Food

You Gotta Have Fun: A Cannoli Story

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

My wife Sandy and I go out to dinner most Friday and Saturday nights. We’ve been doing this for years, and know that we’re fortunate as hell to be able to indulge ourselves in this way. The majority of those meals take place in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, which isn’t surprising, since we reside in those burbs. And once or twice each month we head into Philadelphia, a city with many fine aspects, including a pulsating restaurant scene that, like the universe, keeps expanding. Each of our Philly visits includes dining in a restaurant or pub. The abundance of good eateries is one of the reasons why I’m a major fan of The City Of Brotherly Love.

Sandy and I consider dining out to be a form of entertainment. It’s fun. Two Fridays ago (November 7th), in the burbs, we chowed down at a restaurant we’ve been to a lot: Anthony’s Coal-Fired Pizza. The Italian salad we ordered was A-OK, and the pizza that followed it earned, on my scale, a 6.8 out of 10. That’s pretty high praise from me, because I’m a pizza snob.

The salad and pizza filled us up quite nicely. There was no room for dessert, certainly not for cannoli, a not-on-the-light-side Italian pastry, which Sandy, almost in passing, mentioned was on the dessert menu. Cannoli — crispy, tubular shells of dough stuffed with one variation or another of a ricotta cheese filling — can be scrumptious. When the word cannoli left Sandy’s mouth, my mind lit up, and I found myself reliving a sublime gastronomic experience. Namely, the cannoli I’d swooned over a year or so previously, for they were perfection, at Little Nonna’s, an Italian restaurant in downtown Philly that’s hard to get into unless you’ve reserved a table at least several days in advance. I hadn’t eaten any cannoli since then. But the signs were clear. It was imperative that I interact with Little Nonna’s cannoli again. And soon. Damn soon. The next night, in fact, would be ideal.

Thus, as we were preparing to pay the bill, I said to Sandy that, when we got home, I was going to see if Little Nonna’s, by some miracle, had a table available for the following evening. The odds were low, but miracles, I hear, have been known to occur. The cannoli gods were with me. Back at the house, I couldn’t believe my eyes when Litte Nonna’s online reservation service offered a table for 7:00 PM on Saturday. I nabbed it. Cannoli, here I come!

Little Nonna’s
Little Nonna’s

We arrived at Little Nonna’s from a Philadelphia movie theater, where we’d seen Blue Moon, a literate and really good drama about Lorenz Hart, the brilliant but troubled lyricist whose songwriting partner was the composer Richard Rodgers. Little Nonna’s is a cool place. Dimly lit, casual and full of life. Sandy and I enjoyed the heck out of the salad we shared. Ditto for our entrees. The chefs there know what they’re doing.

Cannoli at Little Nonna’s

One hour into the meal, the long-anticipated moment was at hand, as a plate holding two cannoli was placed before us. They were a vision and also deelish. The hazelnut bits, chocolate sauce and powdered sugar saw to that. But were the cannoli fully as good as those on the previous occasion? You better believe it! My idea to revisit Little Nonna’s was one of the best I’d had in a long while.

As we all know all too well, our lives zoom by. That’s why it’s important to have fun on at least a fairly regular basis. Anything less than that means we’re not in the best of shape. If I hadn’t followed through on my goofy cannoli-related impulse, I’d have missed out on a fun-filled mini adventure. Which would have been a shame. For most of my adult life, I’ve been a frequent fun-pursuer and a usually successful fun-attainer. I have no plans to change.

I’m In Love: A Philadelphia Story

Yeah, Another Blogger173 Comments

In 1974, while floundering in life, I moved from a town in New York State to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania for employment reasons. I knew almost nothing about the city when I started my new job as a caseworker with the Pennsylvania Department Of Public Welfare. Well, I lucked out. The job became the first section of a PDPW career that lasted well over 30 years. And, right from the start, I felt at ease and at home in The City Of Brotherly Love.

I was wowed by Philly’s music scene and museums, its art galleries, bookstores and record stores, its beautiful parks and plethora of houses and other structures erected in the 1700s and 1800s. I had landed in a place loaded with history and culture and, as it turned out, poised to embrace the future. For, Philadelphia has gotten better during the subsequent years. A world-class restaurant scene has developed, for instance, something almost nobody would have predicted back then. And the looks of downtown Philadelphia improved, taking on a modernistic slant when a crop of skyscrapers, as sleek as can be, began to rise in the 1980s.

To this day, Philadelphia’s assets have resonated with me quite perfectly. Which is why I’ve never tired of Philadelphia. There’s zero chance my love for this city will end before I bid farewell to Planet Earth.

In 2005, for reasons too banal to go into, my wife Sandy and I moved from Philadelphia to a nearby suburb, where we still reside. However, the relocation didn’t mean that my need to absorb Philadelphia’s vibes had lessened. On the contrary. For the next four years I continued to get my Philadelphia fix regularly, because I worked in an interesting section of the city and also because I frequently indulged, during non-work hours, in good stuff the city had to offer. And, since retiring from PDPW in 2009, I’ve journeyed to and immersed myself in Philly two to five times each month, often with Sandy. I just can’t stay away.

During the last decade or more, one of the activities I’ve most enjoyed is taking long walks, with no agenda in mind, through different Philadelphia neighborhoods. Nearly every block contains one thing or another that grabs my attention, and the rhythms of my legs in motion make me feel free. My latest expedition took place on the final Tuesday of July. That’s when I drove sleep-deprived Sandy, who was too groggy to be behind the wheel safely, to her hair salon appointment in Philadelphia’s Queen Village section. After I parked the car, Sandy entered the shop where magic occurs, and I ventured off to see what was up in Queen Village.

Over the next hour and a quarter I walked along many of Queen Village’s blocks, some of which I’d never been on before. This neighborhood, which is a bit south of Philly’s far-better known Old City section (Old City contains Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell and other famed American landmarks), has a fair number of green spaces and a few funky commercial corridors. On those corridors, one finds taverns, fabric stores, a Jewish-style deli and other eateries, a bookstore, tattoo joints, craft shops, and on and on.

Most of the blocks, though, are primarily residential. They are calm, partially shaded by trees, and just plain lovely. The majority of houses, I’d guess, date from the 1800s. There are plenty from the 1900s and aughts too, and some that remain from the 1700s during Philadelphia’s early years of development. If Sandy and I ever seriously contemplate moving back to Philadelphia, Queen Village might be a neighborhood for us to consider landing in.

Before heading back to the hair salon to retrieve Sandy, I popped into Three Graces Coffee, in the heart of Queen Village, to rehydrate and have a bite to eat, as the outside temperature (85°F/29°C) had begun to drain my aged bod of energy and had put me on the verge of sweating like a frigging pig. Three Graces saved the day. A glass of iced peppermint tea went down swimmingly. And a blueberry muffin, as good as any I’ve ever eaten, put a smile on my inner face. I was content, and already looking forward to my next round of exploration, whenever that might occur, in the city I know best.

A Peachy Story

Yeah, Another Blogger173 Comments

For most of my life I’ve enjoyed summer. I’ve spent many hours outdoors in the hot season, frolicking under the Sun or soaking up its potent rays while lying on a blanket or chaise lounge.

Alas, somewhere along the line, perhaps about 10 years ago, my good feelings about summer took a sharp turn southward. Since then, I’ve mostly stayed indoors in summer when the Sun is high in the sky, my body no longer happy to be exposed to temperatures above 85°F (29°C) and to an unrelentingly bright ball of fire. Now deep into my senior-citizenhood, I melt like ice cream under those conditions. Which doesn’t fit the definition of having fun in the summertime.

A week and a half or so ago, though, a northward shift occurred. I have no idea how long this positive outlook on summer will remain in place. In any event, it’s fascinating to me that the change occurred at all.

My favorite fruit, peaches, prompted my new attitude. There I was in early June at a local supermarket, buying this and that, when I remembered that peaches had come into season in parts of the USA and would be for sale in the store. Moments later I picked out a couple of peaches. They’d been shipped from the state of Georgia, one of the peach hubs of America, to Pennsylvania, where I reside and was grocery shopping.

One of those peaches took two days to ripen, the other took three. The waits were worth it. The peaches blew my mind when they entered my mouth, so luscious were they. Their sweetness was exemplary, their texture a dream. In love with the fruit, I realized that peaches galore would be available for the next two or three months. In other words, throughout the summer. And, at that moment, I found myself regarding summer, which officially began in my hemisphere on the 20th of June, in a good light. “You know,” I said to myself, “summer offers more than the opportunities to sweat like a f*cking pig and to come close to passing out from the heat. Neil, you’ve forgotten that summer has its upsides too.”

Yes, I’m in a much better frame of mind about summer than I’ve been in a long time, despite the crazy heat that has Pennsylvania and much of the rest of the world in its grip. And I have more than peaches to thank for that, because what I’m expecting to be enjoyable getaways are on the horizon. Sandy and I will be at a family reunion this summer for a few days. The locale? A village beside a beautiful lake in rural upstate New York. And we’ll also spend time with friends at their beach house in Delaware.

Now, I’m going to stay in the shade, or indoors, a good bit at those gatherings. I’m not about to forget what high heat and glaring Sun can do to me. However, I fully intend to have fun while there. And if that happens, I figure there’s a chance I’ll also approach the remainder of summer 2024, and subsequent summers, lightheartedly, like I used to do.

I can think of no better way to end this essay than to include a song from Eat A Peach, the album released in 1972 by one of the greatest rock groups of all time, The Allman Brothers Band. Fittingly, they were based in Georgia. And, I’d guess, they consumed more than their fair share of peaches. I’ll leave you with Stand Back, one of the Allman songs you don’t hear all too often. Power-packed and gritty, it almost makes me want to go outside and dance madly while engulfed by high temps and intense sunlight. I said almost.

A TV Series, A Confectionery, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger136 Comments

“Neil, how come you usually write about things you enjoy, rather than about those that, in your opinion, bite the big one?” I asked myself the other day.

“Well,” I answered, “I’ve ripped into people I loathe. Trump and Putin, primarily. And I’ve discussed situations that worry me or piss me off. But there’s no denying that my natural orientation is to comment about aspects of life that ring my bell.”

“I understand,” I replied. “There’s no reason right now for you to mess with your natural orientation. So, let’s take a look at some of your recent bell-ringers. And, maybe, your readers then will tell you what they’ve been into of late. Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong!”

Okay! First up is a miniseries my wife and I watched two months ago: Escape At Dannemora, seven episodes in length and available on Paramount+ and elsewhere. It had been on our to-be-viewed list for a couple of years. Fortunately, we finally got around to it. It bowled us over. I place Escape in the pantheon of miniseries I’ve encountered, along with The Queen’s Gambit, Anxious People, The Investigation, Godless and a handful of others.

Escape At Dannemora came out in 2018, three years after the true events from which it draws its inspiration. Set in the town of Dannemora, in rural upstate New York, the show aims its beam at David Sweat and Richard Matt, convicted murderers imprisoned in Dannemora’s Clinton Correctional Facility, and at the married prison employee (Joyce Mitchell) who became emotionally and sexually involved with them. Ultimately, Mitchell helped them escape from jail.

Escape At Dannemora is not a docuseries. Anything but. All, or nearly all of its dialogue is imagined. After all, it’s not as though conversations between Sweat, Matt, Mitchell and the story’s other principals were recorded. And what dialogue! Completely realistic. No artificial ingredients. I’d never heard of the scriptwriters (Brett Johnson, Michael Tolkin, Jerry Stahl), to whom I now publicly tip my hat. As I do to Paul Dano (Sweat), Benicio del Toro (Matt) and Patricia Arquette (Mitchell), the actors who employed the scripted words to create characters as nuanced as French pastries. Ben Stiller directed the production with economy and precision. As couldn’t be more obvious, I highly recommend this show.

My dad loved halva, a moist, semi-sweet treat that, as I learned from doing a bit of research for this piece, originated well over a thousand years ago in Persia (present-day Iran). Unlike him, I wasn’t infatuated with the product, but ate it now and then while growing up. Halva disappeared from my diet, though, when I was in my 20s, maybe earlier, for reasons I’m not sure about. Possibly my obsessions with pizza and Cheez-It crackers left no room for halva, a product that isn’t easily found in stores in my country (the USA), and which the majority of the world’s population likely never heard of.

And probably I’d never have had halva again were it not for my pals Cindy and Gene, who bestowed sesame-based halva, the variety I am familiar with, upon me and my wife Sandy twice in the last several months (there are other types of halva in addition to sesame-based, as the Wikipedia article, the link to which is in the above paragraph, explains).

“This a weird gift,” I thought to myself when I saw what Cindy and Gene had presented to us on the first occasion. Man, how wrong I was!  Halva was the perfect gift. That wouldn’t have been the case with the too-dense halva made by the Joyva company, the brand I knew in my youth. But the halva they’d chosen, from the Seed + Mill firm, is incredible. Its sesame paste is perfectly balanced with chocolate and salt. And the texture, light and slightly granular, is wonderful. Hallelujah, I’ve been blessed!

And finally: Some songs have the power to bring you up short and make you say, “Holy shit, this is fantastic!” I Want To Know, by the quite obscure rhythm-and-blues group the Gay Poppers, did such to me two weeks ago when the tune burst forth from SiriusXM Radio’s Carolina Shag channel.

I Want To Know came out in 1960, and the Gay Poppers were from North Carolina, USA. Not much else about the song or about the group can I find online. Except that the recording at some point became popular in parts of the dance-club world. It makes me want to dance, because its beat won’t quit, and because the Gay Poppers’ vocal prowess damn well is off the charts. Without further ado . . .

A Nice Day

Yeah, Another Blogger158 Comments

Twelve days ago, after paying our bill at Barbuzzo, a restaurant in downtown Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA, my wife and I exited the establishment and then walked a few blocks to Jefferson Station. There, we caught a train that returned us to our suburban town. Halfway between Barbuzzo and the station I said to Sandy, “This was a nice day.” I wasn’t the least bit surprised when she said she had been thinking the same thing.

Yup, our worries and woes were in hiding during the five and a half hours we spent in Philadelphia that Thursday, first at The Philadelphia Flower Show and then at Barbuzzo. I don’t know, maybe I’d been sprinkled with a heavy dose of magic dust before leaving home in the early afternoon, because I was cool, calm and collected in Philly, as relaxed as when I’m drifting off to sleep. Even the substantial crowd at the flower show didn’t bother me in the least. “Hell,” I said to myself, “everyone here has just as much right as I do to get up close and personal with the exhibits.” What? I, whose nerves often are easily jangled, actually felt that way? I did. I sure would love to be in such an at-ease frame of mind far more than I normally am. Will the transformation occur before my time expires on Planet Earth? Well, “miracles” are known to happen. But I’m not holding my breath.

I’ve been living in or near Philadelphia since the mid-1970s, but for decades never paid any attention to The Philadelphia Flower Show, a famed annual event. In 2016, though, almost on a whim, Sandy and I decided to go. I liked the experience, and now have attended five times. This year’s production, which ran for nine days, was as sweet as summer fruit, despite being held in a non-descript hall large enough to accommodate a number of jumbo jets.

Each year’s flower show has a theme, 2024’s being United By Flowers. I’m all for unity and, like just about everyone, am pro-flowers. So, I couldn’t go wrong. Excellent flowers were almost everywhere in the exhibits area. Ditto for other forms of flora. Sandy and I spent two and a half hours admiring the many installations, doubling back at times to re-examine the five or six that had particularly wowed us. We spent an additional 30 minutes wandering around the vendors section, where more products than you could shake a stick at — and not just horticultural items — were for sale.

Besides the beauty and creativity on display, was there anything else about the show I liked? Affirmative. I admired the diversity of people in attendance. They ranged in age from those that hadn’t yet reached their first birthday to old f*ckers such as me. A wide range of races and cultures were on the scene. And numerous folks with mobility issues didn’t let the enormity of the hall keep them away. Wheelchairs, motorized scooters and canes abounded.

Around 5:00 PM, Sandy and I heard dinner’s call. So, we bade farewell to the flower show and made our way to 13th Street. Philadelphia’s restaurant scene is amazingly strong, and a four-block-long section of 13th Street is one of the prime destinations for restaurant goers. We couldn’t get into Darling Jack’s Tavern, our first choice. But 50 feet away was Barbuzzo, an Italian eatery we’d passed many times but had never frequented. In we went. The place was mobbed, dimly lit and looked cozy. Could they accommodate us? Sure, but only at the chef’s counter, where two stools apparently had been waiting to greet our rear ends.

Happy with our perches, we watched meals being cooked five feet away from us, in pans sitting atop the burners of a stove as solid as an army tank. The burners’ flames, and those from the nearby wood-fueled pizza oven, kept us good and warm. I kept glancing at the oven, whose fury fascinated me. Its portrait was the only photo I took in the restaurant.

We kept things simple at Barbuzzo, whose menu ranges wide, opting for a salad, a Margherita pizza, beer and wine. Everything was delicious. And, before we knew it, it was time to head home.

At 8:06 PM, we arrived at Jefferson Station, giving us very little time to catch the 8:10 train. If we missed it, we would have had to wait an hour for the next one. F*ck that! But we didn’t miss it. Moving quickly through the waiting area and down the stairs, we reached the train platform just as the 8:10 was pulling in. Nice.

Here’s Some Of What I Liked In August. What Rang Your Bell?

Yeah, Another Blogger159 Comments

Yup, August has come and gone. And in a few blinks of an eye, 2023 will have arrived. Zoom! I tell you, there’s no doubt that time flies at accelerating rates the older we get. And being genuinely old, I ain’t happy about that. To say the least. I don’t know how many grains of sand remain in the upper part of my hourglass. But, whatever the number, a shitload more would suit me just fine.

Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about it. So, to steer my mind away from the above paragraph’s depressing direction, let me mention some things that brought a smile to my crinkled face during the month that waved goodbye to us a handful of days ago.

First up are peaches and corn on the cob, without which life wouldn’t be as sweet. It being summer here in the USA, the harvesting season for those fine forms of produce, my wife Sandy and I would have been fools not to indulge in them during August.

I’ve loved peaches for nearly all of my life. I think, though, that their deliciousness began to make truly deep impressions upon me somewhere in my 40s. Man, what a treat it is to bite into a peach. A good peach, that is, not one of the mealy ones that have become more commonplace in recent years. Such beautiful flavor, as luxurious as you could hope for. And a texture, in the happy zone between soft and firm, that was made to seduce. I had some real good peaches in August. And tossed aside a couple of very sub-par examples too. You win some, you lose some. In any case, the peach season in the States hasn’t all that much longer to go, a damn shame.

Likewise, fresh corn’s availability already has peaked. Last month, getting while the getting was good, Sandy and I chomped down on boiled ears of corn at dinnertime three or four times. We gave them a thumbs-up. Helpful public servant that I am, I’d like to give you a tip for dressing corn on the cob: Peel back the paper a bit on a stick of butter, then rub the exposed butter all over the corn while twirling the cob. This method is much better than attempting to place pats of butter on the corn with a knife. Those pats, as we know, usually end up skidding all over the f*cking place. I’ve already accepted your thanks in advance!

Now it’s time to talk about television series, a media format that has pleased the hell out of me since the start of the pandemic. Hungry for entertainment, I began watching series in earnest at that time, something I hadn’t done in years. Sandy has been my viewing companion. And, even though Covid’s roar has lessened, we haven’t slackened our pace, for during August we devoured two limited series (We Own This City and the scripted version of The Staircase, not the documentary by that name) and one season each of multi-season productions (Capitani and Never Have I Ever). The first three that I mentioned are very much worth watching, but they are grim. Ergo, I’ll limit my commentary to the sole smile-inducing series among August’s fare.

Never Have I Ever, a thoughtful comedy on Netflix, tells the tale of Devi Vishwakumar, an Indian-American public high school student in California. Devi, smart as a whip but fairly low in the self-confidence department, isn’t one of the cool, popular girls at school. She has a loving family, fortunately, and several trusted, loyal girlfriends. Thus, her situation overall is quite decent, despite the cruel fact that the death of her father, during her freshman year, was a blow that tests her mightily.

There have been three seasons of Never Have I Ever so far. Sandy and I have watched them all, polishing off the latest run in August. During season three’s ten episodes, Devi loses a boyfriend, attempts to land a new beau, contemplates losing her virginity, and completes her junior year of high school with top grades. And her pals are no slouches in the busy-lives department either. Wow! There’s a lot going on in this show. Cleverly too, partly because of the sarcastic, sometimes-exasperated voice-over narration by, if you can believe it, John McEnroe. He’s the former tennis champ who was known for his verbal outbursts on the court as much as for the beauty of his game. McEnroe does a great job, adding volleys of whams and bams to a coming-of-age story that’s handled with insight and care.

With that, I’ll toss a tennis ball into your half of the court. What rang your bell last month, food-wise, entertainment-wise, nature-wise, anything-at-all-wise?

A Movie, Dinner, And A Walk On Darkened Streets

Yeah, Another Blogger113 Comments

There we were last month (we being my wife Sandy and myself) in Ambler, Pennsylvania for a late-afternoon movie followed by an early-evening dinner. Ambler, a cute town in the Philadelphia burbs, suits us just fine. We’ve dropped in dozens and dozens of times over the years because its Ambler Theater, an art house cinema, books plenty of films that we want to see, and eateries galore are strung along its blocks. Yeah, Ambler is right up our artsy and gastronomical alleys.

A scene from The Alpinist

Well, the movie, a documentary about Marc-André LeClerc, a publicity-shy mountaineer, is damn good. It’s called The Alpinist (alpinists attack mountains with gusto, rather than using the more traditional methodical approach). Dinner, indoors at Gypsy Blu, a venue with enough variety on its menu to please the curmudgeons among us, hit the spot too. I had a beer and an eggplant parm sandwich, Sandy a glass of wine and a turkey burger. I bow down to the junk-food gods for the addictive house-made chips that came with each plate.

Butler Avenue, which is Ambler’s main drag

What awaited us after dinner was a walk around town in the dark, something I’d suggested doing before we’d departed for Ambler. When we exited Gypsy Blu, though, Sandy almost at once recognized that she wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the evening’s chilly, and falling, temperatures. So, she headed back to our car and waited there. I wasn’t exactly bundled up either. However, being a man’s man, in my dreams if nowhere else, I forged ahead.

Butler Avenue
A view from a side street

Now, it’s not as though I never go for walks at night. I ring up 20 or thereabouts nocturnal strolls each year, I suppose. That Friday night in Ambler, however, seemed on the special side to me. The town’s main drag, Butler Avenue, on which most of the restaurants and bistros are found, took on the aura of a movie set, the darkness atmospherically softened here and there by restaurant and store lighting, street lamps and headlights. The movie set extended into the couple of side streets that I visited, where the wattage was even lower than on Butler. Gliding upon Ambler’s sidewalks, I felt as if I were the star of the scenes, an unobtrusive observer of the evening’s goings-on.

Butler Avenue
Butler Avenue

Unlike the side streets, Butler Ave. was buzzing. A whole lot of people were seated at the tables that, as a result of the pandemic, the town’s authorities had allowed restaurants to set up on sidewalks and in alleys. And most of the establishments were doing good business at their indoor tables too. The outdoor-diners’ energy was palpable, impossible not to absorb. My strides increased as I drank it in. Man, after a while I almost was floating. For sure, starring in a movie agreed with me. Watch out Hollywood! This wrinkled, age-spotted f*cker has his mind set on conquering you.

Getting back to a movie that actually is in distribution, I’ll say a bit more about The Alpinist, but only a bit, as having too much advance information about this flick isn’t a good idea, in my opinion, for anyone thinking of watching it. Here’s my main thought about The Alpinist: successfully scaling the unimaginably daunting structures that Leclerc is photographed tackling, especially the snow-and-ice-wrapped bad boys, is completely beyond belief!

Yet, of course, Leclerc was born to pull off one superhuman feat after another. Is there anything to be learned from his exploits? One truth, I think, is that, throughout history, nerves that are stronger than steel, and focus and talents that are totally off the charts, have been distributed to only a relative few.

The Alpinist possibly is in a theater near you. And, undoubtedly, it will make its way to a TV network or streaming service one day fairly soon. This movie blew my mind. It likely would blow yours too.

(Please don’t be shy about adding your comments. I thank you.)

A Pretty Scene, A Pawpaw, A Song

Yeah, Another Blogger131 Comments

Man, for a number of days the thoughts and themes that I’d been considering for this essay were as uncongealed as undercooked oatmeal. Eventually and fortunately, though, things began to come together when the word comforting eased its way into my mind. This occurred while I was looking over the photos that I’d taken while exploring Glenside, a town in the Philadelphia suburbs, a couple of weeks ago. To my great surprise, one of them reached out to me far more than any of the others did. It made me say aah. It made whatever stress I was feeling at that moment go bye-bye. The bottom line is that I found the scene in the photo to be very comforting.

What is it about the image that pleases me so? For one thing its colors are happy to be with one another. They get along splendidly. And the quiet reflection from across the street, in the door glass, adds to the sense of comraderie. I hadn’t even noticed the reflection when I walked up to the door to snap a picture of the Est. 2003 sign inches above it, for it was signs of one sort or another that I was seeking out and photographing that day in Glenside.

All in all, the photo strikes me as a representation of peace, warmth and tolerance. And if there’s anything in our little ol’ world that I’m totally down with, it’s those three commodities. I suppose that I’m reading a whole lot more into this picture than I might, but so be it. I’ll take my comforting moments when and where I can.

Moving right along: three years ago I wrote about my fruitless search for a pawpaw (click here if you’d like to read it). Thrice in that article I posed a question that maybe is on the tip of your tongue right now. Namely, “so, what the f*ck is a pawpaw?”

Well, it’s the fruit of pawpaw trees, which grow in various parts of the USA. There was a time when pawpaws were eaten fairly commonly. But those days are in the distant past. Though the pawpaw does retain pockets of popularity, there ain’t exactly shitloads of trees producing them in the States.

One thing about the pawpaw is that it is tropical in appearance, papaya-ish, not at all what you’d expect from an indigenous North American tree. I can confirm this because, astonishingly, my long, long search for a pawpaw ended successfully earlier this month. I have my friend Dave to thank for that, as he clued me in to the fact that a food co-op in my area had pawpaws in stock.

To the co-op I soon made my way, arriving back home an hour later with a large pawpaw so soft that a moderate squeeze would have punctured it. I purchased this specimen when a produce department worker at the co-op assured me that it was at the peak of ripeness, rather than overripe.

Photo by Sandra Cherrey Scheinin

I damn well wasn’t disappointed when, shortly thereafter, the pawpaw’s innards entered my mouth. The fruit possessed a variety of flavors, all subtle in intensity, reminding me of banana, honeydew and cantaloupe. But what I was taken with more than anything was its texture. The pawpaw’s flesh was firm yet creamy, pretty close in consistency, and in appearance for that matter, to the vanilla pudding that my mother made for my family frequently when I was growing up. I always loved her vanilla pudding. Because of that connection, the pawpaw worked its way into my heart. Eating the pawpaw was a comforting experience for me. Very comforting.

Moving right along again: I heard a wonderful song by The Wallflowers recently. The tune, Maybe Your Heart’s Not In It No More, comes from their album Exit Wounds, which was released a few months ago. Jakob Dylan (Bob’s son), is The Wallflowers’ lead singer and leader, and composed every song on the album.

The lyrics of Maybe Your Heart’s Not In It No More ruminate about the loss of mojo and direction, a circumstance that many people grapple with at one time or another. But it’s not so much the words that get to me. Rather, it’s the recording’s feel. I mean, this song hit my sweetest of spots the moment I heard it. I fell for the guitar lines intermingling like the best of friends; the steady, strong drumming; the hypnotic melody; Jakob’s straightforward vocals that mean what they say.

Maybe Your Heart’s Not In It No More comforts me, takes me in its arms and sweeps me away. What more could I ask for?

I Like ‘Em! (These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things)

Yeah, Another Blogger140 Comments

One thing for certain about this little old world of ours is that it holds an overwhelming amount of content geared for human discovery and consumption. Travel destinations, food stuffs, movies, automobiles, political causes, you name it . . . there’s always something for us to get excited about and sink our teeth into, if we are so inclined. Which, no doubt, nearly every one of us is. Myself included.

This story, then, shall be a look at a few things that have rung my bell quite nicely as of late. In the upcoming paragraphs I’ll expend wordage upon this motley group: a television series (Ozark), cheddar cheese, and the song (Texas Sun) that has captivated me more than any other recording so far during pandemic-plagued 2020. And I’ll be glad to hear about what has been tickling your fancies recently. So, please don’t be shy about letting me know.

Let’s start with Ozark, the Netflix series whose third season was unleashed earlier this year. My wife and I watched all three seasons over the past few months, taking a two or three week breather between each arc. (The fourth and final season is on the drawing board, but who knows when filming will be able to begin.) We became hooked almost from the get-go, as have millions around the globe. Not so one of my cousins though. When I mentioned Ozark to her during a phone conversation not long ago, she said she’d seen a few minutes of the show but that’s about all. “I don’t want to watch all those sleazy people” was more or less how she summed up her feelings about Ozark.

Sleazy? Indeed! That word damn well fully applies to many of the show’s characters. It barely indicates, though, the depths of their polluted natures.

In Ozark we learn the tale of a married couple, Marty and Wendy Byrde (played, respectively, by Jason Bateman and Laura Linney) that is ordered by a Mexican drug cartel to abandon their home in Chicago and relocate, with their two kids, to central Missouri’s Lake Of The Ozarks. LOTO, an enormous man-made lake and a popular vacation spot, is surrounded by rural territory populated with all sorts of unsavory individuals.

Why did the cartel so demand? Because Marty, a buttoned-down financial wizard who years before had agreed, foolishly, to become one of the cartel’s primary money launderers, through no fault of his own got on the cartel’s very wrong side. Via astonishingly quick thinking and quick talking, he avoided execution by convincing the cartel’s top brass that he could make and launder enormous monies for them in, of all places, the Lake Of The Ozarks. Turns out he was pretty right as rain, though establishing the mechanisms that enable that to happen send Marty and his family down hellish paths that in a million years they otherwise wouldn’t have imagined could emerge. And their ordeals gradually bring out the worst in Marty, and the scarily worst in Wendy.

I can see the show’s writers rubbing their hands gleefully as they came up with plot lines that continuously elevate the dangers and other mega-problems that Marty and Wendy must confront. What a series! Prominent cast members regularly meet their demise. Dirty-dealing and treachery reign supreme. Ozark isn’t for everybody, as my cousin demonstrates, but, if you’re not already a fan, it just might be for you.

Now on to cheese. I’ve been a cheese lover for many moons, and cheddar is one of my favorite types. But not the mild kind. I like cheddar that is bold, aggressive and memorable. Those are qualities, by the way, that yours truly sorely lacks.

But it never has been easy for picky me to find cheddars that I deem outstanding. Vermont, for instance, is famed for its cheddars, but I’ve yet to taste a Vermont cheddar that truly knocks my socks off. Thankfully, about four years ago I stumbled upon Old Croc cheddar, which is produced in Australia. The brand’s extra sharp version pleases me deeply. As does a very recent discovery of mine: Sartori’s aged and sharp cheddar. Heavy with elevated flavor, and salty, it is the first American-made cheddar to receive my seal of approval. Take a bow, state of Wisconsin! Pieces of Old Croc and/or Sartori have been my go-to lunch of late. They’re delicious as is, and even better when atop Triscuit crackers.

I wouldn’t dare eat those cheddars while listening to Texas Sun, however. That’s because the process of munching away would interfere with my ability to absorb this oh-so-fine song, which was released in February. A collaboration between vocalist Leon Bridges, who often makes soul music in the vein of Sam Cooke, and indie rock band Khruangbin, Texas Sun is a meditation on longing and lust. It is gently powered by a sweet and steady beat, and wafts upon the wings of dreamy guitar lines. I’ve heard this song many times on various radio stations, which indicates to me that it has found its way into the hearts of numerous music lovers and radio programmers. The best thing for me now to do is to get out of the way and allow you to listen. Here is Texas Sun:

Tomatoes, Beer And The Kominsky Method: A Sexy Story

Yeah, Another Blogger113 Comments

Over the phone I could feel my editor Edgar Reewright’s blood pressure galloping towards very unhealthy levels. I could sense that the veins in his forehead were bulging more than his famously small pecker ever has. And, almost needless to say, I heard him roar loud and clear.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, Neil?” Edgar screamed at me. “Why do you keep doing this? Is it so hard to come up with story ideas whose components go together like hats and gloves? It isn’t. In fact, it should be easy!”

“Neil, an essay about tomatoes, beer and The Kominsky Method just won’t cut it. They’ve got nothing in common, and I say that even though I don’t have a clue about who or what Kominsky is. If you want to write this story, then write it. But edit it yourself. Oh, where did I go wrong to end up with you as a client? If you weren’t a reliable source of income I’d drop you faster than my first three wives dumped me!”

“For crying out loud, Edgar, calm down,” I said. “What’s wrong with this story idea? The answer is nothing. I like writing about things that give me a buzz, and this story will be about the ones that have excited me the most lately. Not only that, somewhere in the piece I’ll ask the readers to let me know what’s been ringing their bells. They’re a discerning lot and will help to expand my horizons.”

“Horizons, huh?” Edgar snickered. “You’re old, Neil, remember? Your horizons are too stiff and achy to expand more than an inch.”

“Maybe so, Edgar,” I said, “but that inch is more than your famously small pecker is capable of expanding.” Edgar didn’t respond to that cutting remark.

“Hear me out, Edgar,” I continued a few moments later. “Let’s start with tomatoes. Have you ever tasted little yellow ones? I never paid any attention to them until a few months ago, when they caught my eye at the supermarket. Now I’m hooked on them. “Comets” is the brand name of the ones I buy, and they’re damn fine. Sweet as sugar, with just the right amount of tang. They make any salad better.”

Edgar didn’t say a word.

“And how about the beers that Magic Hat Brewing Company, in Vermont, turns out?” I continued. “Magic is right. The brewers there are magicians, Edgar. Magicians! I have two Magic Hat variety packs at home. And every one of the brews in those boxes is absolutely delicious. I’ve been drinking their beers for years, but didn’t know about the vastness of the Magic Hat repertoire until the variety packs entered my life not long ago. That brewery rules!”

Once again, Edgar remained silent. What was wrong?

“Edgar, this conversation isn’t going well, so I think we should say our goodbyes soon. Then I’ll start writing the story. But I can’t leave without recommending The Kominsky Method to you. It’s a television series, a comedy/drama done charmingly and with a sharp wit. Netflix carries it. Edgar, I don’t turn on the TV too often, so I’m glad I decided to give Kominsky a try. Do you like Michael Douglas and Alan Arkin? I do. They’re the leads in the show and are fabulous. So is everyone else in the cast. Watching Douglas and Arkin try to deal with the slings and arrows that life throws at them in their old age is a blast, and touching too.”

I paused. Then I said, “Edgar, you haven’t talked in three minutes. I don’t hear you breathing. Speak to me, Edgar. Speak to me! Are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Edgar, sounding sad, said ten seconds later. “I heard you talking all along, but nothing registered. I was deep in thought. Neil, how do you know about the size of my manhood? I thought that nobody knows except for my wife Loretta and my three exes.”

“Edgar, you’re kidding me, right? Everybody has heard about your short sword. Your third ex-wife went into all the details in a post on her Facebook page last week. She mocked you real good. In no time the article took off. You’re famous, Edgar. Maybe you don’t want to be, but you are.”

“What? I’m going to sue her. I’ll have my day in court. I’ll tell the world that size isn’t everything. It’s quality that counts, Neil, not length! Quality is my middle name, in bed and, as you know, as an editor. I’ve got to go now. Good luck with your story. You’re on your own with it. Hopefully your next idea will be better than this one.”

Just before Edgar pressed the red button on his cell phone to end our call, I heard him yelling to his wife: “Loretta, I’ve been defamed! I need top-tier representation. What’s that lawyer’s name? You know who I mean. He used to star in porno films before he went to law school and became an attorney. Wait, I’ve got it. Big Dick Johnson! Please get him on the phone for me!”

(What’s been ringing your bells lately? Comments about that, and about Edgar or anything else, are welcomed. Ditto for sharing this story.)