MAY 4, 2026 – My work-week routine is to consult briefly my sundry information sources as they stand at the top of the day, then head out on my well-traveled hour-long path to, throughout and back from “Little Switzerland.” I often use hiking time to mull over potential material for the day’s blog post.
Today I pondered the latest essay by Heather Richardson Cox, my wife’s favorite commentator—and for good reason. Given her historical perspective, she often “nails it” when describing the latest danger or outrage coming out of the Trump White House. Today’s piece was classic: calling our attention to 11 microbursts of early “low I.Q.” adolescent-like social media posts by the Naked Emperor—in a span of 43 minutes late last night. This tempest in an iPhone was overshadowed by the latest polls showing historically high disapproval of Trump’s handling of the economy, which is related to his conduct of foreign “non-policy” as manifested in his quagmire “excursion” against Iran.
On my own “excursions” up and down the face and backside of St. Moritz in “Little Switzerland,” I assembled for today’s blog post, polemical thoughts and words about the Caligula of our times. The cathartic effect was therapeutic—or so it seemed. At least I had a topic, though hardly an original one.
Three and a half hours later, Illiana and I arrived home from school in plenty of time to set up for her Monday afternoon live online art class.
“Where’s Grandma?” the chipper fourth-grader asked.
“Book club.”
“What does she do at book club?”
“Discuss the latest book that the book club members have read.”
Less than a minute later we assumed our usual after-school routines: Illiana turned to drawing, while I attended to preparation of her usual treat: fresh strawberries.
But first things first.
“Alexa, play a Chopin nocturne,” I said, as I pulled the container of strawberries from the fridge. Usually I wash them, slice off the tops, cut the berries in half and put the halves in a small bowl until they can peek over the rim. Today’s music, however, inspired me to add a little flair to the exercise. On most days I call for “Mendelssohn” or “Saint-Saëns,” but somehow the Chopin nocturne (very familiar, but I can’t keep them straight) worked a greater effect. Perhaps subconsciously I was searching for an antidote to the disturbing “news and information” I’d consumed a few hours before and was still considering in anticipation of today’s post. Or maybe because I hadn’t listened to Chopin for a while, it was having a special, refreshing influence.
In any case, I can’t say definitively what or how or why, but instead of pulling a bowl from the cupboard, I drew a dessert plate, and rather than cutting the strawberries in the usual fashion, I sliced just three berries but numerous times, being careful, however, to keep the slices intact. I laid the three decoratively cut strawberries on the outer part of the plate, and for a dash of color, I placed between the sliced fruit, two of the little green caps that I’d just removed.
Then came le piece de resistance. One day last week on the ride to our house after school, Illiana had asked me if we had any Biscoff cookies on hand—the kind that Delta flight attendants hand out on the MSP—LaGuardia run. Several months ago, in fact, Beth had loaded up on a bulk package, no doubt from Costco. Illiana and I had more than our fair share of them, and soon that was the end of Biscoff cookies. Yesterday, however, I noticed that Beth had resupplied the basement food shelves with another mega-package—enough, it seemed, for a three-cookie package for every passenger aboard a fully loaded Airbus 321-200. Thus, for Illiana’s snack today, I overlapped three Biscoffs on the center of the plate.
For a few precious moments, time stopped. In contrast to the angst I’d experienced earlier over the disastrous absence of qualified leadership in Washington, I felt contentment, equilibrium, and blessed by supreme peace and beauty, however fleeting it might be. Wafting through the room were the strains of one of my favorite composers; on a dessert plate elegant in its simplicity, were two succulent strawberries at a perfect stage of ripeness—fruit of the earth and miraculous harvest of multiple divisions of labor, capital and organization; at the center of the plate were Illiana’s favorite cookie, a surprise surely to bring delight.
By this time, she’d set up her drawing “nest” on the living room sofa. Surrounded by things soft—the sofa cushions, multiple sofa pillows, and her favorite blanket of late—and drawing up a storm, she struck as much the image of contentment as I had felt preparing her snack back in the kitchen. With snack plate in hand, I was accompanied by Chopin, whose music Alexa kindly projected (on command) around several corners to reach Illiana’s drawing station. Beethoven, meanwhile, eyed the scene from his vantage point inside the large frame that hangs next to the piano next to the sofa.
“Illiana, I thought that being the artist you are, you might appreciate my attempt—however meager—to give the presentation of your snack an artistic touch. What do you think?” I said, as I handed her the plate.
“Oh!” she said. “Thank you!” The sweetness in her voice was as touching as the substance of her words. I savored the moment so filled with simple delight. For an instant, I thought Beethoven smiled. As I then turned to my writing, I realized the topic had changed . . . from a venting session to what you’ve now read.
A few minutes later, Illiana interrupted her cheerful humming, now that Alexa had dropped Chopin and I’d dropped Alexa. “Grandpa,” said the young artist, “if you were alive at the time of the Revolution, would you have been a patriot, a loyalist or something in between?”
Lately, we’ve been hearing lots about the Revolution from Illiana. Apparently, that epoch is receiving substantial coverage in her fourth grade class. I was floored by the question; envious, actually: when I was her age—and even for many years beyond—such a question would not have occurred to either the learned or the learner.
“Hmmm,” I said with absolute conviction. “Interesting question. Since you offered me a choice, and given my study of history, I think I’d have to say, ‘in between.’ What about you? What would you have been?”
“Probably in between too. But maybe not; maybe I would’ve been a patriot, because if you were a loyalist, you’d be for King George, and I’m not sure it’s good to have a king.”
There was lot I could’ve said but didn’t. The point to celebrate was that Illiana and her classmates had been challenged to think for themselves, not simply accept the party line. And they’re only 10; Trump is almost 80. They, not he, will inherit the world—and rescue it from itself.
“Want more strawberries?” I said.
“Sure.”
Subscribe to this blog and received notifications of new posts by email.
© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
