. So, what is Neapolitan pizza?
The crust for a Neapolitan pizza is thin, but not as thin as you would expect from a normal thin-crust pizza. Many different types of ingredients can be used on a Neapolitan Pizza, but only one of two types of chesses is acceptable. The first is Mozzarella di Bufala Campana, which is made with the milk of water buffalos. The second option is Fior di Latta di Agerola, made with cow’s milk from the Agerola region of Italy.
A favorite in Chicago for Neapolitan pizza is Panino’s Pizzeria on North Broadway Street (they also have restaurants in Evanston and Park Ridge). Eatly on East Ohio St. is also popular with the Neapolitan crowd.
New Haven-Style Pizza
Technically, New Haven-style pizza is a variation on a traditional Neapolitan pizza. Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napolitano in New Haven, CT (hence the name) originated the New Have-style pizza, or what locals call “apizza.”
The New Haven-style crust is thin, similar to a Neapolitan pizza, and is often oblong, as opposed to round. The pizza is normally cooked in a coal-fired oven, giving it a charred, chewy bite. The sauce and cheese are both applied sparingly, making a New Have-style pizza drier than most other pizzas.
Another thing that sets a New Haven-style pizza apart from other pizzas is the use of local seafood as an ingredient. For instance, Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napolitano’s signature pie is a white clam pizza, featuring the Neapolotan-style crust, olive oil, oregano, grated cheese, chopped garlic, and little neck clams.
Although Frank Pepe is the Godfather of New Haven-style pizzas, others have jumped in with their own offerings, including Sally’s Apizza and Modern Apizza. Although New Haven-style pizza has gained popularity in recent years, it is still primarily available in New Haven, CT.
St. Louis-Style Pizza
If you like thin crust pizza–I mean super thin and cracker crisp–then you’ll probably like St. Louis-style pizza. The dough starts with unleavened (no yeast) flour that creates a crust similar to a Matzo cracker. The toppings are generally the same toppings you’d find at most any other style of pizzeria, but it’s the cheese that really sets it apart.
St. Louis-style pizzerias use Provel cheese, a white processed cheese that remains gooey even when it’s cold. This is the reason St. Louis-style pizza has the reputation for being the best next-day-eat-it-cold, style of pizza.
The sauce is normally sweet, and is heavy on oregano, giving the pizza a unique flavor. Like Chicago-thin pizzas, St. Louis-style pies are normally cut into squares rather than slices, and it is common to order a salad-to-share to enjoy alongside the pizza.
To get the true St. Louis-style pizza experience, you’ll want yo visit the restaurant that started it all. Imo’s Pizza has several locations around the St. Louis area, as well as locations in Illinois and Kansas.
Quad City-Style Pizza
In case you didn’t know, the Quad Cities are made up of Rock Island and Moline, Illinois, and Davenport and Bettendorf, Iowa. The Quad Cities area also consists of several smaller towns in northwestern Illinois and Southeastern Iowa.
There are a few things that set Quad City-style pizza from other thin crust pizzas. The first is that the hand-tossed crust is made with a spice mix that includes malt, giving the crust a toasty, nutty flavor. Like other thin crust pizzas, Quad City-style pies have a crust “handle” around its edge.
The sauce is spicier than most Chicago-style sauces, containing red pepper flakes and ground cayenne. The sauce is also thinner than most Chicago-style sauce, and is applied more sparingly, making for a slightly drier pizza.
The sausage used on some Quad City-style pizzas is also unique. It is heavy on fennel (like many Chicago-style pizzas), and is applied as an entire layer on the pie. This is similar to the way Gino’s East applies their sausage, but, because the sausage is ground twice on Quad City-style pizzas, it is less like a patty (as with Gino’s East) and more crumbled, like you would expect with ground beef taco meat.
One final unique feature of Quad City-style pizza is that it is cut into strips, rather than slices or squares. This involves making one cut down the center of the pizza, then five or six perpendicular cuts across the pie.
Two of the originators of Quad City-style pizza are Frank’s Club Napoli in Silvis, IL and Harris Pizza in Rock Island, IL (Hat tip to Don Fry for the recommendations). I’ve had Quad City-style pizza at Davis Bros. Pizza in East Peoria, IL. To be sure, the pizza is different from what I am used to, but I liked it a lot.
Pizza Pot Pie
Some (like Steve Dolinsky) would argue that pizza pot pie isn’t really pizza, but I’ve included it because 1) I’ve had it and liked it, and 2) my friend, Faith Morley, who was like a second mother to me when I was growing up, loves it. So, let’s talk about pizza pot pie.
First, you can only get it at one place that I know of, and that’s The Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinder Company on North Clark. The restaurant is housed in an old building right across the street from where the infamous St. Valentines Day Massacre took place.
The pizza pot pie was dreamed up in 1972 by Albert Beaver, a Chicago attorney who wanted to open a restaurant. Beaver’s creation is an individual serving entrée (half-pounder or one-pounder) and consists of a bread-type crust made into a bowl, a sauce of olive oil; fresh garlic; onions; green peppers; whole plum tomatoes; sausage made from Boston butts; large, whole, fresh mushrooms; and a gob of different cheeses.
The pizza pot pie is cooked in a bowl and flipped table-side by the server. Plunging a fork into the pizza pot pie creates a delicious, oozing stream of cheese, sausage, mushrooms, and all of the other ingredients.
Pizza pot pie may not technically be pizza, but Faith likes it, and that’s good enough for me.
Pizza Puff
In the 1970s, deep-dish pizza was all the rage in Chicago. It was new and different, and places like Gino’s East, Lou Malnati’s and Connie’s were doing big business. All of the business going to deep-dish pizza joints cut into the revenue of Chicago-style hotdog carts and restaurants around the city. They needed something new to compete with the pizzerias.
Enter Elisha Shabaz.
Shabaz was an immigrant from Iran who came to the U.S. in 1898 as a 14-year old, and landed in Chicago a few years later. As an adult, Shabaz went into the tamale business, first hand-rolling tamales for another business, and then starting his own tamale company, Iltaco Food Company (IL-TA-CO).
In the 1960s, Elisha’s grandson, Warren Shabaz, took over Iltaco, and expanded the business. He delivered tamales to many of the hotdog carts around town, and in the 1970s when the second pizza wave hit Chicago, the hotdog carts approached the younger Shabaz to find a solution to the business they were losing to pizzerias.
Almost all of the hotdog carts already had deep fryers, so Shabaz created a phyllo dough-wrapped “puff” that was stuffed with pizza sauce, cheese, and sausage, and could be quickly cooked in a deep fryer. This new creation was a bit like a mini-calzone or panzerotti, weighing in at six ounces and filled with flavor.
The pizza puffs were a hit, and Shabaz and his sons have ridden their popularity to the point where they are now available in 42 states. To this day, the pizza puffs are still hand-rolled at Iltaco’s West Town location, and are available in several different flavors including pepperoni, four cheese, spinach and cheese, and even a breakfast pizza puff.
Like pizza pot pie, pizza puffs may not technically be pizza, but they are uniquely Chicago, and they’re delicious.
Conclusion
At one time, I thought pizza was pizza was pizza. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I now know that my favorite pizza is a Chicago thin (or tavern thin). I love deep dish pizza, and now know the difference between deep dish and stuffed, which I also love. I’ve never had a Roman pizza, have only had Neapolitan pizza once or twice (I like it), and I’m sad to report that I’ve never had a Detroit-style pie that I liked. I’m a big fan of St. Louis-style pizza, I get a little weirded out by the gourmet ingredients used on many artisan and California-style pizzas, and I have to admit that a New York-style pizza can be absolutely delicious.
What’s your favorite?
* I have learned a tremendous amount from 13-time James Beard Award winner Steve Dolinsky, the Chicago-based food critic, writer, podcaster, and TV personality, about the history and intricacies of pizza. Steve runs a fantastic Chicago pizza tour business, works for NBC in Chicago, and has written two fantastic books about pizza (particularly the Chicago pizza scene). Pizza City USA is a listing and description of the 101 best pizzerias in the Chicago area. The Ultimate Chicago Pizza Guide is a bulked up, updated version of Pizza City USA, giving more history of pizza, more history of the pizzerias covered in the book, and a more current listing of Chicago’s best pizzerias.
NOTE: Recommendations for pizzerias in this essay are my own, or were made by Steve Dolinsky in one of his great books.
Addendum: The aforementioned Steve Dolinsky has created a show about pizza in Chicago that he is currently pitching to cable channels and streaming services. Here’s the pilot he created to generate interest:
Elmore Leonard is, by many accounts, the greatest American crime writer in history. Many of his books, like Freaky Deaky, Get Shorty, and Rum Punch, were turned into big Hollywood blockbusters. His Raylan Givens series was adapted into the popular TV series Justified. What’s less known about Leonard are the westerns he wrote, including 3:10 to Yuma and Hombre, and for purposes of this post, his book on writing, aptly titled, Elmore Leonard’s 10 Rules of Writing.
For Leonard, who died in 2013, writing was a job. He didn’t approach it as a hobby or wait until inspiration struck him. He sat down at his desk each morning, usually writing in longhand, and didn’t stop until 6:00 pm. He even worked through lunch, often snacking while he wrote.
Surprisingly, at least to me, Leonard didn’t care about plot. He started with characters, first naming them (a process that could take weeks), and then he let them loose. They’d talk to him, and their words would lead to the action that determined the plot. This is a very literary way to approach writing and it surprised me that Leonard, the king of the crime novel, employed it. Obviously, it worked for him.
During a talk at the New York Writers Institute, Leonard explained his approach to creating characters by assuming one of their personas and tattling on their creator:
“What he does, he makes us do all the work, the people in the books. Puts us in scenes and says go ahead and do something. No, first he thinks up names. Takes forever to think up names like Bob and Jack. Jackie for a woman, a female lead. Or Frank. Years ago anyone named Frank in one of his books was a bad guy. So then he used Frank as the name of a good guy one time and this Frank wouldn’t talk, refused to come out and become the kind of person Elmore wanted. So he changed his name to Jack after thinking of names for another few weeks, and it felt so good he couldn’t shut the guy up, I mean this Jack, not Elmore. So he names us and he says okay start talking. So that’s what we do. Sometimes if a character has trouble expressing himself he’s demoted. He’s given less to do in the book, or he might get shot. What can also happen if a minor or even a no-name character shows he can talk, he can shove his way into the story and get a more important part. So Elmore names us, gets us talking to each other, bumping heads or getting along okay and then I don’t know what happens to him, I think he takes off, leaves it up to us. There was a piece written about him one time in The Village Voice called ‘The Author Vanishes’ and it’s true.”
Leonard’s book on writing is a short tome, weighing in at only 96 pages, but it’s chock full of good, practical advice. The rules are geared toward crime writers, but writers of all stripes can find something useful in Leonard’s thoughts.
Here are Elmore Leonard’s ten rules for writing:
Never open a book with the weather.
Avoid prologues.
Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said.”
Keep your exclamation points under control!
Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
Same for places and things.
Leave out the parts readers tend to skip.
As a writer trained in literary fiction, numbers 8 & 9 from the above list jump out at me. MFA programs train their writers to include rich, detailed descriptions of characters, places and things. We’re trained to paint a detailed picture of the scene and the characters in it. Leonard says no. He believes that overly specific descriptions slow down the story and tends to tug on the reader’s sleeve reminding them of the writer’s presence. Interesting. This is something I’ll have to think about.
In an interview with writer Martin Amis, Leonard expounded on his ten rules and came up with what can be thought of as eight addendums to his rules. Here they are along with some of his thoughts from the interview:
Addendum 1: Pick a routine. Stick with it.
“I write every day when I’m writing, some Saturdays and Sundays, a few hours each day. Because I want to stay with it. If a day goes by and you haven’t done anything, or a couple of days, it’s difficult to get back into the rhythm of it. I usually start working around 9:30 and I work until 6. I’m lucky to get what I consider four clean pages. They’re clean until the next day, the next morning. The time flies by.”
Addendum 2. All good writing has a point-of-view.
“First of all, I’m always writing from a point of view. I decide what the purpose of the scene is, and at least begin with some purpose. But, even more important, from whose point of view is this scene seen? Because then the narrative will take on somewhat the sound of the person who is seeing the scene.”
Addendum 3. Dialogue feeds narrative.
“From his dialogue, that’s what goes, somewhat, into the narrative. I start to write and I think, “Upon entering the room, “and I know I don’t want to say “Upon entering the room.” I don’t want my writing to sound like the way we were taught to write. Because I don’t want you to be aware of my writing. I don’t have the language. I have to rely upon my characters.”
Addendum 4. Writing in the third person lets you switch to the bad guys.
“I like third person. I don’t want to be stuck with one character’s viewpoint because there are too many viewpoints. And, of course, the bad guys’ viewpoints are a lot more fun. What they do is more fun. A few years ago, a friend of mine in the publishing business called up and said, ‘Has your good guy decided to do anything yet?’”
Addendum 5. It all starts with character, and they better be able to talk.
“I start with a character. Let’s say I want to write a book about a bail bondsman or a process server or a bank robber and a woman federal marshal. And they meet and something happens. That’s as much of an idea as I begin with. And then I see him in a situation, and I begin writing it and one thing leads to another. By Page 100, roughly, I should have my characters assembled. I should know my characters because they’re sort of auditioned in the opening scenes, and I can find out if they can talk or not. And if they can’t talk, they’re out.”
Addendum 6. Minor characters ought to assert themselves, too.
“[I]n every book there’s a minor character who comes along and pushes his way into the plot. He’s just needed to give some information, but all of a sudden he comes to life for me. Maybe it’s the way he says it. He might not even have a name the first time he appears. The second time he has a name. The third time he has a few more lines, and away he goes, and he becomes a plot turn in the book.”
Addendum 7. Bad guys also have mothers they should call more often.
“When I’m fashioning my bad guys, though (and sometimes a good guy has had a criminal past and then he can go either way; to me, he’s the best kind of character to have), I don’t think of them as bad guys. I just think of them as, for the most part, normal people who get up in the morning and they wonder what they’re going to have for breakfast, and they sneeze, and they wonder if they should call their mother, and then they rob a bank. Because that’s the way they are. Except for real hard-core guys.
Addendum 8. Appreciate the craft and you’ll never get tired of it.
“It’s the most satisfying thing I can imagine doing. To write that scene and then read it and it works. I love the sound of it. There’s nothing better than that. The notoriety that comes later doesn’t compare to the doing of it. I’ve been doing it for almost 47 years, and I’m still trying to make it better.”
Here is the video of Leonard giving a talk at the New York Writer’s Institute:
In 2006, BBC Two did a special on Leonard, allowing him to talk about his background and his writing process. There are a few more “writing advice” gems in this video as well:
Dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, so I knew he had already left for work. I wheeled my second-hand Schwinn out of the garage and shut the big overhead door behind me.
My siblings and the neighborhood kids laughed and played in our pool, staying cool in the steamy northern Illinois summer heat. I was not allowed in the pool on game days. Coach’s rule. Spending the day swimming out in the hot sun, he believed, exhausted us come game time.
I was disappointed that Dad wasn’t there to take me to the game, but I wasn’t surprised. He was becoming less and less of a presence in my life, rarely making it to my practices or games because he was busy working or asleep on the living room couch with another one of his headaches. He took several different pills for several different ailments. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, just that the pills made him generally unavailable.
I was already sweating as I climbed aboard my bike and rode the mile-and-a-half to Coach’s Frantzen’s house. Coach had chosen me for his baseball team the previous two years, and now, in this new league for fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds, he chose me again. Coach was always willing to fit me into his overstuffed car, along with his son and a couple of other players. I apologized for relying so heavily on him to take me to games. I was embarrassed that my dad was so often unable to.
“It’s no big deal,” Coach said. “I’m going anyway.”
Dad’s shift at the city water department changed every month. Occasionally, when he was working, he would secretly take me to the game in his work truck, something he wasn’t supposed to do. More often, he begged off, saying that he’d try to stop by later.
Coach drove a big white station wagon that didn’t have air conditioning. His son, Mike, always sat in the front passenger seat, his window down and his arm hanging out. The other players who were bumming a ride, including me, sat in the back seat. All of our bats and balls and gloves and other equipment took up the space at the back of the car, giving the station wagon a unique aroma of leather, wood, and sweat.
At Copley Park, we were leading 4-2 against, Lyon Metal, the team we were battling for a spot in the playoffs. With a man on second, their best hitter came to the plate. He was a big, powerful kid, and Coach yelled at the outfielders to move back.
I was in center field and backed up a few steps. Our left fielder, who everyone called “Spud,” didn’t move. I yelled at him, but he stood his ground, peering in toward the batter. I yelled again. He was oblivious.
Spud was not our regular left fielder. I never knew why, but Coach changed some players around that night. He moved Spud from third base to left field. Spud was a good hitter and a decent fielder, but he had trouble with fly balls. Coach went back into the dugout and left Spud where he was.
I leaned over, pulled up a few blades of grass, and threw them into the air so I could tell which way the wind was blowing. I had seen one of the outfielders for the Cubs do it, so I did it too.
On the first pitch, the batter hit the ball foul down the left field line. It drifted far out of play, but Spud still gave futile chase. When he ran back into position, he was playing even more shallow than before. I yelled over at him to move back. He took one step back, not nearly enough. I looked in at Coach hoping he would reposition Spud, but he was too busy giving instructions to our pitcher. I wanted to yell again, but felt self-conscious being too aggressive about telling other players what to do.
From center field, I saw our pitcher struggling. He stood listlessly on the mound, his shoulders slumped forward. I wondered if he had gone swimming earlier in the day.
The players’ parents cheered. “One more out.”
“Strike him out, Brian.”
“Let’s go.”
It seemed winning the game meant as much to them as it did to us. Some of the parents were standing in the bleachers. Others had come up closer to the backstop. I was keenly aware my dad was not among them. Even so, I looked for him from my perch in the outfield.
The next pitch, the batter swung hard and hit a deep fly ball into left field. At the crack of the bat, I took off in case I had to backup Spud. When I looked over at him, I saw him standing flat-footed in the exact spot he had been before the pitch.
The arc of the ball told me Spud had no chance of catching it. I ran toward left field, hearing nothing but my own breathing. I saw the ball falling out of the sky and Spud feebly trying to get back to catch it. The stands, the parents, the cheers all faded.
Even though I was too far away, I dove for the ball. To this day, I don’t know what prompted me to leave my feet. As I did, an unnatural force took hold of me. My body should have fallen to the ground. Instead, I kept going, faster and farther. As God as my witness, I was flying.
My left arm was extended as far in front of me as it could go. My glove open, waiting. The falling ball, a matter of inches from the ground now. I slid my glove under it, cradled it in the webbing, and held on tight.
Once again subject to the law of gravity, I slid across the grass behind Spud, who tripped and fell as he backpedaled toward the ball. I came to a stop and raised my glove to show the umpire I had made the catch.
Cheers erupted from the stands. As I ran toward the dugout, my teammates mobbed me. Someone jumped on my back and screamed. Our shortstop pulled my hat down over my eyes as he rubbed my head and said, “Great catch!” Spud ran alongside me from the outfield, shaking his head and asking, “How did you do that?” I was unable to answer or explain what had happened.
Coach met me at the dugout and hugged me with one arm, an unusual gesture from a man who was normally quiet and understated. “That’s the greatest catch I’ve ever seen.”
I looked up on the hill behind the backstop. I looked toward the bleachers. I looked for Dad’s truck in the parking lot. There was no sign of him.
When we got back to Coach’s house after the game, he congratulated me again. “Good game tonight. That was a heck of a catch.” I thanked him, then jumped on my bike and rode home in the dark, imagining my parent’s excitement about my catch. But when I got home, I realized my mom knew nothing of baseball. She might be happy for me, but she wouldn’t truly understand what I had done. Only Dad would, and he was still at work. I changed out of my uniform and sat down to watch TV.
The next morning, I found Dad in the kitchen. He popped a couple pills into his mouth, and washed them down with a glass of milk.
“Good morning,” I said, wanting to say more.
Dad returned the greeting and rinsed his glass. He went into the living room, and I knew my window of opportunity was closing. I wanted to tell him about my miraculous catch, but couldn’t find the words. Dad paid me no mind. He lay on the couch, pulling a blanket over his head. He was in his cocoon, and I was stuck outside.
I didn’t understand what was going on with Dad. I knew he took a lot of medicine and he slept a lot, but I couldn’t put a name to what he was going through. All I knew was that he was a lot less involved in my life than he had been. When I was younger, he’d attend my games and occasionally played catch with me, but that didn’t happen anymore. Whatever he was going through, it was clear it was taking him away from me, and I blamed him for it.
*
Dad eventually went through drug rehab, and for the next forty years, he was a different person. The farther he got away from the pain pills and the addiction, the happier, more talkative, and more outgoing he became.
Many years later, after Mom died, Dad moved into an assisted living facility. I visited him frequently in his final years. He’d often suggest that we watch a baseball game together, even though he never watched baseball alone. When one of the players made a nice catch, he’d often say, “You could have made that catch. You weren’t much of a hitter, but you could really field.”
I often thought about telling him the story of the catch I made that summer night so many years earlier, but I could never find the right words to make him understand. I wasn’t even sure I understood what had happened that night at Copley Park. It was a miracle, I knew that much. And I’ve been searching for another one ever since.
I love ice cream. Ever since I was a kid, ice cream has been my “go to” dessert. My mom usually bought vanilla or French vanilla (I’m convinced we got French vanilla because my mom picked out the wrong carton by mistake), or on rare occasions, Neapolitan, that fancy ice cream with three different flavors in the same carton. It was a simpler time.
As I grew older, my palate matured and I started craving more complex flavors, including ice cream mixed with candy or fudge or brownies. The 1980s and 90s saw a boom in inventive ice cream flavors. My personal favorite: Denali moose tracks (vanilla ice cream, peanut butter cups, swirled fudge).
But to be honest, as much as I loved ice cream, I took it for granted. There was a whole range of different types of ice cream, but in my mind, I lumped them all together. To me, ice cream was ice cream was ice cream.
A few years ago, I began to open my eyes to various types of ice cream and what made them different. I’m not talking about different flavors. I’m talking about butter fat content, air percentages, creaminess, and base ingredients. There are big differences between various categories of ice cream.
This is by no means a comprehensive dive into all of the different categories of ice cream, but I hope it does provide a basic understanding of what you are eating the next time you scream for ice cream.
Let’s start with the term ice cream. So far in this essay, I’ve used the term incorrectly. For the most part, we in the United States think of the various different categories of frozen desserts as ice cream, but the truth is, ice cream is just one type of frozen dessert.
One of the main differentiators of frozen desserts is the amount of butterfat content it contains. Let’s start with the lowest butterfat content and work our way up.
Sorbet
In days of old, royal courts and wealthy elites would enjoy a dessert known as water ice. This was in the days before refrigeration, so water ice was a rare treat. It consisted of ice and sugar syrup for flavoring, then was whisked, to make the concoction scoopable. It was a simple, yet exotic dessert.
Sorbet descended from water ice, and to this day, contains no milk or cream, so it’s the perfect treat for those with dairy intolerances or vegans. In addition to ice and sugar syrup (a mixture of table sugar and corn syrup), sorbet also is made with fruit juice or fruit puree, and occasionally fruit pieces. Of all the different types of frozen desserts, sorbet has the lightest, iciest texture, and is often used as a palate cleanser rather than a dessert.
Sherbet (or Sherbert)
Sherbet originated in Turkey and Persia, and was introduced into Europe in the 17th century. By law, Sherbet must contain milk ingredients and milk fat, normally bringing the butterfat content in at about 1-2%. Fruit juice or whole fruit chunks are also normally added, giving sherbet a tart, tangy taste.
Sherbet (as well as sorbet) is normally served at 10 to 22 degrees Fahrenheit, warmer than frozen desserts with a higher butterfat content, because colder temperatures would tend to make sherbet too dense and difficult to eat. The higher temperatures make sherbet much creamier than sorbet.
Frozen Yogurt
True to its name, frozen yogurt often has the same live cultures as regular, refrigerated yogurt. Frozen yogurt, also call “Froyo,” is often marketed as a healthier alternative to ice cream or other frozen desserts, since it normally contains around 2-4% butterfat.
Although yogurt has been around for thousands of years, it didn’t enter the dessert category until 1970, when entrepreneur H.P. Hood introduced “frogurt” soft-serve. Capitalizing on consumers’ desire for healthy foods, companies like TCBY took frozen yogurt mainstream in the 1980s.
Flavor-wise, frozen yogurt does have its perks. Tartness makes it one of the best dessert options for frozen berries and fruit flavors. Frozen yogurt ingredients and processing is not stipulated under the Code of Federal Regulations.
Gelato
Gelato is a frozen dessert made from a mixture of milk, cream, and sweetener. It originated in Italy and is widely sold in Italian shops called “gelaterias” around the country. Gelato means ice cream in Italian and is thought to have been born during the Italian Renaissance in the 14th century.
Two types of gelato were introduced to the United States in the late 1700s: one made by combining water with fruits and the other by mixing milk with cinnamon, chocolate, or different flavors.
While gelato does have a custard base like ice cream, it also contains less milk fat. Both gelato and ice cream contain cream, milk, and sugar, but gelato uses more milk and less cream than ice cream. Gelato contains 4-9% butterfat, while ice cream contains 14-25%. Also, gelato is traditionally served at a slightly warmer temperature (about 7 to 12 degrees Fahrenheit) compared to ice cream, which gives it a bit softer feel and why it looks glossier.
Gelato is churned, very much like caramel, which reduces the air content during freezing, creating a very dense & creamy end product. Unlike other frozen desserts, there are no laws concerning the ingredients or process used to create gelato in the United States. Because of this, products marketed as gelato can vary wildly.
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FUN FACT:
The higher the butterfat content of a frozen dessert, the less chance there is of suffering from brain freeze
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Ice Cream
America had its first accounted taste of ice cream in the 1740s, according to a letter dated 1744. The dessert went on to impress some of the most recognized figures in American history, including George Washington, who purchased $200 worth of ice cream in 1790, according to the International Dairy Foods Association.
Ice cream’s popularity and accessibility increased as technologies evolved. But as the base of ice cream fans grew, so did the number of fakes. That’s why the government standardized the dessert as part 135.110 in the Food and Drug Administration’s Code of Federal Regulations, which includes stipulations on ingredients, production and composition.
Today, about 16.3 billion liters of ice cream are produced worldwide each year. By country, the United States leads in ice cream production with an estimated 4.4 billion liters per year.
The core ingredients for ice cream are milk, cream, sugar and air. Eggs are often used in higher quality ice cream, as well. Air can make up between 30 and 50 percent of the ice cream’s volume. The higher quality the ice cream, the less air it will have.
Ice cream is served at the coldest temperature of most frozen desserts, between 6 degrees and 10 degrees Fahrenheit. This affects its flavor, as the cold temperature numbs the taste buds and doesn’t allow intense flavors to come through in ice cream as well as they do in gelato, sherbet, or sorbet. Ice cream is incredibly versatile in flavor and can include anything from caramel to strawberry to pistachio to chocolate.
Soft Serve
Soft serve ice cream came about in the 1930s. It was very popular at fairs, carnivals, amusement parks, and even restaurants. But as you probably suspected, there are a couple of differences between soft serve ice cream and regular ice cream.
First, soft serve generally contains less milk fat than its harder, denser counterpart. It also contains more air than regular ice cream, which makes it less dense and less expensive to produce. Otherwise, it has a minimum of 10% butterfat, and like regular ice cream, can often be between 14-25%.
Other than that, soft serve ice cream is actually the exact same thing as regular ice cream. The machine that is used to make soft serve ice cream keeps it soft, with a smoother texture. The machine is also responsible for not allowing the ice cream to harden very much by keeping it cool enough, but not too cool.
Frozen Custard
Frozen custard was first seen in France in the middle of the eighteenth century and termed “fromages glacés,” which translates to “cheese ice.” Frozen custard had its commercial debut in the United States in New York City, but really came to prominence in Wisconsin, which is now considered the Custard Capitol of America.
Frozen custard is similar to ice cream in ingredients and flavors, but according to the Code of Federal Regulations part 135.110(f), specifying that it must contain at least 10 percent butterfat (usually 14-25%) and more than 1.4 percent egg yolk by weight of the finished food. Anything less, the dessert cannot be called frozen custard, and instead, it would fall under the ice cream category. The egg lends the custard-like flavor, while also supplying an emulsifier called lecithin. This gives custard its distinct smooth texture compared to ice cream.
Frozen custard has a chewier mouthfeel because of the addition of egg yolks. This thick, creamy and eggy dessert pairs well with flavors and add-ins like caramel, chocolates, cookie dough and peanut butter. And, frozen custard often has a lower overrun percentage than ice cream, meaning it contains less air.
Frozen custard is frozen at 16 to 20 degrees Fahrenheit as it churns through the barrel freezing faster and creating a much smoother product. It is then stored at 18 degrees Fahrenheit, maintaining the soft, dense, and creamy texture until it is served.
Liquid Nitrogen Ice Cream
Never heard of liquid nitrogen ice cream (LNIC)? You’re not alone. LNIC is a relatively new concoction which incorporates a delicious frozen dessert with a science experiment.
Technically, LNIC is ice cream, but it’s made differently. The ingredients are still milk fat, sweeteners, cream, sugar, stabilizers, and eggs. And the butterfat content is still at least 10% by law, and often 14-25%. But rather than churning and freezing, liquid nitrogen is added to the mix to produce the frozen end result.
The process begins by taking a molten mixture of cream, full-cream milk, sugar, and flavoring of your choice and churning it with liquid nitrogen at an exact temperature of -195 degrees Fahrenheit. Due to the well below freezing temperature of the nitrogen, the mixture freezes instantaneously. It is a quick process, but unlike ice cream and gelato, which contain around 30% to 50% air after the churning process, it is essentially air free. This results in a creamy, dense texture.
Part of the allure of LNIC is the showmanship that goes into creating it. Employees of LNIC shops are trained to make a performance out of mixing and freezing the ingredients that go into your cup of goodness.
Here’s what it looks like to create a cup of LNIC, courtesy of LNIC franchise, Chill-N‘:
When my ex-wife and I split up, our son was 14-years old. He was just starting high school and was at an age where he was moving from being a momma’s boy to having more interest, and more in common, with his dad.
At the time, it was heartbreaking on several levels. Not only was my marriage breaking up, but my kid’s family was being torn apart. I felt horrible that I wasn’t able to keep our family together and to provide my children with the stable family life they were used to and which they deserved.
Because of the split, I didn’t get to see either of my kids as much as before. My daughter was off at college and was old enough to view her parent’s separation from a more mature perspective. But my son was at a tender, impressionable age. He didn’t yet have the maturity to adequately deal with the split. That fact haunted me.
Thanks to modern technology, I was able to stay in touch with my son even when I wasn’t physically with him, but it wasn’t the same. I could feel us drifting apart, losing the bond that we had been building, and which had been interrupted by the divorce. I was desperate to find a way to connect with him, to share a common interest, even during those times we weren’t together.
Enter Dr. Who.
In case you’re not familiar, Dr. Who is a BBC TV series that has been airing since 1963. It’s about a Time Lord who travels through space and time, righting wrongs and protecting the innocent from evil villains like daleks, cybermen, Weeping Angels, and other assorted bad characters.
I became aware of Dr. Who when I was about 13-years old. Several of the smarter kids in my middle school were fans and they encouraged me to watch the show, which aired on the local PBS station on Sunday nights. I was not one of the smarter kids, and I was afraid I wouldn’t understand the show. I know that sounds foolish now, but I didn’t want to prove my ignorance to my friends. Instead, I refused to watch the show and voiced my opinion that it was only for nerds. (I was a precocious young lad, wasn’t I?)
Years later, Dr. Who came to Netflix, and my son became a fan. I’d find him binge watching several episodes at a time, and he’d try to explain to me what the Doctor and his various sidekicks were up to. I rarely understood what he was talking about. What was a dalek? Why was the Doctor using a sonic screwdriver? What’s the deal with that magic paper? I didn’t have a clue.
But when my marriage broke up and I was desperate to connect with my son, I started watching Dr. Who. I was surprised that I not only quickly came to understand the show, I actually liked it. The Doctor wasn’t human (He was a Time Lord), but he embodied the best human qualities, like empathy, charity, generosity, and, dare I say, love. The shows were campy science fiction, but they spoke to the deepest hopes and fears and dreams and shortcomings we humans here on earth share.
When I was away from my son and the conversation wasn’t coming as easily as I’d like, we’d talk about Dr. Who. We began mirroring each other’s watch schedules so we could talk about the last show we had each seen. Somehow, through space and time and the magic of television, Dr. Who helped me save, and build, my relationship with my son.
One of my favorite episodes is called “Vincent and the Doctor,” and involves the painter, Vincent Van Gogh. The plot of the story is that the Doctor notices an alien creature in a Van Gogh painting (“The Church at Auvers”), and travels back in time with his pal, Amy Pond, to investigate. They meet Van Gogh, who is the only person who can see the creature, known as a Krafayis (Which might explain Van Gogh’s mental illness), and they ultimately save the day. But the end of the episode is the most touching part of any episode I’ve watched.
The Doctor realizes that Van Gogh dies without ever knowing how popular and respected he would eventually become. He lived a miserable life, full of pain and mental illness, convinced that his art would never amount to anything. So, the Doctor whisks Van Gogh through space and time to an art gallery in Paris that features many of the artist’s paintings. Here’s how the episode ends:
Thank you, Dr. Who, for saving the universe over and over again, and for saving my relationship with my son. I am forever grateful.
A little over a year ago, I wrote an essay about what I expected to happen in Congress concerning the Supreme Court in the wake of the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. September 2020, when the essay was written, was a different time. Amy Coney Barrett had yet been confirmed to the Supreme Court, and the 2020 Presidential election hadn’t yet taken place. In addition, the January 6 insurrection was still nearly four months in the future and the Republicans’ attempts to explain it away or excuse it had not yet happened. Finally, the new Supreme Court had not yet weighed in on exactly how conservative they were going to be.
If you read my earlier essay, you may have come away thinking I was a little naïve about what was in store for the Supreme Court and our nation. I’d tend to agree. The past year has proven that things can get much worse than I was willing to conceive or admit. So, on that count, guilty as charged.
Before I examine the question Steven Beschloss proposed, let me share a small part of my essay from last September. In the essay, I didn’t yet know if Amy Coney Barrett would be confirmed (She had just been nominated), but I made the following predictions of what would happen if she was:
“Democrats will move to admit Washington, DC and Puerto Rico as the 51st and 52nd states in the union. This will add four new senators, and with both areas being heavily Democratic, those new senators will also likely be Democratic.
“Democrats will vote to end the Senate filibuster, an arcane Senate rule that allows the minority party to hold up legislation not to their liking.
“Democrats will vote to enlarge the Supreme Court. There is no law that says the court has to have nine members, so if Democrats increased the court to 13, they could add enough liberal judges to swing the court to a one vote liberal majority.”
As I stated in the essay, these predictions were contingent on 1) Joe Biden winning the presidency, and 2) Democrats gaining control of the Senate. We now know that both of those things happened.
I have to admit that I am surprised that Democrats have not come close to doing any of these things. In fact, I’ll further admit that I’m surprised at how few things the Democrats have been able to accomplish. They control the presidency, the House, and the Senate, yet they can’t seem to achieve many of the things they campaigned on in 2020. That’s an essay for another day, but I have to admit I don’t completely understand their reluctance or inability to do what they set out to do.
For now, I’d like to focus on the possibility of expanding the Supreme Court. First, a little history:
Article III of the United States Constitution establishes the Judicial Branch of the government. The Constitution only requires one court (the Supreme Court), but gives Congress the authority to not only establish other courts, but to determine the number of justices on the Supreme Court.
When the Supreme Court was first implemented in 1789 by the Judiciary Act of 1789, it had just six justices.
In 1800, the Congress reduced the number of justices to five in an effort to prevent incoming-President Thomas Jefferson from appointing a new justice.
In 1801, the Congress repealed the previous reduction in the number of justices and returned the number to six.
In 1807, Congress increased the number of justices to seven, giving Jefferson one additional appointment.
In 1837, the number of justices was increased to nine, giving President Andrew Jackson the opportunity to appoint two additional justices.
In 1861, Congress increased the number of justices to ten, assuring a pro-Union majority during the Civil War.
In 1867, the Republican-led Congress reduced the number of justices to seven to make sure President Andrew Johnson, a Democrat, could not appoint a new justice.
In 1869, the number of justices was again increased to nine as part of a wide-spread judicial reform effort, giving incoming Republican President Ulysses S. Grant the ability to appoint new justices.
In 1937, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt proposed the Judicial Procedures Reform Bill of 1937 which included language to increase the number of Supreme Court justices to fifteen. The thinly-veiled reform package was a threat against the sitting justices, many of whom were opposed to Roosevelt’s New Deal proposals. However, before the Judicial Procedures Reform Bill of 1937 could be voted on, the Supreme Court found that the National Labor Relations Act and the Social Security Act, two lynchpins of Roosevelt’s New Deal legislation, were Constitutional, making the Judicial Reform bill moot.
There is a long history of changing the number of Supreme Court justices. Often, the changes occur for political reasons. But politics is not the only justification for making changes. There are two reasons in particular I’d like to explore.
First, the United States is a much bigger, more diverse, more complicated place in 2021 than it was in 1789 when the Supreme Court was first implement. In 1789, the United States consisted of 22 states and a population of about 4 million. Today, we have 50 states, several territories, and a population of more than 330 million. More States and more people mean more court cases and more controversies for the Supreme Court to adjudicate. Going from six justices in 1789 to nine justices today, at least by the numbers, is wholly inadequate.
Second—and to me, this is the bigger point—the Supreme Court is politically out of step with the electorate. The Supreme Court, as currently comprised, is much more conservative than the population as a whole. This is a problem because the legitimacy of the Court’s decisions are contingent on the support and acceptance of the populace. The justices on the Supreme Court may never be a perfect reflection of the people they represent, but the more disparate they are, the less legitimacy they have.
“I testified at last week’s [Senate] hearing. Many of the senators at least indirectly directed their criticisms at me. It’s true that I have grown far more publicly critical of the court in recent years, especially of its work on the shadow docket. I’ve grown increasingly concerned about the sharp uptick in unsigned, unexplained, and increasingly inconsistent rulings that affect the rights of millions of Americans. I can’t speak for all progressive critics of the Supreme Court, but I can speak for myself: We are within sight of a full-blown legitimacy crisis. My criticisms are not an attempt to exacerbate that crisis, but to impel the justices to avoid it.
“If their recent public appearances are any indication, the justices also understand that a crisis is looming. As the justices have long admitted, the power of their rulings comes from the court’s legitimacy. The court has no military to enforce its judgments. So it depends upon popular support, not for rulings that the public generally supports, but for its unpopular rulings in particular. To that end, the court defines its legitimacy as “a product of substance and perception that shows itself in the people’s acceptance of the Judiciary as fit to determine what the Nation’s law means and to declare what it demands.” In other words, it’s not that the justices are getting each ruling “right,” but that they’re responsibly exercising judicial, rather than political, power.
“This legitimacy is eroding quickly. The court is as unpopular now as it has been in a generation. Many progressives—who reasonably fear what the new conservative majority portends for everything from the modern administrative state to the social safety net, elections, and the rights of criminal defendants—smell blood in the water.
“Our constitutional republic needs a Supreme Court, even one populated with a majority of justices with whom we routinely disagree. No less so than when this country was founded—and perhaps far more so with the proliferation of partisan gerrymandering—tyrannies of the elected majority remain a very real threat. The whole point of having an independent, unelected judiciary was to stand as a bulwark against the mob: to enforce the Constitution at the expense of democratic (or not-so-democratic) majorities in those infrequent but important moments when it is necessary.
“We will never all agree on which moments (and which of the Constitution’s provisions) justify such counter-majoritarian judicial intervention. But we do all agree that when they come, we need not just a court, but a court perceived to be legitimate. A toothless court, in contrast, would have no ability to stand up for our rights, whether the unchecked tyrannical majorities have Democratic leaders or Republican ones. Its decisions would simply be ignored or dismissed as partisan claptrap that should not be understood to bind the other side.
“After all, it is no exaggeration to say that democracy itself may depend upon a court still widely perceived to be legitimate in the months and years to come, as courts become the battlefield for fights over voter suppression laws, election integrity disputes, and perhaps even the legitimacy of election results themselves. While the alternative to a legitimate court may be satisfying in the short term, it will end poorly not just for the justices, but for all of us who aspire to, in John Adams’ trenchant words, “a government of laws, not of men.”
In his article, Vladek hopes that the current members of the Supreme Court will come to their senses and come back to the center. He opposes enlarging the court and hopes that the current situation with the nine justice Court can be resolved. To my mind, Vladek’s hope is unrealistic.
Republicans in the Senate warn Democrats about the dangers of packing the court, but the truth is, Republicans have already packed it. They had a 5-4 majority with Ginsburg on the court. When she died, they could have chosen not to fill her vacancy, allowing the new president (Biden) to appoint a new justice, and they still would have had a conservative majority. They weren’t satisfied with just a majority. They wanted to put as many conservative justices on the Supreme Court as possible. They were more concerned with their political fortunes than they were the health of the Court and the nation. So, they created a court that is now wildly out of step with the thoughts and values of the people who are supposed to conform to their rulings.
As a general rule, I don’t like the idea of increasing the number of justices on the Supreme Court, especially for political reasons. But I don’t think Republicans in the Senate have left us with any other choice. The court only works as intended when it is balanced and represents the will of the people. Strictly speaking, the judiciary is not, and should not be, political. But the decisions the Court reaches speak to the political will of the people. A population that overwhelmingly believes in X will not react favorably if the Supreme Court tells them the law does not allow X. Granted, the Supreme Court should not simply be a rubber stamp for the whims of the people, but it should act within a narrow parameter set by the people.
We’ve reached the point where increasing the size of the court to eliminate the conservative super majority is necessary. If I had to guess, I’d say the court should be increased to thirteen, creating a 7-6 liberal majority.
Having said this, I’m becoming convinced that the Democrats in Congress do not have the political will or ability to get this done. They’d likely agree with everything I’ve said in this essay, but would likely still fail to take action to see it through. This is one big reason that, although I can no longer call myself a Republican, I still can’t call myself a Democrat.
In 2015, the Oscar for Best Picture went to Birdman, a strange film that garnered critical acclaim, but left a lot of people scratching their heads. The film was about an actor who had become famous playing a movie superhero. The actor, played brilliantly by Michael Keaton, felt he had more to offer than just being a a guy in a mask. He wanted to be known as a serious actor, and he set out to prove his worth by starring in a stage adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.”
BIrdman was popular with a certain crowd. I’ll call them the “literary crowd,” and I include myself as a member. I liked Birdman. But I have to admit, as movies go, it was a little bizarre. I saw the film with my then 16-year old son, and he didn’t like it at all. I understood his dislike for the film, even though I didn’t feel the same way.
After seeing Birdman, we got into a conversation about Raymond Carver. My son wasn’t familiar with him and had no idea what the “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” play in the movie was supposed to be about. That made me a little sad. Raymond Carver is perhaps the greatest American short story writer in history. He revolutionized short stories in the United States and should be better known outside of literary circles.
Author Sara Jane Gilman, writing for NPR, had this to say about Carver:
“Confession. The first time I read a Raymond Carver story, I didn’t get it. It was so spare, so lacking epiphany. I thought: “Huh?”
“But then, I read his story, “A Small, Good Thing.” And “Cathedral” and “Neighbors.” I read his collection, Where I’m Calling From. And then, I got it. Carver’s stories are gritty, unadorned tales of ordinary people. Their very simplicity and elegance gives them a deep, emotional punch. This is why Carver has been extolled as a master of “minimalism.”
I think a lot of people who read Carver feel the same way as Gilman. His writing is different from what we are used to. His descriptions are lacking, albeit adequate. His action is often truncated. His prose unadorned. His stories sparse and simple. His characters gritty and real. Carver gets to the point without a lot of fluff or fanfare. Yet, his stories hit their target with masterful precision.
Here is a rare video of Carver reading his classic short story, “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.” Listen closely to the story. I think you’ll like it.
(Right after I posted the video, it was removed from Youtube. What’s up with that? In any case, here is A Poetry Channel reading “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love.”)
One of the most beloved, but misunderstood, poems in American literature is Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” For a lot of people, the poem is a call to live an exceptional life, eschewing the usual script and instead embracing the extraordinary. However, that wasn’t Frost’s intention with the poem.
“The Road Not Taken” is a relatively short poem, but it packs a lot into a few words. Perhaps the most famous line from the poem is:
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference
It’s not unusual for people to read that line and think Frost’s narrator is encouraging them to take the road less traveled in order to live an amazing, successful life. But that’s not what the narrator is saying. Four different times in the poem, the narrator tells the reader that both paths are equally untraveled. He’s not saying to take the road less traveled. Instead, in the lines preceding the famous line, the narrator says:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
The narrator did not take the less traveled road, but he knows that at some point in the future, he will lie to himself and say that his life is what it is because he took the road less traveled.
There are two things I want to do with this blog post. First, I want to examine the background of “The Road Not Taken.” It has a funny, but tragic, backstory. Then, I want to share an analysis of the poem by writer Hugh Howey. I was struck by the thoughts on the poem Howey shared on Twitter, and I’d like to share them here.
First, let’s take a look at the entire poem:
THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
–Robert Frost
In 1912 Frost moved to England and befriended fellow poet Edward Thomas. Frost and Thomas often took walks to clear their heads after a day of writing, and to discuss each other’s lives. These walks were very important to both men.
Thomas had a tendency to regret his choices. After their walks where Thomas would choose the route, he would express his fear that a different route would have been better. His dissatisfaction over the path they had taken became a joke between the two men.
Upon returning to the United States in 1915, Frost sent a copy of the poem to Thomas. As discussed earlier, the poem was not intended to be a call to action. Instead, it was a wry jab at Thomas for worrying so much about the path that was taken and the decisions that were made. But like so many people in the years after the poems publication—first in The Atlantic in 1915, and a year later in Frost’s poetry collection, Mountain Interval—Thomas took the poem to heart and read it as a call to live boldly, choosing the path less traveled.
Frost couldn’t have known that the poem would encourage his friend to give up his life as a poet and join the British Army during World War I. And he must have been devastated when he learned that, two years after enlisting, Thomas was killed at the Battle of Arras.
Despite Thomas’ untimely demise, Frost’s “The Road Not Taken” has encouraged countless people to shun the common and live exceptional lives. But, of course, that was never Frost’s intention. Hugh Howey makes this point quite eloquently, and he compares The Road Not Taken with another of Frost’s most popular poems, “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.
From Hugh Howey:
Frost’s greatest gift — and the one most difficult to access — is his use of the unreliable narrator. His poems lie to us. These untruths conceal deep and profound truths.
Frost’s most famous poem is perhaps the most famous poem of all-time, the Mona Lisa of poems, his THE ROAD NOT TAKEN.
The most fascinating thing to me about THE ROAD NOT TAKEN is that most people get the title wrong. Which is incredibly meta. Because I’m about to blow your mind. The poem is about two paths that are identical in one aspect: Neither path has ever been walked down.
People often refer to this poem as “The Road Less Traveled.” This comes from a line toward the end that is 100% a lie. And here is the genius I mentioned in the opening Tweet: Robert Frost lies to us, because he’s writing about us, and we lie to ourselves all the time.
Frost tells us FOUR TIMES that the two paths are the same in terms of wear. This is not a long poem — he has to be economical with his words — but he tells us FOUR TIMES that neither path is the one less traveled.
See if you can find all four times.
The reason they have the same lack of wear is because these are life choices yet to be taken. The narrator has come to a crossroads in life, a great decision. College or gap year? Get married or keep dating? Settle down or move abroad?
These decisions give us pause, and so we sit at the crossroads and we study our choices, try to gauge how much we’ll enjoy each of the two paths before us. As Frost demonstrates, it’s impossible to tell! We haven’t walked either one before.
The lies begin in the third stanza with this line:
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
The only exclamation mark in the poem. The excitement of childlike mania. The insanity of naiveté.
The lie hardly lasts. Over the next two lines, we see the excitement of that exclamation mark dissolve into resignation. The narrator knows they’ll never come back. You can’t live both lives:
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
We’ve all felt this, the desire to live two mutually incompatible lives. Nest, but roam. Dabble, but commit. Sample, yet dive deep.
We want to live unconventional lives, but have all the comforts of convention.
The big lie comes at the end. What’s amazing is that the narrator KNOWS they are going to lie to themselves. At the end of their life, they will say that they took the path less traveled, and that it was the correct choice, but they will never know.
The hint isn’t just the four times we were told the paths were the same for lack of wear. The hints are the sigh with which the lie is told, and the halting nature of the telling of the lie.
… and I–
I took the one less traveled by…
He hesitates. He almost tells the truth. But the only way to hold the ego together is to convince himself he didn’t make a mistake, because the tsunami of regrets for all the paths he couldn’t walk down would drown him.
The lie is the thing.
And so we can’t even remember the name of the poem, so deeply do we want to believe the same lie. We claim we took the road less traveled, when the OPPOSITE is true.
Each of us took the only road we traveled. The other road we left undiscovered.
Back to STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING:
STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
–Robert Frost
Can you spot a possible lie in this poem? Even if your brain can’t, your heart might. Your subconscious might. I think all of our hearts do.
Like THE ROAD NOT TAKEN, this poem gives us three stanzas of truth before we get a final stanza of outright rebellion.
The dark woods are death. The narrator recognizes the end:
Whose woods these are I think I know
The absence of a farmhouse, this place between a frozen lake and the woods, no place to support life.
The primal urge to resist, our subconscious fear of death, is his horse, ringing its bells, shivering and confused, urging him forward.
To ask if there is some mistake.
Such a brutal line. Brutal.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep
Something enticing about the end of a long and difficult journey. Almost alluring to succumb to it. But then we get the final BUT:
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
The last sad lie is right here, repeated twice, as we often repeat things while our attention is drifting or our energy flagging.
I have so much I want to do before I die.
I have so much I want to do before I die.
I promised myself I would do these things. I promised.
But I know whose woods those are. And the animal inside me is ringing a bell, hoping there is some mistake.
The two poems tell the same story of a life too short for all it hopes to contain.
Both poems are about the things left undone.
In one, the lie is that the choices were the correct ones.
In the other, the lie is that there’s time yet to live.
The truth is simple and sad:
We have but one life; it will be shorter than we wish; live it deliberately and wisely.
It’s hard to believe it has already been twenty years since the United States was attacked by terrorists, hijacking commercial airplanes and flying them into the World Trade Center in NYC, the Pentagon in Washington, DC, and an attack thwarted by brave souls on Flight 93 that crashed in a Pennsylvania field. The wound is still fresh. For most of us who were alive on that fateful day, we think of September 11, 2001 often.
In the aftermath of the attack, Americans came together in unity and a sense of national purpose. We were determined to “not let the terrorists win.” President Bush encouraged us to go on with our lives, get back to normal, and show those that meant us harm that they could not defeat us.
We went to war in Iraq to “combat terrorism.” Later, our war on terrorism spilled over into Afghanistan. All tolled, we lost more than 3400 members of the military in Iraq and Afghanistan, and more than 330,000 civilians were killed.
At home, we agreed to give up certain liberties in an effort to keep us all safe and to make sure than we didn’t suffer another deadly terrorist attack. We agreed to undergo significantly increased security measures in order to fly on commercial airlines, including allowing TSA personnel to feel us up to make sure we weren’t carrying bombs.
We learned words like “waterboarding” and “FISA courts,” heard about places like Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib, the Department of Homeland Security was created and became a behemoth within our government, Muslim hate crimes became common, and a ban on Muslim immigrants was attempted.
The good news is that the wars in far off lands and the changes at home have kept us safe. Although it may be true that correlation doesn’t equal causation, the fact is, for nearly twenty years, we have not suffered another large scale, mass fatality event in the United States. The bad news is, in the end, the terrorists won.
If the terrorists goal was to kill a bunch of Americans and send our lives into chaos, then they succeeded. Sure, in the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 attack, we felt a closeness to our fellow citizens and a willingness to bend a little for the common good, but those days are long behind us.
Today, twenty years after the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil in history, we are divided like never before. One of our political parties is pushing us to abandon our democracy in favor of authoritarianism. Their rhetoric and actions led to an insurrection in January 2021, and their continuing efforts have accomplished what the 9/11 terrorists could have only dreamed of. There is a clear, direct line that can be drawn from the 9/11 terrorist attack to the efforts by the 1/6 insurrectionists.
In addition, about 25% of our citizens refuse to do the simplest things to keep us all safe from the ongoing pandemic. Unlike those who came together immediately after the 9/11 attack, these Americans refuse to do the work our nation is desperate for them to do. These people have chosen their own narrow interests over the common good of the nation. If the 9/11 terrorists thought they could disrupt the American way of life with their attack, we’ve proven them right.
Just a few days before the twentieth anniversary of 9/11, President Biden issued vaccine mandates for U.S. government employees and contractors, including the military, and he ordered businesses who employ more than 100 people to require their employees to get vaccinated or be tested weekly for COVID. These requirements are being implemented more than a year-and-a-half after we first became aware of COVID, and several months after a safe, effective vaccine was developed.
If you’re thinking these requirements shouldn’t be necessary, you’re right. In the 9/11 attacks, nearly 3,000 people were killed. Today, that many people die from COVID every couple of days. We’ve lost more than 650,000 Americans to COVID in the past eighteen months or so, but nearly a quarter of the population still refuses to wear a mask or get vaccinated in order to stop the deaths and get COVID under control.
The reason people refuse to do what is right varies from person to person, but all of the reasons are based in ignorance, selfishness, and misinformation. Right wing media has railed against masks and the vaccines in the name of freedom, many Republican politicians have stood against masks and vaccines as a political ploy, trying to advance their careers and agenda, and a significant chunk of Americans have blindly believed the lies, even though those lies defy logic and the facts are easy to find for anyone that wants to know the truth.
On this twentieth anniversary of 9/11, I remember those who died in the terrorist attacks, and I mourn our loss of civic pride, patriotic duty, and a united America that was willing to make the tough choices and work together for the common good. Those qualities were poisoned on 9/11, and the divided, ignorant, weak-minded country we live in now is the result.
Twenty years after the attack, the verdict is in. The terrorists won.
There are three words that have become more popular in recent years that you should know about. The three words are often used interchangeably, even though they mean slightly different things, and they all could factor into the future of our democracy.
I grew up about 40 miles outside of Chicago. Like a lot of families in our area, we ate pizza often, either as a meal or a late-night snack. The two pizzerias we patronized the most were 
While you could argue that “thin-crust pizza” is a generic term, there’s nothing generic about eating a thin-crust pizza. To qualify as thin-crust, one obvious criteria is that the crust must be thin (duh!). To put a finer point on it, the crust is not deep and not pan, but it’s also not as thin or crispy as a Chicago-style thin (see below). It tends to be a little thicker and chewier than a Chicago-style thin, which has a crispier bite.
Imagine you’re a Chicago bar owner in the early part of the twentieth century. You want to increase business, but you don’t have a ton of money to spend. What would you do?
Until now, I have supported the notion that Chicago is a better pizza town than New York. Let me throw a little love New York’s way. One way New York City outshines Chicago when it comes to pizza is in the number of “By-the-slice” options they offer. If you have a hankering for pizza at lunchtime in Chicago, you’re most likely going to have buy a whole pizza. In NYC, there’s practically a “By-the-slice” joint on every other block.
There is a story that has been around for a long time that claims that Ike Sewell created the first Chicago-style deep dish pizza in the 1940s in his Chicago restaurant, 
Think of Chicago-style stuffed pizza as a variation on a theme. It’s like deep-dish, but there are differences. Just like a Chicago-style deep dish, the stuffed pizza is built in a deep-sided, round pan. The dough is spread across the bottom of the pan and up the sides. Next, the ingredients are added, then the cheese, usually shredded mozzarella. This is backwards from how deep-dish pizza is made.
Thick Crust pizza is actually a generic name for a few different styles of pizza. For years, Pizza Hut has offered a thick crust pizza that is in reality, a variation of a Sicilian-style pizza. Technically, French bread pizza would also fit in this category. Detroit-style pizza also qualifies as thick crust pizza.
What makes a pizza an artisan pizza? That can be a difficult question to answer. Often there are big differences from one artisan pizza to another. However, the common similarity between artisan pizzas is the passion for changing and improving the pizza that the chef puts into their creation.
California-style pizza is a type of artisan pizza, but gets it’s own category due to it’s popularity. Introduced at 
Purveyors of Neapolitan-style pizza are serious about their craft. The pizza, which originated in Naples, Italy, must be made according to certain instructions which are promulgated and enforced by the Vera Pizza Napoletans (VPN).
Technically, New Haven-style pizza is a variation on a traditional Neapolitan pizza. 
If you like thin crust pizza–I mean super thin and cracker crisp–then you’ll probably like St. Louis-style pizza. The dough starts with unleavened (no yeast) flour that creates a crust similar to a Matzo cracker. The toppings are generally the same toppings you’d find at most any other style of pizzeria, but it’s the cheese that really sets it apart.
In case you didn’t know, the Quad Cities are made up of Rock Island and Moline, Illinois, and Davenport and Bettendorf, Iowa. The Quad Cities area also consists of several smaller towns in northwestern Illinois and Southeastern Iowa.
Some (like Steve Dolinsky) would argue that pizza pot pie isn’t really pizza, but I’ve included it because 1) I’ve had it and liked it, and 2) my friend, Faith Morley, who was like a second mother to me when I was growing up, loves it. So, let’s talk about pizza pot pie.
In the 1970s, deep-dish pizza was all the rage in Chicago. It was new and different, and places like Gino’s East, Lou Malnati’s and Connie’s were doing big business. All of the business going to deep-dish pizza joints cut into the revenue of Chicago-style hotdog carts and restaurants around the city. They needed something new to compete with the pizzerias.
Elmore Leonard is, by many accounts, the greatest American crime writer in history. Many of his books, like 
Dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway, so I knew he had already left for work. I wheeled my second-hand Schwinn out of the garage and shut the big overhead door behind me.
I love ice cream. Ever since I was a kid, ice cream has been my “go to” dessert. My mom usually bought vanilla or French vanilla (I’m convinced we got French vanilla because my mom picked out the wrong carton by mistake), or on rare occasions, Neapolitan, that fancy ice cream with three different flavors in the same carton. It was a simpler time.
When my ex-wife and I split up, our son was 14-years old. He was just starting high school and was at an age where he was moving from being a momma’s boy to having more interest, and more in common, with his dad.
A little over a year ago, I wrote an 
In 2015, the Oscar for Best Picture went to Birdman, a strange film that garnered critical acclaim, but left a lot of people scratching their heads. The film was about an actor who had become famous playing a movie superhero. The actor, played brilliantly by Michael Keaton, felt he had more to offer than just being a a guy in a mask. He wanted to be known as a serious actor, and he set out to prove his worth by starring in a stage adaptation of Raymond Carver’s short story, “
One of the most beloved, but misunderstood, poems in American literature is Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” For a lot of people, the poem is a call to live an exceptional life, eschewing the usual script and instead embracing the extraordinary. However, that wasn’t Frost’s intention with the poem.
It’s hard to believe it has already been twenty years since the United States was attacked by terrorists, hijacking commercial airplanes and flying them into the World Trade Center in NYC, the Pentagon in Washington, DC, and an attack thwarted by brave souls on Flight 93 that crashed in a Pennsylvania field. The wound is still fresh. For most of us who were alive on that fateful day, we think of September 11, 2001 often.