Making Tapioca by Lee C. Block

©2022 Lee C. Block 

“It’s the end of the fucking world, and you’re making tapioca?”

“What else should I be doing?” I said, as I stirred in the almond milk and maple syrup. “I’m making it the way you like it – non-dairy and no white sugar.”

She ignored me, “New York, Boston, Seattle, DC, San Francisco will be obliterated in like 10 minutes, and you decide it’s a good time to make dessert? You know that has a high glycemic index and is bad for me given my condition-”

I snorted, “does it really matter? We have a few days before the fucking cloud gets here. I have the geiger counter, we’ll know when it’s time. So in the meantime, tapioca.”

“I can’t believe you bought that dumb thing-”

“Hey, it was only $85 on Amazon – a deal,” I said. “And I thought if the world wasn’t going to end, we could always use it to check the radiation levels down by the old defunct nuke plant,” I chuckled, “and at the very least, we got to check the radon levels coming off the granite counter top.”

(Yes, I really do own a hand held Geiger Counter. I decided to buy it when the maniac started posturing apocalyptically.)

“Still, totally stupid. Why does it even matter?”

“Well, I just thought I’d want to know when it would be time...I don’t want to die of radiation sickness...given that they haven’t handed out suicide pills like what Ava Gardener took in “On The Beach,” I figured we’d do the Fred Astaire in the garage thing for us and the dogs. Maybe the cats will survive on their own. I don’t know...” I used my spoon to scrape the sides of the sauce pot.

I changed the subject as I stirred slowly the warming tapioca, “You know, the entire 21st Cen- tury has been completely fucked. Dot com bust, and baby Bush - the twat - and the Supreme Court stealing the election. Then dickwad Osama Bin Laden and 9/11. And then those mother fucking war criminals – Bush, Cheney and that gaggle of neocon fucks and 20 years of use- less war in Afghanistan and Iraq, and that sadist bastard --John Yu and torture – ”

“Stop. you’re repeating yourself...again. Tell me something new...” she then said abruptly, “have you seen my glasses? I can’t remember where I put them – again.”

I laughed at this question that I heard countless times a day, “they’re on the side table next to your seat,” I said almost automatically as I spent part of everyday inventorying where she left the various objects for which she’s always searching.

I stirred the tapioca as it started to bubble. I turned down the heat to a simmer.

I continued my rant, “-then the fucking subprime loan meltdown and the Great Recession. Obama? Hope and Change? Nah. We just got nope and same.” I stirred some more.

“Ugh,” she said as she turned her back and went to retrieve her glasses.

“And then Trump and that abysmal kakistocratic kleptocracy and crooks and grifters and 1/6, and the totally fucked up pandemic, fucking anti-vax and anti-mask pestilence and morons – I so miss us seeing the grandkids the way we used to -” I babbled on, “and now this. This...” I trailed off and shook absent-mindedly my head.

While the tapioca continued simmering, I separated the egg yolks from the whites with my new egg strainer I purchased recently, and got out my egg beater to stiffen the egg whites to a froth, “...and now? And now, I feel like Charlton Heston’s Taylor character at the end of “Planet of the Apes.”

“Damn you! God damned you all to hell!” I emoted as I mechanically shook my fist. And then quietly I said under my breath, “madmen all these fucking madmen...”

We both went silent as our dogs started to bark as a car went by the house. To where? couldn’t say. Not really anyplace to go anymore, I thought. “It’s just a god-damned car!!” I yelled as they continued barking and ignored me. “Stop!!” But I gave up and just let them bark it out.

“So what else are you making?” She said.

“Nothing special – just usual comfort food,” I said as my cell phone beeped an emergency alert for the second time – the first was about fifteen minutes before I started the tapioca.

“Yeah, just the old standby – brown rice, steamed greens topped with the usual smoked tofu and sunflower seeds and soy sauce and rice vinegar and sesame oil. Why bother making anything else?” I said abruptly, “We’re almost 300 miles from the nearest Ground Zero...”

I paused for a second or so. “We still have probably a few days,” as I then removed the tapi- oca from the stove top and turned off the burner.

“I guess it’s time you’re going to bring up that 40 year old bottle of port from the wine fridge you have been saving?” She asked.

“Yeah, finally hit one of the three conditions to open it – I turn 75, terminal illness or end of the world,” I said wryly. “I guess we know which one.”

“After I’m done here, I’ll try to reach Mitch and Maureen, and Frank and Bill, and Gina and Kent and tell them to invite their friends to come over and help us drink up the damn wine and booze. Shit, between the 150 wine bottles in the basement and the full liquor cabinet, I hope we can empty everything before...” I trailed off as I beat the egg yolks and then added some of the hot tapioca goo to the mix and stirred vigorously so the mess wouldn’t curdle. I then added this mixture back to the tapioca and stirred again.

We were silent for a moment as I beat the egg whites with the hand-held mechanical egg beater. I had always wanted a fancy Kitchen-Aid mixer, but had no room anywhere to store the behemoth when not in use. And I thought it was better energy wise to just use a hand held than an electric one. Also more challenging to get the whites to stiffen into little peaks. And I always liked a good challenge.

I thought, “but it doesn’t matter anymore, I guess. Does it?”
“Want me to drizzle brandy, bourbon or Kahlúa on the tapioca, dear?” I asked.

“Sure. Why not? I’ll just drink alcohol and smoke weed, and fuck the Dasatanib. So might as well splurge for the next few days, eh?” She smiled, “And will you stop calling me, ‘dear’?”

“Sure.” I ignored her edict, “dear – which booze?” “Oh, make it bourbon.”

“Ok,” I said as I removed the custard cups and lids from the cabinet. I then went to the liquor cabinet and took a few seconds to decide which of the four bourbons we had would be best. I chose the most expensive small batch 90 proof from Louisville we received as a gift last year.

I wondered, no, was amazed that we still had lights and the fridge working, and gas for the stove. The power comes from the conventional power plant down by the bay, which must be using the same protocols that lets the gas and electric company decouple the plant from the main electrical grid during wild fire season. Oh well. I imagine once they lose their gas source, we’ll lose both gas and power at the same time.

My cell buzzed insistently again. I wondered now if each alert I was getting was the death knell of another city. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to know which of my friends or family were be- ing systematically incinerated.

The tapioca was now cool enough to add in the egg whites. I folded them into the tapioca and stirred methodically until the mixture was complete. I set it aside until it was firm enough to add to the custard cups.

I then got down the rice cooker and prepared to cook the brown rice. I hoped the power would stay on long enough for the rice to cook. But if it didn’t, and we lost gas for the stove, I still had propane for the grill – between the tank in the grill and my back up, plus the one I had for the propane heater lamp, plus the two tanks on the camper, I figured we had enough to last...until?

A few weeks before the End of the World, I had stocked up at Costco on the two essentials every hoarder and survivalist covets – bottled water and toilet paper. We had enough to last so when the faucet water stops working, we’d still be ok for a few weeks. But most likely we won’t have to wait that long. It all depends on when the winds change from westerly to either of the three other directions.

I filled the cooker with the rice and the water and set it for brown rice. My rice cooker was one of those fancy Japanese digital ones. Nothing like a good quality rice cooker to make perfect rice every time.

I checked the fridge for the veggies. I had Russian kale (irony? Anyone?), some bok choy and even some chard. So I said to myself, “what the hell, no use saving any of it. Might as well steam it all up.”

I hadn’t stocked up on gasoline for the Honda generator that I use to power the fridge when the power goes out. But who knew this shit was really going to happen? Damn gasoline now with all the ethanol in it goes bad so fast. Can’t store it anyway.

I guess, when we lose the fridge, we’ll just have to cook up all the frozen stuff from the freezer before it rots and serve it at our drunken soirée.

I washed and chopped up the greens, and then added them to one of my stainless steel mix- ing bowls and used my hands to mix them together. I got out my old dented and enamel flak- ing a little, but trusty, Granite Ware steamer pot. I added the veggies into the steamer section, put in a little water to the bottom of pot, put on the lid and then set it aside until the rice was done, which would be in about an hour.

The tapioca was now cool and formed enough to add to the custard cups. I filled each one un- til I had eight evenly measured cups, and then drizzled the bourbon on top of each one. And before I lidded them, I decided to add some freshly grated 72% dark chocolate flakes. I then put the cups in the fridge.

She said, “leave one out-”
I interjected, “they need to cool and set up a bit-”

“It doesn’t matter. Just give me one. I want it now.” “Sure,” I said as I handed her one.

“Thanks,” she said as she retrieved a spoon from the silverware drawer.

I looked into her eyes as I passed the tapioca custard to her and suddenly blurted what popped into my head. “You know, I really do love you. 20 years of ups and downs and here we are, still together. Still together.”

She swallowed a spoonful of the still warm tapioca, “it’s a really a good batch,” she mumbled

with her mouth still full of dessert. And then laughed a little sarcastically, but with her genuine quirky smile, “I love you too,” she said and winked wryly. “And thanks for the tapioca.” I felt a little abashed by our honesty as she kissed my cheek. I smelled dessert with the kiss.

Then the phone buzzed angrily once again. And the power went out.

Covid #19 Take 4, March - December 2020 (or how I've spent my last nine months during a pandemic) 

© music/art copyright Lee Block 2020.

Photos/cartoons courtesy via fair use of digital imagery

Music created and performed on a Yamaha Clavinova 405

Jasmine

Jasmine

A picture book story

by Lee C. Block

©2007 Lee C. Block

Jasmine is my dog.

Mom and Dad say Jasmine is old, and she is dying. 

I know something’s not right because Jasmine doesn’t come to the door any more when I come home from pre-school, but stays in her cubby.

And she sleeps a lot now.

And when we go for a walk we don’t go very far before she turns around to tell me it’s time to head home.

And when we sit together, her legs and head shake a lot.

And she doesn’t like going down the stairs anymore.

And she pees sometimes on the green rug in the kitchen even after she’s been outside.

And she no longer eats my socks and underwear if I forget to put them in the hamper.

And she barely barks when the mail carrier delivers the mail.

My Mom says that when Jasmine dies, she won’t be with us anymore. 


 Mom says that some people think dogs go to “Heaven.”

She and Dad, though, believe when it’s her time it’ll be like Jasmine will just go away and not come back.

But Mom says that Jasmine will always be inside our feelings.

Mom points to the picture on my dresser of Jasmine wearing her purple raincoat that we put on her when the weather is bad.

“That’s how you’ll remember her,” my Mom says as she rubs my head, “and we'll laugh at how much she complained when you put it on her.”

“And we’ll remember her as when we dressed her up in her red sweater and Dad’s beanie hat,” she said pointing to the photograph hanging on the wall.

I like that picture because it makes her look silly.

Dying does seem to mean that everyone is a little unhappy. 


I know that because my older sister starts getting sniffles and teary when Dad says that when it’s time, he and Mom will take Jasmine to see the vet. 


And Mom and Dad haven’t been laughing a lot lately.

“When it’s Jasmine’s time,” Dad says softly, “she’ll just go quietly to sleep.”

But I’m not sure what that means. 


When I go to sleep, I wake up again, just like Jasmine wakes up. 


But Dad says that when she’s ready, Jasmine won’t be waking up after that.

“It’ll be okay,” Dad says too, and he gives me a hug a little harder than he does usually.

And I heard Mom and Dad whispering today after dinner about whether they should get another dog when Jasmine dies.

I’m not sure how I feel about having another dog instead of Jasmine. 


 I just always want to have Jasmine like I know her.

Mom and Dad got Jasmine from the rescue shelter when my sister was still a little baby.

And Mom says that Jasmine has had a long and fun dog’s life with us.

I guess that’s good. 


 But I just don’t know what it’s going to be like after Jasmine dies.

Her cubby will be empty. 


And she won’t be begging for treats anymore.

I ask Mom if Jasmine will remember me when she dies.

She says, “yes,” as she tucks me in after reading me my bedtime story.

“Jasmine will remember you,” Mom says as she kisses my cheek.

“You are her favorite person because you give her a treats after her walk.”

And Mom says treats are her favorite things.

I ask Mom who will give Jasmine her treat after she dies.

She says, “Jasmine won’t need any more treats when she dies. 


And she won’t need any other food either.”

But before I can ask her about anything else, Mom puts her finger across her lips and says, “shhh. 


It’s time to go to sleep.”

Mom kisses my cheek and says, “we’ll talk more about Jasmine tomorrow.”

And my bedroom light goes out.

And I try to think what it’ll be like when Jasmine is gone. 


But then I begin to feel like I do when my sister squeezes me too hard, and I don’t like the way that feels.

So I think about the picture of Jasmine in her sweater and Dad’s hat, and I smile. 


I like that picture a lot.

Dedicated to

Jasmine Howell

1994 - 2007

From my 6/8/20 Facebook page:

I am back after a 30 day jail sentence for calling racist murdering white supremacists as “cr*ckers*” (*added so I’m not banned again for this post) because irony of ironies, Zuckerberg who allows Trump’s hyper incitement for racial and physical violence says that calling racist murdering white supremacists as “cr*ckers is considered “hate speech.” 

O well – here I am. And to think I had 30 days to mull the transformative changes going on in the world.

First as my sketch implies, we are indeed are a banana republic with nukes.

Second, we are witnessing in real time The Great Unraveling of the American exceptionalism myth, which really began with the Reagan Administration; and has come to an apex with Donald Trump.

We are witnessing a neo-liberal vulture capitalist driven engorged pandemic, 110,000+ dead and counting from the pandemic in the US, over 40 million unemployed with an unhinged madman authoritarian as president sitting on his ersatz Iron Throne.

This pandemic could’ve been mitigated so that many thousands would be still alive if only Trump left in place a science driven and capable task force that he had disbanded; and as a nation, we had responded immediately to the imminent threat.

Third, we are seeing a tidal wave of pent up anger and reaction to oppression, which in this country began in 1492, with European exploitation, subjugation and extermination of the native populations, and in 1619, with the arrival of the first slave ship of Africans to the Americas.

Fourth, America is finally waking up to the fact that our “civilian” police forces are not here to “serve” and to “protect” us, but to protect the property and assets of the privileged white population and, most especially, the oligarchs.

Fifth, this mass uprising is happening in the midst of a serendipitous confluence of a number of factors: a pandemic that has ground the economy to a halt, millions of anxious folks who had been sheltering in place for weeks with a need to put that stored energy somewhere, people out of work, kids out of school, no sporting events, concerts, parades, celebrations, ad nauseam.

And lastly, we have 2020 digital technology layered over all this tumult and cacophony as in real time social media, camera phones, and a 24/7 cable news entertainment system hungry for reality TV staged drama and entertainment. 

And of course the star of the show, a made for reality TV narcissistic malevolent malicious orange tinged psychopathic miscreant who lives for endless drama.

In this stew all it took was a catalyst – recorded by a brave 17 year old witnessing girl, the brutal murder of George Floyd at the hands of a sadistic indifferent cop who did not give a shit if Floyd died under his knee as he was proving his point to the surrounding community that he, the White Guy in the Blue Uniform, was the one with the POWER; the one in charge.

This is no more. 

So like the rest of the world, I’ve been watching in amazement this unraveling – the surge of anger that led to massive mostly non-violent civil disobedience protest. 

Yes, in the initial week or so, the virulent stew of massive genuine anger also included property destruction and theft perpetrated by a much smaller cadre of intentionally malevolent individuals and personally venal opportunists.

And rather than react to the genuine anger with mediation and empathy, the ruling class reacted as it always does – with militarized force and suppression, which inflamed the crowds further.

But this time it didn’t work as they planned. The more cops and national guard that entered the streets, the larger became the crowds. 

As an aside, funny how the ruling class is upset about people stealing shoes and sunglasses but not at all that much about Mnuchin, Trump, McConnell, et al., and their own looting the US Treasury and “legally” stealing from the 99% of the American people. 

Yeah, for the corporate reality TV infotainment media, overt white collar theft doesn’t make good TV viewing, but kids and opportunists stealing shit and burning buildings do.

What’s been most amazing about the anarchy that ensued in the initial days of the uprising is that the property damage and “material liberation” (my euphemism for the ruling class’ term for “looting”) happened significantly in pandemic shutdown whitey land and not in the black communities – in midtown Manhattan, in Beverly Hills, Hollywood and Santa Monica, in the upscale parts of Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington DC, etc.

I guess you could say that the war waged by neoliberal and materialistic capitalism came home to its affluent roots.

So Trump fumed and then raged. 

And on Monday, June 1st  threatened state governors and the nation that he was going to invoke his powers under the Insurrection Act of 1807; and he filled the streets in the nation’s capital with federal police and mostly men in military garb – many unmarked or identified.

And then finally, Trump’s “pièce de résistance” –  just before curfew on June 1st he misplayed dramatically his and the ruling class’ hand. 

In front of national and international TV, he and William Barr ordered cops and military to violently clear Lafayette Park outside the White House of peaceful demonstrators and national and international reporters so he could walk across the park for a photo-op in front a damaged church that he might’ve gone in once in his life. 

And surrounded by the Defense Secretary and the camo-garbed head of the Joint Chiefs of the military, he held up an upside down bible for his Christian evangelical death cult kool-aid drinking fan clubs unaware that the version of the bible he was holding was loathe to his followers given that the particular revision in it of Isaiah 7:14 predicts “that the messiah will be born to a "young woman," not to a "virgin," a characterization that some critics say casts doubt on the miraculous nature of Jesus' birth.” (Note 1: see below)

Since then: 

The crowds not just here in the US, but around the world where such demonstrations can happen, have only grown to demand change to how the world manages itself – to demand the end to police violence and racial injustice.

Since then:

The US airways have been filled with condemnation from some of the established ruling class that has realized that their front man has made them look bad, and who actually is a threat to their comfortable status quo. So they are turning on Trump now that they have their tax cuts, their right wing horrors that have flooded the judicial system.; and their deregulation of everything that has been regulated since the time of Teddy Roosevelt.

Since then:

The airways are filled with “analysts” pondering what will the nation do if the orange tinged madman enabled by the sycophants and carpetbaggers fucks the election and if he loses refuses to leave the throne.

Since then:

The crowds, who as I said above have no other distractions as sporting events, concerts, parades, celebrations, ad nauseam, keep growing. The marches and demonstrations continue to grow larger.

And still the pandemic continues unabated – in the next month we will most likely see a huge spike in infections because of so many who didn’t, couldn’t or wouldn’t socially distance or wear masks. And that’s not just from the righteous antiracist demonstrations, but the contrived heavily armed rightwing anti-shelter in place spectacles.

And still, the unemployed and the food and economic insecure will only become more desperate.

But don’t worry, Trump, McConnell and the Ruling Class are loathe to do anything else to help the desperate. They will continue hell bent on bringing local and state government to its knees in order to expand their unmitigated destruction of the “administrative state,”  which they’ve been accomplishing pell mell at the national level. 

Yes, they will do whatever they can to destroy what’s left of the public unions, public worker pensions, public education and public health. 

This is their ultimate stratagem for subjugating the masses – they figure desperate people will cling to any crumb they begrudgingly dole out to survive.

But the ruling class has clearly forgotten that desperate people actually resort to desperate actions when they have nothing to lose – like storming The Bastille.

So in reflection, are the Western Nations on the verge of an “Arab Spring?” That one viewed death piled on the endless numbers of unseen deaths tips the scale for change? And will our version of an Arab Spring turn out as nihilistically and dystopic as what happened in the Mid-East and Africa – Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Syria, UAE, ad nauseam?

Will we see real change to the ruling class policies for dealing with the masses? Or will we see even more suppression and repression?

Richard Cloward and Frances Fox Piven posited in their 1971 seminal work, “Regulating the Poor,” that in times of upheaval, the establishment class initiates social welfare and other reforms in order to quell social unrest. And then in times of social acquiescence, they whittle away the reforms. 

So from the 1930’s through the early 1970’s we saw the liberalization of social welfare and the regulation and control of unfettered capitalism. 

But since 1980 and the rise of Reagan and neoliberal economics, we have seen The Great Unraveling, which has culminated in Trump, this disastrous reaction to the coronavirus and the massive popular uprising in the wake of the brutal and unnecessary death of George Floyd, who I am sure would rather have just continued living his life in normal anonymity then to be a martyred symbol for all those oppressed and who have died needlessly at the hands of the indifferent lackeys of the capitalist aristocracy. But like Emmett Till, we hope his death was not in vain. Only time will tell.

But let’s not forget all the other destructive and malevolent actions Trump and the ruling class have been waging elsewhere:

1. The overflowing concentration camps on the border, the forced separation of children from their families, the mass deportation of legal immigrants and asylum seekers; and the mass incarceration of people of color and the poor. 

2. The onslaught of destruction to the environment and environmental regulation.

3. The unmitigated threat to Women’s Rights, LGBTQ rights, Etc.

4.  And as mentioned above, the destruction of public education and what’s left to the social safety net.

And of course there is still this novel Covid-19 virus and continual death. 

If I were younger and not at moderate to high risk of Covid-19, I’d be in the streets too.

Even here in Humboldt County, CA the young and angry are out en masse in towns as Eureka, Fortuna and Arcata. But I can only watch from afar and cheer them on – and donate what I can to the food banks, the senior center, the homeless shelter and to progressive action groups as the ACLU and SPLC and others.

Yes, only time will tell.

Meanwhile, Fuck-12 or in the vernacular FTP.

Note 1: http://www.nbcnews.com/id/42215497/ns/us_news-life/t/bible-edits-leave-some-feeling-cross/