Steven Harper's Blog, page 4

Headlines

 Some top headlines from the news feed today:

"Elly de la Cruz Vomits"
"Heartbreaking Video Shows Texas Woman's Final Moments"
"Mom Goes Viral for Embarrassing Behavior"
"Mom of 8 With Stage 3 Breast Cancer Breaks Down In Tears"
" 'The Waltons' Actress Dies"
"Woman Whose face Was Ripped Off By Chimp Shares Update" *
"Livvy Dunne Stuns Fans With NSFW Comment"

*I want to emphasize that these are all real headlines, including this one.

Apparently, I want to read stories about women who barf, cry, die of cancer, get savaged by animals, and make crude comments, all in order to break my heart.

I do my best to lighten my digital footprint. I use script blockers, ad blockers, and many other shields. I've set my browsers to delete my data as soon as a web site closes. Cookies are crunched. Watch and search histories are deleted automatically.

Clearly I've been successful. The internet thinks I'm a female celebrity gossip junky who alternately laughs at schadenfreude one moment and gets weepy the next.

Yay?



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Straight Pride

 Whenever someone says to me, "Why isn't there a straight pride parade?", I always respond, "So organize one. What's stopping you?" Now this event was announced:

https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/dozens-attend-hetero-awesome-fest-in-idaho/ar-AA1Hafxf

Make no mistake, though: this event isn't a celebration of heterosexuality ; it's a denigration of the queer community. The tone is not, "Heterosexuality is awesome! We're happy to be straight, and we're celebrating it!" Not at all. The tone is, "Thank god we're straight, because queer people are perverts and pedophiles who want mutilate children's body parts."

The festival organizer reached out to companies to sponsor the festival, and each company gave him some version of, "We only sponsor 501-3C charity groups." So he registered his group as a 501-3C. The result? He got three or four small sponsors.

On the day of the festival, this happened: https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/us/dozens-attend-hetero-awesome-fest-in-idaho/ar-AA1Hafxf

You read that right. "Dozens" of people attended. The bands played to a mostly-empty park of dully-dressed white people, many of them openly carrying. (Side note: if I were a woman, I'd be seriously wary of attending a festival that celebrates heterosexuality with a bunch of armed men standing around.) The festival was a dud.

When it ended, the organizers set up a GoFundMe page. Why? Because the festival was figuring on ticket sales for most of its budget. Few people showed up, so the festival owes $18,000 in various bills.

This guy is not only a homophobe, he's an idiot. You don't organize a festival this way. You start small, with eight or ten booths from local businesses and artists and a couple of rented rides for kids in a local park. You only pay the park fee and the ride rentals. You hope to make some money back by selling concessions and asking for donations, but you figure you'll be out of pocket for a while.

Publicity consists of flyers and posters around town (another OOP expense) and social media. If you don't have a robust social media following, that's an indicator that few people are interested in your event, by the way.

If the event draws a decent crowd, celebrate it and do it again. If the event draws more people than you anticipated, cheer and use the momentum to expand the festival next year. And the next, and the next, until you have a large thing going.

If the festival sputters, you try again next year. If it still sputters, it's clear that 1) the only person interested in your event is you; or 2) you suck at organizing events; or 3) both.

This guy is so self-centered that he missed the key idea: Gay Pride caught on because an entire community of people had been beaten down and made invisible for generations. The sense of anger and outrage that every single LGBT person has felt bonded the community together. Pride is a way to fight back.

Heterosexuals don't have this feeling of community. Straight people haven't been downtrodden, beaten, burned, or murdered for being straight. There's no sense of community in this arena to bring people together. When the only thing you have in common is that you're straight, it's hard to find anything to bond over.

Anyway, this guy is an idiot.

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The Last Stone

 So yesterday spelled the end of the Great Kidney Stone Explosion. In February, I had a KUB x-ray to check for stones, and the doctor said I had one. He was new to me, and didn't know my history of countless stones or the horrible operations I endured over them, so he delivered the news in a calm, cavalier fashion that was at odds with my inner "holy shit" reaction. Only one. ONLY one. Only ONE! I couldn't remember the last time I heard those words. Although the stone wasn't quite big enough to justify treatment, the doctor recommended lithotripsy (sound waves) because I'm going out of the country in the fall and it wouldn't be a good idea for it to flare up overseas. I agreed to this. I held it together long enough to schedule the appointment, and I left the office. In the car, I cried for several minutes. It was a sudden alleviation of thirty years of stress so pervasive that it had become normal for me. I only had one stone left, and I was going to be rid of it. With luck, this would be the last one, the last time for the pain, the last time for the anxiety. Yesterday was The Day. I thought I'd largely dealt with the trauma and anxiety surrounding operations that the stone surgery and my shoulder surgery and my prostate biopsies had left me with. I was wrong. Anxiety kept me awake well into the night. At 6 AM, Darwin and I got up and pulled on our clothes. A veteran of operating prep, I knew to wear sweats and pull-on shoes, and put just my ID in my pocket. No wallet. I felt a bit calmer than usual, mostly because I knew this procedure wouldn't be painful. I still hated/feared the anesthesia angle, but I chanted to myself over and over that these were kind people, that the medical staff who had hurt and abused me were highly unusual. A pair of Xanax tablets did their bit to calm me down. At the clinic, the nurse let Darwin come into the prep room with me. I always like that. A lot of places don't let anyone but the patient in. Once I got gowned up and into the bed, my cousin Mark popped in. Mark is a regional manager for a medical company and wanders all around southern Michigan. He arranged for his schedule to take him to this clinic during my procedure because he knows I get unhappy about this stuff, and he wanted to lend support. He's a very, very nice cousin, and I was glad to see him.  The anesthetist came in and said she would give me something to relax me. I asked if it was Versed. It was. I politely turned it down. "I don't like what it does to my memory," I said. "I'd rather be nervous." The nurse nodded. They made ready to wheel me down to the operating room. Darwin stayed behind, but Mark came with. His job, you see. His presence was a big help—I knew I had a witness in the room who was close with me. In the OR, the nurse injected me with propofol, and then I was waking up in the recovery room.  When I come out of anesthesia, I repeat the same two questions over and over: "What time is it?" and "Where's Darwin?" This time was no different. I remember seeing the clock on the wall and being unable to read it. My brain couldn't process the information. It was weird. My memories are hazy about this part. I think the doctor came in to talk to me. He said they actually found TWO stones that were close together, so they looked like one. But they pounded both to gravel. No more stones. Here sudden sobs rushed over me. I cried for quite a bit. This was less a tension release and more as another reaction I have to anesthesia: I cry. A fairly common reaction, really. Mark said nothing odd happened during the procedure, which reassured me, and then he had to leave—work, you know. Darwin brought the car around. I barely remember getting into the car. At home, I was zonked all day, a bit unusually. Normally I feel fully awake by the time we get home. This time I slept for hours and was still zoned in the evening. Today, I'm a little sore and taking prescription painkillers. Other than that, I'm fine. I'm deeply relieved. No more kidney stones! I still have to be checked for them, but I think we can dial it back to annually instead of every six months. I can't describe how it feels. Lighter, I think. I'm still wrapping my head around the idea. But I'm so, so glad. 

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Woodlawn Cemetery

 I came across this cemetery by accident a few years ago when I found this empty-looking field surrounded by a ragged edge of trees. A bit of exploration, however, turned up tombstones and sunken graves. I did some research and discovered Woodlawn Cemetery.

Ypsilanti used to be a segregated community. The north side was White, the south side was Black. There were no cemeteries on the south side, and the north side White folk refused to let Black folk bury their dead in "their" section of town.

In 1946, Reverend Garther Washington had enough. He bought a plot of land and created Woodlawn Cemetery for the Black community. The cemetery acquired dozens and dozens of burials. Then disaster struck. Rev. Washington died, and the cemetery was left to his wife Estella and her friend Brooker Rhonenee. They went bankrupt and died in 1965.

Now we had a problem. Who owned the cemetery? Usually in cases of bankrupt land, the county, township, or state takes ownership and resells it. But a cemetery creates a unique problem: no one ever wants to buy a cemetery. Cemeteries don't make money, and moving the remains and the stones so the land could be used for something else would cost more than the land was worth. Also, if a township takes ownership of a cemetery, it's legally required to maintain it. So if Ypsilanti Township declared it owned Woodlawn, the Township would have to pay enormous sums to take care of it until someone else bought it--and no one ever would. Understandably, the Township was reluctant to do so.

As a result, the cemetery landed in legal limbo. Literally no one owned it, no one wanted it, and eventually, no one remembered it.

This happens more often than you might think. A lot of people think cemeteries are owned and run by the city, but few these days are. Most smaller cemeteries are privately owned, often by a church or a kind of co-op group. They earn money by selling graves. But cemeteries have finite space, and when they run out of graves to sell, their income dries up. This is why few groups are willing to operate them--they know their business will eventually, so to speak, die, leaving them with no income and an obligation to maintain the space.

Anyway, someone finally decided to do something about Woodlawn Cemetery. They got grant money from county to clean and restore the graveyard, and it'll be jointly run by the Township and this organization.

This is a splendid thing.

https://www.bridgemi.com/quality-life/abandoned-michigan-cemetery-unearths-history-segregation-even-death

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The Great Syrup Disaster of 2025

We have a hummingbird! Yay! She's very shy and flits to the feeders, sips quick, and vanishes, but she's here. We're hoping she has a nest and we'll have babies soon.

I decided it was time to freshen up the feeder syrup, which is getting old. I put sugar and water in a covered pan to boil it. (If you don't, the sugar will eventually recrystallize.) Then Darwin called me outside, so I turned off the stove to finish the project later.

About an hour after that, Darwin and I were sitting on the back deck when the smoke alarms went off. We ran into the house and found the kitchen filled with choking gray smoke. Both upstairs alarms were shrieking. The source of the smoke was the syrup pan. Apparently I hadn't turned the stove all the way off. Furious with myself, I snatched up the pot and took it outside. The sugar water inside had turned to a burned black goo.

Darwin and I spent considerable time clearing the house of smoke. The stuff was stubborn, hovering up near the ceiling and refusing to move. We had to open all the windows and put box fans in strategic places. The whole house smelled of burnt sugar. 

At bed time, the smell was still there, and it was getting chilly. Darwin wanted to close the windows, but I plumped for keeping them open so the house could air out overnight. It would be in the 50s, a bit cool but not cold. So that's what we did.

In the morning, the burnt sugar smell was completely gone. Whew!

Meanwhile, I was worried about my pan. It looked like the black goo had welded itself to the bottom, and it wouldn't be feasible to scrub it away. Hoping against hope, I filled the pan with soapy water and left it overnight. In the morning, I poured the water out, and a LOT of the black goo had dissolved. I sprayed the pan with hot water, and more goo dissolved. Well, good! With luck and lots more soaking, the pan should be fine. 

And I still have to make hummingbird syrup!




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The Best Chocolate Chip Cooke Recipe In the Whole Damn World

I’ve gotten good at cookies. They’re the perfect treat—small, easily stored, and generally easy to make. The most popular home-made cookie in America is the Toll House cookie, or chocolate chip cookie, invented by Ruth Wakefield in 1938. The official recipe you find on the back of a bag of Nestle chocolate chips is almost identical to Wakefield’s original. The only real difference is that she called for the baking soda to be dissolved in water before adding it.

Over the years, I’ve experimented with the recipe, refined it, and come up with the Best Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe In the Whole Damn World. And here’s the recipe. See if you agree with the name.

THE BEST CHOCOLATE CHIP RECIPE IN THE WHOLE DAMN WORLD

Steven Piziks

Ingredients:

1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter, softened

1 ½ cups packed brown sugar

2 large eggs

1 teaspoon baking soda

½  teaspoon almond extract 

½ teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons real vanilla extract (avoid artificial vanilla flavoring)

2 ¾ cups all-purpose flour

2 cups 60% cacao chocolate chips (favored brand: Godiva)

¾ cups Heath toffee bits (optional)

Kosher salt

 

Instructions:

Beat unsalted butter with brown sugar until mixture turns light (about three minutes). Beat in eggs, vanilla, almond extract, and salt until well blended. 

Sift baking soda and flour together. Add half to mixture and slowly incorporate. Add second half and slowly incorporate. (This is more to avoid making a mess than anything else.) 

Add chocolate chips and optional toffee bits and slowly incorporate. Put dough into airtight container and refrigerate for at least one hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Using a cookie scoop, drop dough onto baking sheet lined with silicon baking mat or baking parchment. Sprinkle each cookie with a small pinch of Kosher salt. Bake for 13-16 minutes, until cookies are just turning brown. Remove from oven and slide baking mat or parchment onto cooling rack. Makes about 3 dozen. 

 

NOTES

The recipe uses all brown sugar and no white sugar. This gives the cookies a richer taste and better texture.

Note the recipe calls for double the usual amount of vanilla. I don’t know why recipes are so stingy with the stuff. Extra vanilla gives more flavor. 

The almond extract gives the cookies a flavor explosion, and it’s the most powerful secret ingredient.

The toffee bits are optional, but really, really recommended.

Refrigeration the dough helps the cookies keep their shape and avoid spreading in the oven.

The hint of Kosher salt brings out amazing flavor. 

 

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Missing

STUFF I WON'T MISS ABOUT TEACHING
--Putting my classroom together at the beginning of the year
--Trying to keep students focused on a grammar lesson
--Those two students who are late every single day and get upset when I mark them tardy
--Calling students up to my desk to talk about how they cheated on something
--Trying to get responses out of first and second hour students who are still half asleep
--Struggling (and usually failing) to remember the name of the student who is talking to me
--Making sub plans while I'm sick as a dog or in the hospital
--Grading essays
--Getting up at 5:30 AM, especially in winter
--Loaning a new pencil to a student and finding it broken on the floor after class
--Having a regimented schedule, especially for lunch
--Negotiating a traffic jam filled with teenaged drivers
--Dealing with homophobia aimed directly at me

STUFF I WILL MISS ABOUT TEACHING
--Reading OF MICE AND MEN aloud
--Teaching "The Lottery" and "The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas"
--Discussing hard truths vs. easy lies with my seniors during A DOLL'S HOUSE
--Showing my freshmen the Monty Hall problem
--Getting to the final plot twist in OEDIPUS THE KING, where we learn that it wasn't Oedipus's father who gave him over to be killed as a baby
--Just about all of THE COLOR PURPLE
--Every single discussion in media literacy class
--Telling stories in mythology class
--Grading the annual mythology Peepshow diorama
--The student who suddenly gets it
--The student who shyly says on the last day, "You were my favorite teacher"
--Helping a student deal with a difficult personal problem 
--Finding out that me being openly gay made a positive difference for a student






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Listening In

A couple days ago, Darwin and I were discussing a particular movie that came out in the 1990s. It's a movie you don't hear anything about these days and has been largely forgotten. In other words, no one talks about it anymore.Today, Darwin reported a link to the movie in his YouTube feed.We only talked about the movie. We didn't write about it on social media or discuss it over email. It was a short conversation of maybe three exchanges.
 Yes, they do listen, folks. They listen to everything all the time. 

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Ashes of Problem Students

 In my first year of teaching, I bought a ceramic jar labeled "Ashes of Problem Students," pictured below, and put it on my desk. On the very first day it was there, one of my freshmen accidentally knocked it onto the floor. It shattered. I looked at the student. He looked at me. Then I reached into my desk, took out a bottle of white glue, and wordlessly handed it to him. He gathered up the shards and spent the class period gluing them back together. When class ended, he gave the jar back to me and left. Neither of us spoke a word.The student did a startlingly meticulous repair job. You can't even see the cracks unless you look closely at the inside, also pictured below. The jar held loaner pens and pencils for thirty years. Now it's retired from school and sits on my desk at home.
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Last Day of Instruction

 Today was my last day of instruction ever. (Next week we give exams, which is assessment, not instruction.) It was weird. I've taught every lesson for the last time now. Every year, the first thing I put on the board is the daily schedule. I leave it up until the last day of instruction, which means the dry erase marker has entrenched itself and won't come off unless I use a chemical solvent designed for white boards. Today I sprayed away the daily schedule for the last time.Ever.

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