By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. The debris from the East Wing on Oct 23, 2025, before it was whisked away (Jacquelyn Martin/AP) That piece of rich white trash, Donald J. Trump, just wrecked my house. MY house. I don’t care what he’s the president of. He doesn’t own that house. He’s a tenant, living there rent free—on my dime. I own that White House. And so do you. So, last Saturday (10/25), like any good owner, I went downtown to view the damage to our house for myself. Usually, you can walk through Lafayette Park, a large green square crisscrossed by pedestrian walkways that sits opposite the White House, just across Pennsylvania Avenue. But now the park is so fenced off with low barricades, chicken-wire-like fencing, and RESTRICTED AREA signs that you can only access it through one central entrance. I did that, along with others who appeared unbothered by the restrictions. Possibly they were tourists who knew no better. In the middle of the park, two large machines with short cranes stood on either side of a statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback. “Great,” I said aloud. “Is he going to start tearing down statues too?” Behind me, a bystander said he thought they were just going to clean the statue. In all fairness, he was probably right. They were not bulldozers, and they appeared to have open cabs for workers to stand in. In a friendly voice, the man asked if I knew about Jesus. I was not in the mood for religious solicitations. I told him, adamantly, to leave me alone, just-leave-me-alone ! And I walked on. I had not gone more than 20 feet towards Pennsylvania Avenue before a young woman tried, with similar words, to give me literature to read. My tart answer to her: “Why don’t you stop trying to convert people and actually do something good?” These people certainly had a right to their beliefs and to try to persuade others. But in that moment, the combination of their apparent total disinterest in the desecration occurring across the street and the fact that right-wing religious  fanatics  had had a hand in putting that destructive power in place was infuriating to me. In 1995, bowing to the concerns of security agencies, then-President Bill Clinton closed the portion of Pennsylvania Avenue fronting the White House to car traffic. It became, instead, a pedestrian mall where tourists, skateboarders and protesters could gather. And one could still walk through it from cross streets at either end. Not anymore. Now, both ends are closed off, guarded by the Secret Service. And more low barricades have further limited space for pedestrians on the east end.. On Saturday, the usual small protests on a variety of issues were absent. There were at most 50 tourists milling about the White House’s wrought-iron fence, taking photos of each other in front of it. I moved as far east along the fence as possible, trying to get a view of the rubble where the East Wing used to be, to no avail. Trump and his enablers had hidden the president’s ongoing vandalism behind pretty, clean white board walls. I had to be a contortionist to take photos of even that from between the iron fence pickets without dropping my phone. Again, I spoke aloud, angrily—to myself, to the air, to anyone who might hear—"He doesn’t own it. How dare he tear any of it down?” Three feet from me, a woman, well-dressed, longish brown hair, turned to look at me. I met her eyes, unsure of her reaction to my outburst. But she said she said she agreed with me, that it was disgusting.  Then she and her companion, standing a few feet behind her, walked away. Everyone else around us seemed oblivious—just enjoying a nice, sunny day out. I decided to see if I could get a better view of the East Wing’s remains from behind the White House and the White House lawn. But on that side, I was met with more fences and barricades keeping me and the rest of the public at a greater distance. Along the way, I could see two unmoving cranes piercing the sky just beyond the camouflage provided by the ground’s trees and bushes. Dwarfed by the cranes, furled narrowly around its pole, stood an American flag, looking small. Frustrated by the shameless cover-up, I headed up 17th Street towards the Metro and home. As I passed a Secret Service agent on guard, I shook my head at him and said, “This isn’t our capital anymore.” I didn’t wait for an answer but walked on. The administration has quickly blocked the scene of the crime from visitors like the author (Jessie Seigel) The demolition of the East Wing is part of President Donald Trump's plan to build a ballroom he claims will cost $300 million on the east side of the White House. He tore the building down without obtaining required approval from the National Capital Planning Commission, that oversees such projects. The inveterate pathological liar claimed in July that the construction of his ballroom “won’t interfere with the current building. It’ll be near but not touching it.” The media has noted that Trump’s actions directly contradict his earlier assurance that construction would not affect the existing White House. But Trump could argue, in Al Capone fashion, that his construction is not touching the East Wing of the White House. Because the East Wing is no longer there . White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt proudly boasted, “This is going to be a magnificent addition to the White House for many years to come, and it’s not costing the taxpayers anything.” In this regard, Trump has outdone Al Capone. The private donors who have committed millions upon millions of dollars thus far are a noxious Who’s Who of billionaires and corporate interests no doubt expecting returns on their investment. Knowing Trump, they may never see them. Leavitt claimed Trump has also personally committed money to the project but refused to say how much. She said the administration would share a dollar figure at an unspecified later point. Given Trump’s record, that surely means never . Some speculate that Trump is building a gigantic bunker under that new ballroom so he can dig in and refuse to leave in 2028. Others suggest his demolition of the First Ladies’ section of the White House is symptomatic of his misogyny. Or that building a humongous ballroom with his name on it is part of feeding his insatiable megalomania. Personally, I think it’s part of his revenge campaign. Trump knows he lost the 2020 election. He knows how little he won by in 2024. He knows that seven million Americans protested on No Kings Day this month, making a stand against him. So he’s tearing down the White House to get even with all of us. Based on their lack of action, the Republican-controlled Congress is fine with the destruction. And the current Supreme Court will rubber stamp anything Trump does. So, it’s left to us. We the People have got to evict him. How? First, we make sure Democrats win control of Congress in 2026. Then, we impeach, convict, and remove this criminal tenant and every impeachable lackey who has assisted him. Because I want my house back!   Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider . Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com . In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had two professional staged readings of her play Tinker's Damn , with another play, The Three Jessies . More on Seigel can be found at  https://www.jessieseigel.com .

By Amy Lennard Goehner / Hudson, NY Daisy shopping at Lowe's for agricultural supplies, two words this Upper West Sider had never uttered until leaving the city Friends often ask me what’s the best thing about having left Manhattan after 40 years and settling two hours north in Hudson. “Was it finally having a washer and dryer in my building?” Nah. “Was it saying goodbye to Humvee-sized water bugs galloping across the floor?” Nope. “Was it buying a week’s worth of groceries for under $300?”  Wrong again. As a matter of fact: Our washing machine just went on the fritz, and it cost us more than a cool grand to replace it. We’ve traded water bugs for stink bugs that sound like 747s when they fly into a room. And while ShopRite beats Fairway at the cash register hands down, you need a car to schlep those groceries home. Give up? The best thing about having left my Upper West Side apartment was finally being able to get a dog, as pets were not permitted in our building. A love of dogs is in my DNA, on both sides. My early childhood was spent in a 400-square foot garage “apartment” in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, downstairs from my grandparents. My folks slept on a faux velvet green pullout couch in the windowless living/dining/everything room, while my brother Jeff and I shared the bedroom. Despite these tight quarters, we always had a dog. And I’m not talking Chihuahuas or toy poodles. Our Brooklyn dogs included a boxer and a beagle. And a Great Dane: Hercules the Third, allegedly the third largest Great Dane ever bred. Allegedly because that claim was made by our neighbor Jimmy, who wasn’t someone anyone on our East 28th Street block would argue with. This is a photo of my Brooklyn childhood garage apartment. Now picture a Great Dane inside! One day Jimmy called my dad, Jerry. Jimmy graveled: “Hey Jerry. Come on over. I’ve got a present for you.” Jerry hummana-hummanaed (à la Ralph Kramden): “Sure, Jimmy!” Jerry survived meeting with Jimmy and came home with Hercules the Third. And on the Third Day of Hercules’s stay, our mom Em (despite loving dogs) decreed to Jerry, “That dog goes or you go.” The author, her brother Jeff and Fritzi in 1970 after moving on up from Brooklyn The next dog who entered our lives was with us for 16 years and still haunts my dreams: an eight-week-old Weimaraner puppy . Our family differed on what to name her, so we chose her name the way we settled all major family decisions — playing one hand of poker, always five-card draw. (I think my first words were “ante up.”) And when I won that hand with a pair of 8’s, Em and Jerry each pulled me aside separately and offered me $10 to change my vote. Even at age 10, I was unbribable. I chose the name Fritzi. Here in Hudson, there is a rock that bears her name in the little pet memorial our neighbors created. In all my dogless years since Fritzi passed, I’d get my fix in the city by hanging out at dog parks or greeting every big dog I passed on the street. When I was a reporter at Sports Illustrated and Sports Illustrated for Kids , several times I reported on the Westminster Dog Show. Most memorable as a reporter was a show years ago when the Chinese Crested debuted, that breed once having won the New York Post’s ‘World’s Ugliest Dog’ competition. I have a framed portrait on our sports wall of Beatrice and Loopy, two of the Chinese Cresteds in the show that year. Before I headed to Madison Square Garden for the show, I had heard somewhere that the breed grew in popularity when the stripper Gypsy Rose Lee started breeding them. “Wow! I have to track that down!” I said to myself.  At Westminster, none of the Chinese Crested breeders I interviewed had heard that story about Gypsy. For pre-internet weeks after, I scoured the White Pages and old news clips and phoned in vain for any leads to check the story out. Alas, I got no further than finding the name of Gypsy’s seamstress but couldn’t locate her. A quick online search just now confirmed everything I would have needed to write that story. Any fellow reporter who worked back in those pre-internet days can cite their Pulitzer-worthy stories that never got written because we just couldn’t get the skinny. Once we moved to Hudson, my husband Rick Remington had big dreams of big dogs like his Black Lab named Jetlag, and of course a Weimaraner for me. And another breed I had recently discovered, the Leonberger, a playful, gentle giant. My dad was, um, a gamblin’ man, so what’s not to love about a Leonberger, which sounds like the name of my dad’s bookie? In Hudson, one of our first friends was Dani, who owned two pugs, Pretzels and Daisy. As a big- dog snob, I had never paid much attention to dogs I had to bend down to pet. But the more time I spent with the pugs, the more I came to appreciate small dogs. Particularly Pretzels and Daisy. The couple had lived together peacefully for five years until the day Daisy went alpha dog and decided she needed “her space.” They started fighting. During their separation, Daisy stayed with us until the day Dani brokenheartedly announced she had found someone in Rochester who would rehome Daisy. On the morning Dani was to surrender Daisy, Rick and I looked at each other, and we knew. So much for a Black Lab or a Weimaraner or a Leonberger. We plan and God laughs. Daisy found her forever home with us that morning four years ago. And Pretzels and Daisy are best friends again and hang out often. So for me, what was the best thing about leaving the city? I bet my bottom dollar that you can guess! Just ask my husband Rick. He’ll tell you, “Life is better with a dog.” I’m a third-generation Brooklynite (when Brooklyn was a place to come  from, not go  to) but grew up in Newton, Mass. I spent most of my career at Time Inc. as deputy chief of reporters at Sports Illustrated , senior editor at Sports Illustrated for Kids,  and senior arts reporter at Time.  I wrote a lot about autism for Time,  as my oldest son has autism. I currently freelance for AARP's Livable Communities. I’m in my element ghostwriting online dating profiles or shooting pool and drinking a vodka martini — while listening to Ella, Dinah or Sarah.

By Victoria Rolfe / Red Hook, NY The author and her husband John giving the Trump Administration hell October 18, 2025 was an amazing day in America.  Seven million people took to the streets to defend our democracy. Not only were the demonstrations entirely peaceful, they were joyous, uplifting, exuberant, creative, and playful. The good people of Portland, Ore. set the stage in recent weeks for counteracting the ugliness and brutality of our current regime with kindness, neighborliness, playfulness, and a bit of sassy fun thrown in. And the country took their lead. The nationwide rallies were plentiful with silly costumes and humor, music, and bubbles. My husband John and I attended our third protest rally (since this political nightmare began) in the small upstate city of Kingston, New York, near our home in Red Hook. It does seem to us that the movement is growing. This was by far the biggest and the best of them. And even the most fun. Of course, our message was gravely serious, but the mood was not one of anger or nastiness. We are not the party of hate. We came together as the party of warmth and humanity. We delighted in sharing our message of hope and promise for a future that we believe in. It felt so good to be enveloped in a crowd of people who were equally passionate about the future of our country. The creativity and humor of those around us was awe-inspiring. It was a serious message presented in a light-hearted way.  People came in a myriad of costumes and displaying laugh-out-loud signs. We sang and whooped with delight and blew bubbles. Cars driving by honked their horns in solidarity, giving us the thumbs up or a fist salute, or even flashed their own signs back at us. Then we gathered together and marched through the streets of Kingston, playing instruments and chanting, “Show me what democracy looks like….THIS is what democracy looks like!” or that old stand-by, “Hey hey, ho ho, Donald Trump has got to go!” One of my favorite moments was when we were marching behind a woman holding a speaker playing John Lennon’s “Imagine.” We all quietly walked in unison to: “ They may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will live as one .” We went to protest what is happening in our country, to be with like-minded people, to show our solidarity for the democracy of our United States of America. We came away with a renewed sense of faith in the good people of our county. We came away with hope. A long, long time ago, after the birth of her third child, Victoria made the life-changing decision to leave the work world behind and devote herself to being a full-time mom and homemaker. Along with her new title of Domestic Engineer, she took on the role of the Chief Home Economist for the family. At first, it was scary to try to live on less than half their income, but Victoria found that she not only rose to the challenge but thrived in the enjoyment of learning to live their best life with limited resources. She embraced this new frugal lifestyle of the at-home-mom and went on to add a fourth child to the mix. And their family was complete. Along the way she acquired a great deal of wisdom in how to not only avoid debt, but pay off mortgages early, buy cars for cash, travel on a shoe-string budget, and send kids to college with no student loans, all while also saving a tidy nest egg for retirement. She currently educates others in these skills through her business Bright Future.   Now living the life of a modern homesteader in the Hudson Valley, New York, Victoria has added gardening to her list of skill sets as she grows many of her own vegetables to supplement her family’s primarily vegan diet. And she has come to realize that this waste-not, want-not, carbon-friendly, sustainable life she is living is not only benefiting her own family but also our Mother Earth, and that each of us has the obligation to live a responsibly sustainable life not only for ourselves, but for the greater good of our community, and our planet. We can all do this one household and backyard at a time. We are the world! And it all begins right at home. Victoria can be reached at brightfuture2budget4@gmail.com

By Emmy Serviss / Boston Ever since I was about six years old, I’ve been obsessed with Halloween. Sure, trick-or-treating was a big plus, but even when I was a child, it was about more than just candy and costumes. Halloween lives in that feeling you get when there’s a sudden chill in the air, a slightly evil twinkle in the eye, and the possibility that maybe that house at the end of the block really is haunted! Since my birthday is in August, and I always wanted a Halloween birthday party, I managed to convince my brother Ben (whose birthday is a mere week after October 31) to have a Halloween birthday party for two or three years in a row. Nothing like living vicariously, right?! Eventually he got old enough to realize he could have whatever kind of birthday party he wanted, not the one his older sister dictated. I was dressing as a killer clown before it was cool! (circa 1994) But I didn’t really mind. As we got a little older, I found other ways to squeeze extra Halloween into the year. Whether it was playing “haunted house” in the basement, watching The Exorcist  with my dad, or beginning to plan my Halloween costume in the late spring–the spooky spirit was never that far from my mind. I think I really found my Halloween groove when I got into middle school. Finally, I was old enough to take over the front yard decorations from my mother, and it became one of my favorite seasonal activities. I even saved up my allowance to buy better and scarier decorations, along with creating “dead bodies” to scatter across our front lawn. My costumes also got more elaborate, trading store bought pieces with putting my costumes together meticulously. One year I dressed as Medusa and spent several nights figuring out how to attach rubber snakes in a cheap black wig. Another year I dressed as a Dead Waitress, complete with a serving tray full of fake eyeballs, cockroaches and severed fingers on crackers. I carefully arranged candy for the trick-or-treaters amid my horror d’orves, so I could offer the tray to kids from the neighborhood. Proudly posing with my Halloween handiwork. Notice a familiar face? As I got older, my love of Halloween didn’t diminish at all, but I didn’t know what to do with myself on October 31st anymore. In high school I was too old to go trick-or-treating, and in college I was too straight-edged to go partying. So my teens and early 20s were dedicated to boning up on my horror movie education. Whether it was a classic like the 1968 Night of the Living Dead , a modern staple like The Sixth Sense , or a campy cult favorite like Dead Alive , I would watch any and all horror movies I could get my hands on. Many of my friends say they can’t watch horror movies because they’re too scary, but I equate it to those who love riding roller coasters. It’s two sides of an adrenaline  thrill-seeking experience. People love the feeling of whipping around corners, diving down huge drops and twisting upside down until your stomach feels like it’s going to fall out of your butt. Personally, I hate it. I would much rather sit in a dark theater and become engrossed by a supernatural monster-stalking horny teenagers, while eating popcorn. For me, it’s much easier to watch a scary movie and maybe get startled a few times at the cheap jumpscares, than to sit in a roller coaster that literally spins my whole body around at 60 mph. The odds of having a freak accident while watching a scary movie? Practically zero. The odds of having a freak accident while riding a roller coaster? Still pretty low, but definitely higher than zero. In fact, the entire plot of the Off-Broadway musical Ride The Cyclone revolves around those odds! Anyway, after college I moved to Los Angeles and fell in with a friend group who revitalized my love of Halloween. Between my roommate John who worked at a local haunted house, my friend Jason who made costumes that rivaled Hollywood blockbuster movies, and the legendary West Hollywood Halloween party–I was back on the spooky train! Some of my favorite Halloween costumes from over the years: (from left to right) The Babadook, a dustbunny, and the Statue of Liberty from Ghostbusters II One of the great things about living in LA, was that Disneyland was a mere one-hour drive away! And for a Halloween fanatic like me, the only thing better than visiting my favorite Grim Grinning Ghosts at the Haunted Mansion, is when they switch over the decorations for a “Nightmare Before Christmas” theme. When I lived in LA, I helped John paint some sets a couple times at Spookyhouse, though I was still too intimidated to try my hand at being a Scare Actor. But when I moved to Portland, Ore. a few years later, I found another local haunted house: Fright Town . And this time I jumped at the chance to get my scares on! There’s something so satisfying about the perfect scare. Whether it’s making a grown man jump and scream like a little girl, causing a group of tween girls to scream and fall into each other like a set of human dominos, or even setting off someone’s “fight or flight” instinct - every scare is a good scare. When I moved to Boston in 2011, I was hoping I could find another haunted house within the limits of the Green Line, so I could keep haunting. Sadly for me, the closest locations were about 45-90 minutes out of Boston. So while I haven’t been on the haunting side in a long time, I still make sure to plan at least one haunted house outing for my friends and me! A sample of the professional makeup done when I worked at Fright Town In my 30s, I became the Halloween party host. Planning my annual Halloween party became just as much fun as decorating the front yard when I was in middle school! Between making sure my apartment was sufficiently spooky to creating themed drinks and snacks and curating a horrifying playlist–I made sure that all monsters were appropriately mashed! Unfortunately, there won’t be a Halloween party this year. But it’s because my fiancé HUSBAND and I got married on October 25th! (and we were just ever so slightly preoccupied with wedding planning) Ironically enough, when you spend your entire life loving Halloween so much that it becomes part of your whole personality, it means at least 60% of your wedding guests will ask if they can wear costumes to your October wedding. And I told them all that it was a fair question, but NO. We had some “spooky sprinkles” throughout the evening, but I was determined to have a Fall wedding–not a Halloween wedding. This year’s Halloween graveyard at the Serviss household Everyone was surprised that I didn’t want a Halloween wedding, but to me, it was easy. My love and excitement for Halloween knows no bounds, but I wanted to make sure there was a distinct separation between my favorite holiday, and my wedding. I want Charlie and I to be the focus of the celebration and save Halloween for later. Because Halloween is about embracing the dark and macabre, and giving yourself permission to get scared. And while there are plenty of horrors all around to scare us at the moment, there’s something morbidly comforting about getting scared at something as simple as Freddy Krueger, instead of what’s really lurking in the depths of the Epstein Files. But for now, Happy Halloween! Married! Emmy Serviss is a Boston-based writer, actor and improv coach. When she's not binge-watching old TV series with her fiancé, you can find her at The Rozzie Square Theater performing with ComedySportz Boston and coaching the  ComedySportz Boston Minor League team. When not on the stage, Emmy enjoys playing D&D, stressing out about her upcoming wedding and counting the days until Halloween.

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area Cucumbers have traditionally been considered an innocuous vegetable, having a supporting role, if you will.  When added to a garden salad, they kind of lurk in the background, inoffensive, unlike a spicy radish or a smelly onion might. Do we even need to include them? I say a resounding YES! This plain Jane veggie deserves a higher status. Consider making cucumber the star of your salad. Maybe even create a whole salad with just cucumbers and a delicious dressing. I often see it as a salad in the deli case or at a gourmet food shop. I never hesitate to order it for my salad medley. Another dish that features cucumbers is cold cucumber soup. It’s a delightful starter on a warm sunny day. I almost always have a cucumber or two in my fridge. I prefer the English ones with thinner skin (I don’t peel them) and very small seeds. Whenever I make a salad, I include them. They add a nice crunch and refreshing quality. If I use the garden variety, I peel the skin and scrape the seeds out using a teaspoon. Another great use for cucumbers is in appetizers. I recommend using the garden or English variety because they are sturdy. I think their popularity is due to the fact that the cucumber round is a substitute for a cracker or bread rounds for those who avoid consuming flour.  The cucumber is the base, then it is smeared with dill cream cheese and topped with smoked salmon and garnished with a small dill sprig. Recently, I was at a dinner party that my friend Carol was hosting. She had another twist on the cucumber smoked salmon affair. She uses Persian cucumbers cut into 1/2” rounds, tops them with goat cheese, then salmon, and garnishes them with a small dill sprig. A different idea is to cut the cucumber into 1 1/2” rounds, scoop out the centers, and stuff them with egg salad or tuna salad. Cucumbers have been domesticated for over 3,000 years, originating in India. Eventually, they were brought through the Middle East, on to Europe, and came to America with Christopher Columbus in the 15th century.  They were introduced to Native Americans when the Europeans arrived, like many fruits and vegetables. There are three major varieties of cucumbers: pickling (often called Kirby with a stout, thick appearance and bumpy skin), slicing (the garden cuke that we commonly use in salads), and seedless (burpless), better known as the English or European cucumber.  Within these varieties, there are other variations such as Persian, lemon, and Asian. Cucumbers are easy to cultivate. The only problem is that they sprawl on the ground when they grow, creeping through your whole garden. One way to solve the space issue is to grow them vertically on a trellis or post. I was able to witness this vertical growing method when my daughter Hanna and I went to Iceland 8 years ago. Since the ground is so rocky and the climate so harsh there, vegetables have to be grown in greenhouses year-round. They are massive structures filled with cucumbers, tomatoes, and peppers. The posts soar up to the three-story ceiling. It’s quite a sight! Cucumbers grow vertically in hothouses in Iceland Fortunately, cucumbers have very few calories because they are 95% water. Unfortunately, they don’t have many nutritional qualities other than fiber and a trace amount of vitamins and minerals. I don’t really care because I have been eating them daily for the past few weeks. My husband Bob grows large orange Kentucky Beefsteak tomatoes. I cut up one of them, add an equal amount of cubed cucumber. I mix in sliced fresh basil, feta cheese, and Kalamata olives. I drizzle the salad with a good quality olive oil, coarse sea salt, and fresh ground black pepper. There is nothing finer. Tomato, cucumber, feta salad with olives and fresh basil     My recipe today is two-in-one: you get the wonderful dill dressing, which can also be used as a dip for any raw veggies. The pickled onions should be a staple in every fridge. I use them on burgers, sandwiches, or added to a mixed salad. They really liven things up.   P.S. There is no reason why you can’t use the pickling mixture with cucumbers. I would add fresh dill to the jar after everything is combined. Arranged Cucumber Salad with Pickled Red Onions   Yield:  10 servings      Dill Sauce 1 c. low-fat plain Greek yogurt, (preferably not Fage, because it is too thick) juice of 2 lemons 2 Tbs. olive oil 2 Tbs. water 1 Tbs. Dijon mustard 1/4 c. fresh chopped dill 1 garlic clove, finely minced 1 tsp. hot sauce 3/4 tsp. salt 1/2 tsp. sugar 1/2 tsp. coarse black pepper Making the Dill Sauce: In a medium mixing bowl, whisk together all of the ingredients. If you prefer a thinner sauce, add a little more water. Cover and refrigerate. Allow to sit for at least an hour, preferably overnight. Assembly: Cut the cucumber in 1/4” slices.  Arrange them, spaced evenly, on a round platter. Carefully coat the center of the cucumbers, allowing the edges to show. Put the pickled onions in a small bowl to set in the ring of cucumbers. Garnish with dill sprigs if desired.   Pickled Red Onions 1 medium-large red onion 1/2 c. sugar 1/2 c. rice wine vinegar 1/2 c. water 1 jalapeño, sliced lengthwise Peel and slice the onion in half lengthwise. Slice each half vertically into very thin slices. Bring the sugar, vinegar, water, and jalapeño to a boil in a medium saucepan. Add the onions, stirring to coat with pickling liquid. Cover; remove from the heat. Allow to sit until room temperature. Store in a clean jar, refrigerated, for up to one month. Slice the cucumber into thin rounds. Try to keep them of equal thickness. Slice the red onion lengthwise into thin pieces. Bring the vinegar, sugar, and jalapeño to a boil. Add the onions. Stir to coat. Chop fresh dill. Whisk together all of the dressing ingredients. Arrange the cucumbers evenly in a circle. Spoon on the dressing and place the onions in a bowl in the center. Bonnie Fishman attended the Cordon Bleu Cookery School in London. Later, she owned and operated Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. and Bonnie’s Kitchen and Catering in Bloomfield Hills, Mich. She has taught cooking for over 35 years and created hundreds of recipes. She is now living in Northern California.

By Andy Borowitz  October 27, 2025 Drew Angerer/Getty Images WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report )—In a move that has further imperiled relations between the US and its northern neighbor, on Monday Melania Trump hiked tariffs on Canada to 10,000% in retaliation for Katy Perry dating Justin Trudeau. Canadian Prime Minister Mark Carney attempted to mollify the First Lady by stressing that his government had no jurisdiction over the love lives of his predecessor and the pop star. But Mrs. Trump was unmoved, holding a White House press conference to blast the Trudeau-Perry romance. “There are many bad things in world right now,” she said. “This be worst.”

By Larry Bogrow / Chicago Following Trump's aggressive anti-immigration moves, Chicago has erupted in protests A few days ago, my cell phone rang with a call from an old friend in Phoenix. At least it wasn’t another spam call like the ones that I receive on a daily basis.   “Hi, Larry. How the heck are you doing lately?”   “Fine, thanks Ken. How about you and Mary?” More pleasantries followed, until the main reason for his call became clear. Here’s how our conversation went . . .   Ken: It seems like things are crazy in Chicago. How goes it? Is it safe?   Me:  Well, you can’t believe everything you hear these days.   That’s when I had to read Ken a recent quote from our president: “There’s no place, there’s no place in the world, including you can go to Afghanistan. You can go to places that you would think of, they don’t even come close to this. Chicago is a hellhole right now.”   Ken: Unbelievable! I hadn’t heard that. How bad is it?   Me: I know there are some problems with ICE that are in isolated parts of Chicago, yet the areas seem to be expanding. Coincidentally, just a few days ago I saw an article in the Chicago Tribune  that read: “Chicago Did It–Again! Chicago has been voted best big city in the U.S. by Conde’ Nast Traveler readers for a record-breaking nine years in a row. This city is truly never done, never outdone!”  How’s that for irony?   Ken:  Don’t most Chicagoans feel safe and have confidence that the federal government is handling the situation properly?   Me:  Some might feel that way and most want to feel that way, but what we’re seeing and experiencing is anything but faith and confidence that the Trump administration is doing the right things. Pretty sad commentary, isn’t it?   Ken: What can you tell me about ICE and the deployment of federal troops?   Me:  I can tell you that ICE has set up a holding facility in west suburban Broadview, which has been the site since of multiple anti-immigration enforcement demonstrations. It’s where masked federal agents, with no badges who wear homemade uniforms, have been hurling tear gas and baton rounds at protesters. So far, federal agents have made more than 800 arrests in the Chicago area. While the Trump administration claims to be targeting “the worst of the worst,” many of the detainees have no  criminal record. That’s criminal in itself!   Ken:  But why was the National Guard called in? Are they visible on the streets of Chicago?   Me:  Because there has been a surge of violence and unrest due to the ramped-up federal immigration enforcement in recent weeks. There are currently over 200 National Guard troops from Texas and 300 members from Illinois who have all been federalized  and are currently at a U.S. Army reserve training center in southwest suburban Elwood. The troops are supposedly needed to protect the ICE and border patrol agents. This is Trump’s response to the “increasingly heated immigration crackdown protests.” As of today (10/17)), National Guard troops are not on the streets of Chicago due to decisions by the federal courts that block troops from duty assisting with immigration enforcement activities. But this could only be a temporary win.   Ken:  Hasn't your governor, JB Ptitzker, been a critic of Donald Trump?   Me:  Yes, Gov. Pritzker has been a very vocal critic of the president and his administration. Only three days ago, the governor said,  “This is a man who’s suffering from dementia. This is a man who has something stuck in his head. He can’t get it out of his head. He doesn’t read. He doesn’t know anything that’s up to date. It’s just something in the recesses of his brain that is effectuating to have him call out these cities. And then, unfortunately, he has the power of the military, the power of the federal government to do his bidding and that’s what he’s doing.”   Ken: Didn’t President Trump reply to those harsh words?   Me:  What do you think? Of course, he did by saying that Mayor Brandon Johnson and Gov. Pritzker should both be jailed for failing to protect ICE officers. The war of words continued when the governor called the president “unhinged and a wannabe dictator.” Mayor Johnson later stated on CNN that Trump is “unstable and a double-minded individual who is a threat to democracy.”   Ken: You sure don’t seem to like our president and what’s happening in Chicago.   Me:  No, not at all. That’s because our country has never been more divided. Even a Civil War seems possible. Every day brings other news and announcements from our president that worry and scare me. What about our kids, our grandkids and the future of our country and democracy?   Ken: Hey Larry, I thought I was the one asking the questions! How about closing on a lighter note?   Me: OK, Ken. Sorry for getting carried away. Did you hear Trump’s speech to the UN recently when he said he helped end seven wars? One he saved was between Azerbaijan and Albania, which happen to be over 1,800 miles apart. He meant to say, Armenia, but we can excuse his lack of geographic knowledge, can’t we?  We here in Chicago look forward to President Trump’s next visit to the Windy City . . . because our escalators and teleprompters are all in excellent working order!   Ken: Funny!  I gotta go, Lar.   Me: Thanks for calling, Ken. Let’s hope for peace, nonviolence and a return to democracy! Former Detroiter Larry Bogrow is a retired marketing and advertising executive. He and his wife Sue, who is orginally from Windsor, Ontario, have been married for 51 years and reside in Chicago‘s northwest suburbs (Mundelein, to be exact) in a Del Webb active adult community. Larry has been an avid pickleball enthusiast for over 15 years and does much volunteering in his community, including writing articles in its quarterly newsletters. He’s also a self-proclaimed Seinfeld trivia buff.

By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City AT WIT'S END The average adult recognizes and understands 20,000 to 35,000 words (considered one’s passive vocabulary) and actually uses 5,000 to 10,000 words (one’s active everyday vocabulary).  To put this in some kind of context, Shakespeare used 29,000 words in all of his works. So, ‘to thine own self be true” and add the words below to your passive vocabulary, making it a bountiful 35,001. Word to the Wise Zeugma: I was attracted recently to this unusual word because it sounds like German or Yiddish for “tell me.”  But zeugma is actually a single word that applies to two other words in the same sentence. It’s used to create a surprising or witty effect.  The best way to understand the use of zeugma is by way of example: He lost his keys and his temper. She stole my heart and my wallet. He fished for trout and for complements. Words that are Alive and Well and Coined by Writers Nerd: Over 70 years ago, in the book, If I Ran The Zoo , Dr. Seuss referred to a strange little imaginary animal as a nerd. And the word caught on. Meme: In 1976, British biologist, Richard Dawkins, derived meme from the Greek word mimema, meaning “imitated,” and used it in his book The Selfish Gene to draw a parallel between memes and biological genes, emphasizing the way cultural information spreads and evolves. Freelance: In 1820, Sir Walter Scott coined the word in his historical novel Ivanhoe to characterize the kind of warrior whose lance was not pledged to the service of any particular lord. Hmmm. The free part I got, but maybe I should have thought of using a lance instead of a keyboard. Chortle: The brilliant Lewis Carroll, was known for creating portmanteaus (innovative words formed by blending existing ones.)  “Chortle” is one of them, introduced in his poem Jabberwocky .  Chortle combines “chuckle” and “snort” and means a brief, cheerful and noisy laugh.  Did that make you chortle? Cyberspace: In the early 1980s, science-fiction novelist, William Gibson, introduced the term in his book Neuromancer , referring to the virtual environment created by interlocking networks of computers and electronic systems. Obviously, the word caught on and on and on and on and… Yahoo: While cyber made space for Yahoo, the word was in Jonathan Swift’s book, Gulliver’s Travels in 1726. If you are one of the Swifties, you’ll know that yahoos are brutish creatures resembling humans in looks, but with extremely unpleasant habits. Photos above curated by John Turner They Have Us Coming and Going – Palindromes The one we learned, probably the only one we learned ages ago, is: “A man, a plan, a canal, Panama!” Ready for some more? Biblical Palindrome:  Madam in Eden, I’m Adam. Feline Palindrome: Was it a cat I saw? Lack of Food Palindrome:  No lemon, no melon. Driven Palindrome: A Toyota’s a Toyota. Your Choice Palindrome:  Borrow or rob? Good Girls Palindrome:  Ma is as selfless as I am. And my appropriate ending for this category:  Wow! Twisting Your Tongue You know the drill . . . say each tongue-twister three times fast. Imagine an imaginary menagerie managing an imaginary menagerie. Which wristwatches are Swiss wristwatches? The fun one from my childhood: I slit a sheet, a sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit. And this, which researchers at MIT deemed the hardest English tongue twister in the world: Pad kid poured curd pulled cod. (I wonder if you’ll agree that no matter what the MIT researchers say, the “Swiss wristwatches” is harder.) Word Play– Pangrams A pangram is a sentence or phrase that uses every letter of the alphabet at least once.  I bet what comes to mind is: The quick brown fox…yada yada yada. Here are a couple probably new to you: Sympathizing would fix Quaker objectives. Jinxed wizards pluck ivy from the big quilt. Your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to write a personalized pangram.  This is mine: Lydia Hope Wilen expects a king and queen to save zebras from jaguars. What’s yours? Create a Word . . . Please Other languages have them, so should we. Starting with- Gigil:   Filipino for the irresistible urge to pinch or squeeze something or someone that is incredibly cute. Foreisket: Norwegian for the euphoria and exhilaration of beginning to fall in love. Abbiocco: Ate too much?  This Italian word expresses the can-hardly-keep-your-eyes-open drowsiness that comes after overeating a thoroughly satisfying major meal. (No wonder it’s an Italian word.) Sobremesa : Spanish for time spent relaxing and conversing at the table after the meal is finished . . . that is, if you don’t fall asleep first. Wabi-Sabi: No, it’s not Japanese horseradish. It’s the Japanese concept that finds beauty in imperfection, simplicity and the natural aging of things and people too, embracing imperfections. Let’s spread some of that wabi-sabi around! Lagom: Swedish for moderation and balance, or just the right amount. It kicks up the idea that happiness and fulfillment can come from what we have now, rather than always chasing more. While you may be thinking of English versions of the words above, come up with a word that doesn’t exist in any language . . . a word for a child of divorced parents. They’ll thank you. And now my coined portmanteau that means me as a writer who is grateful to you for reading this: Please accept my writitude !                                  Lydia Hope Wilen began her professional career as a comedy writer on  Personality , a celebrity-driven game show.  Her greatest gig was her extremely successful collaboration with her late sister Joany as nonfiction bestselling authors (18 books), which led to the sisters becoming  popular TV personalities. They continued as journalists (NY Daily News Sunday full-page feature, Celebrity Surveys for Cosmopolitan Magazine, cover stories for Parade Magazine) and got the opportunity to write and talent coordinate a  Nickelodeon  series hosted by Leonard Nimoy. The Wilens had an unusually versatile writing range from  Reading Rainbow  episodes, to off-color comedy skits for Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s TV show,  Sexually Speaking, plus  three optioned screenplays. And that's just for starters . . .

From Judge Napolitano's "Judging Freedom"

By David Tubman / New Braunfels, Texas I’m what Texans refer to as a “California Transplant.” Judy and I met, then later married, in 1981 in Southern California. We had four children by 1991 and moved north to Napa, California. Fast forward to 2018, and we had transitioned into empty nesters with all four kids living in other states and none of our 13 grandchildren nearby. All of their families had lived in Texas at some point due to the military, so we had visited the  Lone Star State numerous times. In 2018, as I approached retirement age, I realized I needed a more affordable place to live. Texas was at the top of my list. The absence of a state income tax certainly helped with the decision. For Judy, the move from California would be a huge change. She’s a  California native and lifelong resident. I used family as my best argument to counter Judy’s strong objection to leaving California and all of her friends. I pointed out that none of our kids would be coming back to California; on the other hand, we had two of them in Texas at the time, as well as five of our grandkids, so that we could see them all the time. By June of that year, we had made the move. We landed in New Braunfels, which at the time was the second-fastest growing town in the U.S., according to the latest census. It felt like a small German community, with bratwurst festivals, rivers running right through town, and Canyon Lake just down the road. We sold our home in Napa and bought a one-acre place with a shop for my sign business, outright, thanks to California’s crazy home prices. (Yep—I’m one of those Californians Texans like to grumble about.) Seven years later, and I’ve adjusted pretty well, though it took me three years before I worked up the courage to slip a “y’all” into a sentence. Now, when people ask where I’m from, I say “California,” but I quickly add, “I’m originally from Detroit,” to soften the blow. What struck me first about Texas was the people. Having grown up in the South (we lived in Miami, Savannah and Hilton Head during the 1950s), I recall a certain hospitality, and I see it here. Folks wave instead of honking. When I flip on my blinker to change lanes, they actually let me in instead of speeding up to box me out. That rarely happens while driving in California traffic. However, the local joke phrase is “Well, bless your heart!” which sounds sweet but is really an insult disguised as a blessing. Instead of seeing cowboy boots and jeans everywhere I go, I see that almost every man has on a baseball cap, shorts, and either flip-flops or tennis shoes. The cost of living, which was our main reason for moving, has been the most significant advantage. Our property taxes are less than half what we paid in Napa, utilities run about $300 a month, and there’s no state income tax. To further benefit seniors, Texans will be voting in November on completely eliminating the property tax for seniors. That’s a big deal when you’re retired and watching your pennies. My friend and neighbor James in his Texas garb and flip-flops, with his 1958 “Starts Every Time” tractor I met my neighbor, James Arledge, a few months ago when I put a post up on our neighborhood blog, asking if anyone knew how to fix a broken riding mower belt. James lives about a mile away and showed up at my door, ready to help. We tinkered, figured it out, and ever since then, we’ve been swapping stories over coffee. James is retired and in his mid-60s. He was born and raised in East Texas near the Louisiana border. His family’s roots go back generations in the marshlands around Beaumont and Port Arthur. After high school, he worked on tugboats like his stepdad and later took up welding. He eventually worked in commercial construction. When people think of Texas, says James, “People always imagine cowboys, with cowboy boots, kicking rocks and the desert. But in East Texas, we’d get 60 inches of rain a year. It was green and tropical.” He recently retired and moved to New Braunfels to be near his kids, and he really likes the rivers and the rolling hills. (It’s referred to as ‘Hill Country.’) I noticed the mounted buck on the wall of his shop and asked if he hunted. “Too much work,” he shrugged. “I’d rather just buy my meat at the store.” However, he has two boats parked next to the shop and enjoys fishing for bass. When I ask James what he likes most about Texas, he doesn’t hesitate: “The people. Texans have a certain pride in being Texan. But it’s also diverse with Mexicans, Blacks, Cajuns, and plain old country folk. Some resent the newcomers, especially from California, but that’s just because land prices shot up.” The hardest part for him? The weather—scorching summers, and in East Texas, hurricanes. He remembers the devastation of Katrina and Harvey and said you can still see high-water marks along the Gulf. Not everyone loves Texas, though. Take Barry Perlmutter, a fellow classmate from the Oak Park High School Class of 1969. He now lives in California but used to live in Texas in Amarillo and Fort Worth, back in the 1980s. Barry remembers the friendly people, a Dairy Queen on every corner, and a family-friendly vibe. There were numerous family-centered activities, and with three kids, that’s where his focus was placed. He wasn’t all that politically minded then. Texas had an economic downturn, and he moved to California in 1983. Since then, the nation’s political tensions set in, and politics are the very reason he would never move back to Texas. California suits him just fine, he told me. Luckenbach, immortalized in a No, 1 country song by that name by Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson, famously claims a population of 3 residents. (In fact, there are upwards of 25.) We were last there two years ago, and enjoyed pulled pork sandwiches, Shiner Boch beer and free live country music . In my experience, Texas is unique–you either love it, or you can’t wait to leave. I find that politically left-leaning individuals tend to prefer big cities, while right-leaning individuals head to smaller, rural communities. You’ve got the humid Gulf Coast, the arid deserts of West Texas, the endless plains up in the panhandle, and the rolling rivers of Hill Country. You’ve got German towns and booming suburbs, cowboys and tech workers, red politics and blue cities. But the people are generous and hospitable. After seven years of living here, I’m still not sure I qualify as a true Texan. I seek them out so I can learn more about its Old West history, its distinctiveness. Texans love to talk about the Great State of Texas. Maybe it will take another seven or more years, but I do know this: Texas has a way of pulling you in. Who can say they are against Texas BBQ, tacos, the Texas two-step, and river rafting on your weekend? Politics aside, it’s a sense of freedom well worth the occasional 100-degree heat in the summer. Welcome to Texas! Y’all come visit! David Tubman, a former Michigander (Detroit and Oak Park), moved to the West Coast in 1976 and is now living in New Braunfels, Texas. His newfound passions are writing and podcasting. To date, David has self-published two nonfiction books about Detroit’s infamous cold case: Jimmy Hoffa Is Missing–The Gap   (2020)  and Jimmy Hoffa Is Missing–Beyond The Gap (September 2025). He is a respected independent researcher in the disappearance of Hoffa. David now hosts two social media sites: “ JHIMTG ” and “ Poly-Ticks & Faith .” The other passion has led David to begin a podcast called “Poly-Ticks & Faith.” He feels there is overwhelming stress associated with our national political culture, and he wants to help by talking people down from the ledge. Topics he has covered include “When Did Science Become Politics?” and “Who Are The Real Jews?”

By Laurence Lerman / New York City Kathryn Bigelow at the New York Film Festival in September SCREEN TIME In the pantheon of 21st-century auteurs, Kathryn Bigelow has quietly carved a domain for herself in terrain long presumed the preserve of male directors: the world of warfare, violence, political brinksmanship, and high-stakes moral confrontation. Bigelow’s new film, A House of Dynamite , marks her return after an eight-year hiatus; it is a film that seems custom-made to remind us exactly why she matters. For nearly four decades, Kathryn Bigelow has made a career out of detonating expectations. The first woman ever to win the Academy Award for Best Director (for 2008’s The Hurt Locker , also that year’s Best Picture winner), she’s spent her life proving that no genre—least of all the muscular, testosterone-fueled world of action and war films—is off-limits to a woman with vision and steel. From the surfer-bank robber ballet of Point Break to the nerve-shredding realism of The Hurt Locker and Detroit , and the cold procedural precision of Zero Dark Thirty , Bigelow has been a master of cinematic pressure. Her characters live for the split second before everything explodes. And when that explosion comes, it’s never just about violence—it’s about who we become when time runs out. Jon Zimmer and Kyle Allen take flight into a dangerous scenario in A House of Dynamite A House of Dynamite’s title couldn’t be more fitting. This is a film wired to blow up, a 21st-century nuclear thriller that unfolds in near real time and practically hums with anxiety. The setup is simple: a single missile has been launched toward the United States. Its origin is unknown; its target appears to be Chicago. From that point on and from three different points of view, the film tracks the excruciating 20 minutes between detection and possible detonation, as the government scrambles to identify the threat and decide whether to retaliate and avoid global annihilation. It’s a startlingly terrifying but quite simple, and with her renowned precision, director Bigelow makes it feel new. She turns what could have been a procedural exercise into a study of chaos barely contained by professionalism. The movie opens in silence—an anonymous radar blip in the Pacific—and ends with the world holding its breath. Between those points lies the most tightly wound hour and a half you’re likely to see all year. Rebecca Ferguson does her best to diffuse a dangerous situation Idris Elba stars as the President, calm on the surface but visibly unraveling beneath the weight of every decision. Rebecca Ferguson, as the communications officer who becomes the film’s moral center, delivers a performance so taut it’s almost painful to watch. Jared Harris plays the Secretary of Defense as a man haunted by Cold War ghosts, while Jason Clarke and Greta Lee round out an ensemble that radiates exhaustion, dread and brittle authority. Bigelow has always had a gift for assembling actors who look like they haven’t slept in days—people you believe were living inside these decisions long before the camera started rolling. What separates A House of Dynamite from the typical disaster film is Bigelow’s refusal to indulge in spectacle. The real explosions here are verbal, ethical, emotional. The editing is razor-sharp, yet the pacing feels organic, pulsing like a quickening heartbeat. She shoots command centers and radar rooms as if they’re battlegrounds, full of light flicker and half-heard commands. When she finally cuts to the missile itself—a faint white streak across a black sky—it lands like a gut punch, not a special effect. Tracy Letts (left) leads the Department of Defense's Strategic Command The film fits squarely within a lineage that includes Dr. Strangelove , Fail Safe , Twilight’s Last Gleaming , and, hell, even WarGames , yet it feels unmistakably contemporary. Those thrillers were reflective of a Cold War mindset, while Bigelow and screenwriter Noah Oppenheim’s film? Movie? is more about concerned with information —how quickly it moves, how easily it breaks, and how dangerous uncertainty has become. Nobody in this film knows exactly what’s happening, and that’s what makes it terrifying. The tension doesn’t come from explosions but from the spaces between: a paused transmission, a locked stare, the hum of silence after a line goes dead. Bigelow’s earlier films examined soldiers and spies addicted to adrenaline. A House of Dynamite studies a different addiction—the illusion of control. Every character believes they can manage catastrophe if they just work faster, decide smarter, think harder. But the movie keeps tightening the screws until intellect becomes another form of panic. There’s no villain here, no evil mastermind, just flawed people trying to do the right thing before the world disappears. Eight years after the underseen Detroit , Bigelow hasn’t softened. She’s leaner, meaner, and still allergic to complacency. A House of Dynamite is broad and intimate at once—a movie about the end of the world that somehow feels personal. It’s the work of a filmmaker who still believes that cinema can be both urgent and alive, that tension itself is a kind of truth. And that’s because when Kathryn Bigelow lights the fuse, you don’t sit back and watch. You hold your breath, waiting for the blast. “A House of Dynamite” opened in theaters in the U.S. on October 10 and will be streaming on Netflix on October 24. Laurence Lerman is a film journalist, a former editor of Video Business -- Variety's digital media trade publication—and husband to The Insider's own Gwen Cooper. Over the course of his four-decade career, he has conducted one-on-one interviews with just about every major filmmaker working today, from Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino and Clint Eastwood to Kathryn Bigelow, Bernardo Bertolucci, and Werner Herzog. Most recently, he is the co-founder and editor-in-chief of the online review site  DiscDish.com , the founder and curator of  FilmShul.com , a multi-part presentation on the history of Hollywood and Jewish America, and a commentator on various 4K UHD and Blu-ray home entertainment releases.