The Truth About Chopped Liver

I’ll readily confess I have never been to Spain nor have I gotten as close to the Northern Lights as I want to, but I will.

Got a plan I have been working on with that whole Northern Lights thing, can’t promise nor guarantee it will work out, but if they do…well let’s just say Spain, Heaven and the lights will be included.

You might ask how that connects to the mature palate of yours truly and chopped liver and I might answer or I might not.

Hell I might say I make a crack on Facebook quarterly about chopped liver being a curse knowing the page will light up with crazy Ashkenazim arguing/debating whether I am correct and the best way to eat it.

Occasionally there will be recipes exchanged and I’ll field questions from friends about how I get so many comments.

“Just wait until I break out the Creamy is better than Chunky and real beaches require saltwater updates.”

Sometimes they’ll tell me they remember the back and forth from the past and sometimes they’ll ask me how I know it works.

“There are several groups of people that congregate here, ketchup lovers, Earl Warren supporters, meshugehnehs, members of the Sweetcheeks fan club and assorted others. I am a magnet for crazy or maybe I am the crazy maker because I know things.”

Twice In One Post

Haven’t listened to this in a long while and can’t stop staring at the picture above, used it for the feature image and wanted to make sure it got the proper attention.

Been thinking about the last time I saw the Northern lights one night in the wilderness three hours outside of Toronto,

Made my way to Grapevine Mills today to hit the beef jerky store because I had to make good on a promise to my daughter.

Had no idea where the store was inside and figured I’d walk through the whole damn mall if I had to, never expecting I would manage to park about as far away as one could.

Didn’t discover this until I was inside not that it mattered because I figure the extra exercise wouldn’t hurt.

On the way back I was accosted by a young woman who wanted to know what kind of facial cleanser I use. Answered her in Hebrew and watched her eyes get wide.

She responded in kind, “אתה מדבר עברית- You Speak Hebrew?”

“Nope, not at all.”

She laughed, asked me what I am doing in Texas and I said selling products from the Dead Sea.

She laughed again and asked me a few more questions. I answered, smiled and wished her a Happy New Year and went upon my.

“Yehoshua, wait, we have a special discount for you. Maybe you or your wife need this. It is good.”

“Sorry, I opted for beef jerky today.”


There are three billion of every kind of people in Los Angeles so I was rarely surprised when I heard different languages, but Texas is different.

I hear Hebrew so infrequently it always makes me smile and always reminds me of the choices I have made.

Four hours earlier I sat in an office in Arlington talking about the chupacabra and talking about being a Peace Corps baby.

Another conversation about how I should speak better Spanish followed by how I should speak better Hebrew.

Both of them said kindly with appreciation for the effort I put in to communicate in a language another found more comfortable.

Both times reminding me about the choices that were made for and by me.

What Does It Matter?

By the time I hit the gym I was exhausted and worn out by a million different things having forgotten about the miles I put in before I got there.

Took a bit of doing but once I got the blood pumping I found my groove and made a few things happen.

The 19 year-old that works there tried to bust my balls about my standing still so I grabbed a bar off of the rack and threw it around with little effort.

“Not bad for a 50 year-old huh.”

He nodded his head and told me he hoped he could do that at 50. I told him about how much I used to do and said I couldn’t decide if I wanted to work my way back to it.

“Why not?”

“This part is relatively easy. I can throw the iron around and if I focus I can get back to where I used to be. But I am not sure it matters. What is the significance of being able to say I can?”

He stared at me and I told him it wasn’t a real question even though it is.

I think about this often. Even though I have had to adjust a bit, lifting is still relatively easy.

It is nice to say I can do it and it means far more to me than anyone else, but does it have any real value.

What am I to do with this?

There are deeper questions tied to it all, but I think what I like about it is the simplicity of it.

It is not complicated. There are no significant issues if I do or don’t push to get stronger. As long as I do something it is better than nothing.

I am in complete charge and there is something nice about that.


One day after I took dad to chemo I helped him back to the car and then watched him sleep most of the 40 miles back to his house.

Remembered the days in which he would carry me in from the car and the days when I used to carry my kids.

The workout was important because dad was not little and I could easily manage giving him a little boost in and out of the car.

When we got closer to the house I woke him and said I wanted to get him and mom something to eat. He said ok and asked me to stop at Brent’s Deli for a chopped liver sandwich.

So I did as he asked and then a short while later watched him derive some of the same benefits from eating it as Popeye gets from spinach.

Maybe I ought to consider eating that or some herring to see if I can share in the benefits.

On the other hand maybe ought to consider the GI benefits of such foods and whether I want to become a walking biological weapon.

Decisions, decisions.

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