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holly-would ending

Posted by cgcopy on May 4, 2016 in it's life

LetsGoToTheMoviesThere’s a whole list of “life lessons” that Hollywood tries to communicate through movies and television; I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but a lot of them are either falsely positive or truly negative. If only these Hollywood endings were a bit more realistic, maybe a lot of us would be better adjusted in life. Saying “woulda, shoulda, coulda” a lot less often. (That’s your cue. Go get your popcorn, your Milk Duds, your BonBons.)

Okay, first up. No, not every family is the Waltons. Not even close. Yes, blood may be thicker than water, but, really, who wants their water thick? A family of seven kids, two parents, and two grandparents and no one gets on each other’s nerves? I don’t think so. You mean every big brother (John-Boy Walton) isn’t his little sister’s (Elizabeth’s) hero? Not always. Not off Walton’s Mountain. Not even off the studio set.

Here’s another one. You and your wife agree to let her spend one night with a zillionaire — who looks just like Robert Redford in his prime (and is, in fact, played by Robert Redford) — for a million dollars, thinking it won’t tear your marriage apart. It does. That’s not the hard-to-believe part. It’s the fact that the couple (Demi Moore and Woody Harrelson) actually stay together at the end that tests our suspension of disbelief. What kind of husband agrees to that arrangement? What kind of wife does that and thinks, “It will all work out in the end. We just won’t talk about it”? More than an indecent proposal, it’s just indefensible. And not how life works.

Or how about this? Good news: Rose and Jack discover each other and fall passionately in love, despite their class differences. Bad news: They’re on the Titanic.

Good news: They escape her dastardly fiance who is hellbent on seeing Jack dead after discovering the sketch Jack drew of the nude Rose (actually, the sketch is beautiful, making that a piece of good news). Bad news: They jump from the sinking ship and end up in the freezing sea.

Good news: They find a piece of floating wreckage — a door — to hold on to. Rose gets on it, while Jack hangs off the edge, his body mostly submerged in the icy water. Bad news: Waaah! Buzzer sound! Sorry, you lose a turn. Here’s where Rose really needs to use one of her “I insists” (unfortunately, she can’t use a life line) to make Jack climb up next to her. Really, Rose? This man has changed your life and given you hope; he thinks you’re beautiful even when you look like a wet rat; and he would have jumped after you to save you when you thought about killing yourself. Move over! (Sigh.) Rose survives to have a rich, full life, living until she’s past 100. Sure, her heart goes on. But Jack’s? Not so much. Bad news. Very bad.

And lastly, Sex and the City (the show, not the movies). At the end of the series, we find Carrie swept off her feet by her Russian artist (Mikhail Baryshnikov) and relocated to Paris. The sights! The clothes! The shoes! The romance! The being totally ignored by her Russian except when he needs her to calm his anxiety about his gallery showing! And what happens when Carrie realizes she has lost Carrie? (Not just her sense of self but also her nameplate necklace?) Big, her on-again, off-again boyfriend and eternal soul mate, zooms across the Atlantic to scoop her up and bring her back to New York. To a shared future. Two SATC movies. And, one supposes, a very fashionable happily ever after. Just one thing — that’s not how life plays out. Prince Charming does not just show up on a white horse (or in a black limo) to carry the heroine away. And no woman has that kind of couture wardrobe on Carrie’s salary.

But you know, maybe we don’t want our entertainment to reflect back real life too, too much. Maybe part of the fun is to be taken out of the everyday world to places where things are more dramatic, more fairytale, more unlikely, more home-sweet-home. Maybe the Hollywood Ending is a concession to the “life is tough, let’s escape for a while” way of thinking.

Speaking of concessions, let’s all go to the lobby.

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

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yellow, i love you

Posted by cgcopy on April 6, 2016 in it's life, searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

pastel-rose-clipart-1.jpgSpring and summer come earlier to southern California (sorry about that) and right now there are lots of roses — especially yellow ones — all over the neighborhood. I have a special memory of yellow roses — my father used to buy them for me for Valentine’s Day. Always, from when I was a little girl until I went away to college.

And while I thought they were pretty and appreciated the sweet gesture, quite honestly, I never understood why he chose yellow roses.

My dad passed away suddenly when he was much too young (48) and I was much too young (19). He had packed a lot of love for me into the too-few years, the yellow roses being just a small part of that love. In the midst of my life moving on, I stopped wondering about the “why” of those particular flowers. I forgot all about it.

Until one day, thanks to WCBS-FM 101.1 radio in New York. At that time, the radio station played oldies from the ’50s and ’60s. (By the way, is it just me who finds it strange that today’s oldies stations consider music from the ’80s and ’90s oldies? When did that happen?). Anyway, I had the station on in the background one day when I heard Bobby Darin singing “18 Yellow Roses,” a hit from 1963.

The lyric talks about a man whose daughter receives 18 yellow roses from her boyfriend; the father realizes then that his daughter is all grown up now (she’s 18), and that he is no longer the only man in her life. The final lyric struck me into why-yellow-roses awareness:

“Eighteen yellow roses will wilt and die one day…  

But a father’s love will never fade away.”

Oy. Cue the tears, the box of tissues, the understanding. My dad had been a huge music fan — Sinatra, Ella, Tony Bennett, Bobby Darin, Lena Horne. (Listen to some of these artists if you’re not familiar with their work. Or listen again if you are.) He knew the Darin song, he knew the lyric, he knew the sentiment and the abundance of fatherly love it expressed. And he knew that he wanted me to know it.

Thanks, Dad, I knew about the love all along. I also know that yellow roses now always make me smile.

Coincidence? I think not.

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

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ladies first

Posted by cgcopy on March 8, 2016 in strong women

travel-concept-vector-illustration_23-2147491287 (1).jpgThroughout U.S. history, we’ve always had Mr. President and the First Lady (when the President was married) — never Madam President and the First Gentleman. (Although hopefully, come next January, that will have changed. But then would it be Madam President and the First Gentleman … or Madam President and the First Gentleman Former President or …? These are the things that keep me up at night.)

The first First Lady I remember is Jacqueline Kennedy, an icon of elegance, gilding the White House with a kind of exquisiteness never seen before. Everything about Mrs. Kennedy captured the world’s attention and affection. No wonder JFK was compelled to introduce himself on an official visit to France as, “the man who accompanied Jacqueline Kennedy to Paris.”

And then, of course, Lady Bird Johnson. Not exactly Jackie. But this was no longer Camelot. My favorite thing about Mrs. Johnson was her love for the environment and for nature. And her first name. (No, not Lady Bird. Claudia).

Pat Nixon. A lovely-looking woman, although to me she always looked as if she were about to shatter. Maybe because her husband started out appearing to have an inferiority complex (have you ever seen the debate between him and JFK?) and ended up appearing a couple of amendments short of the Constitution, if you know what I mean.

First Lady Betty Ford dared to show her frailties in public. From alcohol addiction to breast cancer, Mrs. Ford let us in on the challenges she faced and, as a result, made herself incredibly human.

If Jackie Kennedy was American royalty, Rosalynn Carter was (and is) the salt of the American earth. A woman of faith who lives by her beliefs, Mrs. Carter was the kind of First Lady who reminded us that the meaning of life isn’t about who has the most toys. It’s about making things better for those who need our help.

Nancy Reagan‘s passing a few days ago impacted our national consciousness more than we might have imagined. Her era in the White House was one of grace and glamour — a reflection of the First Couple’s Hollywood past. Whether you shared her politics or not, you have to admire Mrs. Reagan’s fierce loyalty in advising, protecting and loving her husband. Perhaps she will be best remembered for being Ronald Reagan’s voice and his loving caregiver throughout his “long goodbye.”

Barbara and Laura Bush. Each brought a gentility to the White House and a sense of being a strong partner to their respective Georges.

Hillary Clinton, of course, imbued her First Ladyship with a special kind of intelligence, ambition and passion — qualities that later led her to the Senate, to Secretary of State, to her own run for president. And to her chance to break the ultimate glass ceiling.

Finally, Michelle Obama. Smart, strong, accessible (within the parameters set by the Secret Service, of course), a tremendous supporter of military families and of children’s health, and responsible for bringing an incredible breath of fresh air and energy to the White House. Kind of makes me wish for a third Obama term (you don’t have to agree with me, just stay with me here).

Thanks to all these First Ladies, the role has been filled in a variety of ways, each woman bringing her own lasting contributions. The job of First Lady has been refined, polished and perfected. It’s time for the next step.

Madam President, if you please.

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

 

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roots and wingspan

Posted by cgcopy on January 28, 2016 in it's life

It occurs to me that certain events serve as bookends for different stages of my life. One such set of my bookends are two Eagles concerts; the first in the late 1970s at the Boston Garden and the second just a few years ago at the Hollywood Bowl.

The first, while I was still in college, so sure of what I wanted to do with my life (spend a couple of years in Paris before becoming a celebrated, best-selling novelist and then live the ultimate New York life – cocktail parties with the literati, an amazing apartment on the Upper East Side, signings at Doubleday on Fifth Avenue, shopping sprees at Bloomingdale’s and Saks). The second, where I am today, knowing what I really want to do with my life (write for a living and make myself happy, live in LA, spend the occasional weekday afternoon delightedly browsing and shopping for other people’s bestsellers at Barnes and Noble).

While Don, Glenn and the boys sang about peaceful, easy feelings, I enjoyed the (relative) ease of being a college student, somewhat unaware of life’s challenges just waiting for me as the final notes of the graduation recessional faded. They sang about tequila sunrises while I pulled all-nighters writing what were probably the millionth and millionth-plus-one papers that were the albatross of an English Lit major. And when they checked into the Hotel California, I was checking to make sure I had enough credits to graduate. (Okay, I must have checked and rechecked that number on a regular basis. Let’s just say I checked into the Hotel Neurotic. And it’s true what they sang – you can check out … but you can never leave.)

Now place the needle a little further along on the record to all the years in between – from new jobs and new friends, to broken dates and broken hearts, to high heels and high towers in the city. The Eagles disbanded from 1980 through the early 1990s and then banded together again just as all the important pieces of my life came together – moving from book lessons to life lessons, from East Coast to West Coast, from yearning to be somewhere else and to knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. (Coincidence? You decide.) They sang about love keeping us alive as I was finally understanding the life force of real love.

Glenn Frey’s recent passing hurts my heart. Not only because I truly loved his music and his voice but because his (and the Eagles’) music was always there in the background, spanning the years as I grew from a college student to who I am today. It was a given that hearing an Eagles song could always give me a sense of rootedness, a sense of comfort, a sense of knowing who I was even as I changed my life. Glenn Frey and the Eagles defined and spanned the music of my regeneration.

The Eagles at the Hollywood Bowl were a revelation. Because despite the years, the tears, and the wear and tear of life, they sounded amazing, their harmonies better than ever. Maybe it’s because they were older and had been polished down by life, the hard edges and the uncertainties smoothed, that their ballads sounded exquisite in the nighttime air. Their performance of There’s a Hole in the World Tonight resonated not only with echoes of the reason it was written – 9/11 – but also with a nod to all of the losses in life that we have each encountered. And their performance of Peaceful, Easy Feeling resonated with the hopes we all have as we get older of continuing to make our lives well lived, well loved, well satisfied.

Rock on, Glenn Frey – you’ve earned those wings.

ⓒ 2016 and 2023 Claudia Grossman

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b. cause i do

Posted by cgcopy on November 24, 2015 in it's life

It’s Thanksgiving in a couple of days and, amid all the shopping (done) and the cooking and baking (to come), I’ve been doing some thinking (sometimes my ideas lead me into Lucy Ricardo territory, sometimes not). This time, I’m thinking about the one single thing I’m most thankful for. And that would be my amazing husband, B.

The reasons why are many and varied (more, say, than you can shake a turkey drumstick at), but I’ll limit myself here to those that are the most shareable. I am thankful because:

B. always turns on the nightlight for me because he knows I’m kind of, a little, scared of the dark. Not that I’ll admit it.

Me: How come the nightlight’s on?

He: Because I know the dark scares you.

Me: It does not!

He: Okay, I’ll turn it off.

Me: No! I mean, it can stay on if it’s that important to you. (Sigh of relief.)

He’s my biggest fan. In whatever I do. Even my singing.

Me: How did that sound?

He: You hit all the notes. Almost.

He thinks all the gorgeous women we see on TV or in the movies are too skinny. (Need I say more?)

He loves me best in sweats, a ponytail, and no makeup. Really. (That doesn’t stop me from stepping it up from time to time, but it’s nice to know.)

He has this remarkable way of making me feel better when I’ve messed something up.

Me: This is the worst dinner I’ve ever made! I can’t cook.

He: Sure you can. This isn’t bad.

Me: Really? Want more?

He: Uh…you know, I think I want to leave room for dessert.

He has this uncanny knack of reading my mind.

Me: I bought your birthday present today. You’ll never guess what it is.

He: A telescope?

Me: How could you possibly know that? The first and only time you’ve ever mentioned a telescope was at least ten years ago. Geez!

He: You mean I’m right?

He taught me how to play catch (like someone who actually possesses some degree of athletic ability) — bought me my own glove (but told me not to call it “cute,”); took me to the park; taught me how to throw (put your whole arm into it) and catch (keep your eye on the ball until it’s in your glove) a softball. What he forgot to teach me was to beware as I’m backing up to catch a fly ball so that I don’t trip over my feet (is it my fault that my Dodgers cap slipped over one eye? And it’s a great cap — black with a pink logo. I bought that).

He: Good session.

Me: Really?

He: Considering you never played sports as a kid, you’re doing great.

Me: Can we go to the mall now?

He treats his mom wonderfully. And he treated my mom (a bit more challenging) wonderfully.

Little girls love to flirt with him. Big girls love how fair, decent, generous, and kind he is. This girl isn’t sure what she did to deserve him, but I’d gladly do it all over again a million times because he is the love of my life (as well as being both handsome and adorable — don’t tell him I told you that part).

And that, my friends, is the full answer to b. cause.

 

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

 

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conundrum roll, please

Posted by cgcopy on October 6, 2015 in coloring outside the lines

dT4LrndpcLife is all about choices. Where you live. What you do. Whom you love. What you have for lunch. In today’s post, I look at a list of life’s less-than-critical choices and weigh in with my calls. Some might say I’m too picky. I say I like what I like. To wit:

Ginger or Mary Anne?  The Professor

Sean Connery or Roger Moore?  Daniel Craig

Derek Shepherd (McDreamy) or Doug Ross (McClooney)? Joe Gannon (McBlue Eyes)

NY or LA?  San Francisco

Fallon or Kimmel?  Colbert

Pineapple & ham or chicken & sprouts on pizza?  Not hungry

Special K or egg-white omelette? Pancakes

Mr. Spock or Mr. Rogers?  Mr. Darcy

Coffee or tea?  Cocoa (extra whipped cream)

Mantle or Maris? Jeter

Roger or Rafa? Johnny Mac 

Fifth Avenue or Rodeo Drive? E Street

Minor choices in the scheme of life, sure, and none of the options is really wrong (except the one about pineapple and ham on pizza — that is grievously, unequivocally, and undeniably wrong). But here’s the best part — and one of my life philosophies — if you don’t like the choices, make up your own.

Truth or dare.

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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bear with me

Posted by cgcopy on September 18, 2015 in it's life

twoIn my mind, there are two kinds of people in the world. Creatives and linears. B. and I are an example of how, when a creative and a linear fall in love, get married, and build their lives together, things get very … shall we say … interesting.

To wit:

As a creative (moi), I tend not to do things the exact same way each time. One day, I may put my keys in the tray purchased for that very purpose. The next day, maybe on the chair next to the tray. The day after that, on the bathroom vanity. And, of course, there’s always the keys left in the door.

As a linear, B. does things almost the exact same way each time. His keys always land in the tray, along with his claim ticket for the dry cleaners, his wallet, and his roll of mints. Every. Single. Time.

Problem? Not really. Except that when I can’t find my keys, I need to involve him in the search. He always shakes his head when he finds the preposterous place I have left them (laundry basket, anyone?) and, while he totally gets and supports my creative temperament, is still amazed that I don’t put them back in the same place each time — like he does.

Why don’t I?  Because my brain is thinking of the next story I want to write, or what color I might paint the living room (at the spur of the moment), or whether brownies or blondies taste better (hey, I know — I’ll bake both right now! No flour? No problem. I’ll go to the store. Maybe I can find a bunch of tulips while I’m there …).

While B. creates mental compartments and time slots for his projects, I am mostly compartment-less, with one project, one idea, one “what if?” running into the next. I always accomplish what I set out to, but my path is a bit more circuitous because I stop to, say, spill all 64 Crayola colors out of the box so that I can reorganize them by shade. (I’ve even been known to set them up in their tiered box as if they were a choir, with the pinks as sopranos, the greens as tenors, etc.)

Not to say that B.’s linear-ness isn’t a positive. No one plans a vacation, sets up an adventure, or dreams up the most fun things to do like he can. It’s just that he does it at a time when he’s not doing something else. He is focused. He sees opportunities and considers consequences. To quote Butch (Paul Newman) Cassidy, “I got vision and the rest of the world wears bifocals.” Me? I wear rose-colored glasses (sometimes just the frames).

We’re sort of like Lucy and Ricky — I tend to lead with my heart, he tends to lead with his brain. I’m a little “Hey, why don’t I pretend to be Harpo Marx and fool everyone?” and he’s more “Okay, but … you know that if Harpo finds out, you’re going to have to keep up the pretense, right? Let’s figure out how you’re going to do that.” I love a man who finds solutions.

Of course, neither of us is one hundred percent. Creative me is also a whiz at Jeopardy, does the NY Times Sunday crossword in ink (okay, purple ink), and graduated third in her high school class. Linear, lawyer / professor B. is also a soft-hearted romantic who always remembers the day we met, wants to buy me a piano one day, and dreams at night that he’s doing espionage with Tom Cruise or taking on space aliens with Harrison Ford or scoring three-pointers with Kobe. (My dreams don’t have nearly that blockbuster element. Neuroses, yes; big movie moments, no.)

I’m like Winnie the Pooh, stretching farther and farther into the honey jar until it’s stuck on my nose. And, thankfully, B. finds a way to get me out of it. Every. Single. Time. (He also manages to get me out of my sweatshirt when I’ve tangled myself up and can’t find the opening. I’m not making this up.)

Who cares if B.’s path from A to B is linear and mine is loopy? What’s important is that we’re taking this trip together.

Once I find my keys.

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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ticket to ride

Posted by cgcopy on August 24, 2015 in coloring outside the lines

horryfying-1I don’t give up easily. I won’t give up chocolate. I won’t give up Springsteen concerts. I won’t give up old black-and-white movies. I have, however, given up roller coasters.

To be honest, I’ve always been scared of roller coasters (I guess that’s the point). But the exhilaration of the ride (even if I refused to take my hands off the safety bar) and the bragging rights afterward were always worth it. In recent years, however, the thrill wore off; well, not wore off so much as turned into relief that I was still alive at the end of each ride.

And I’m not even talking about the million-miles-per-hour, 200-foot-drop, upside-down-inside-out roller coasters that were built for adrenaline junkies — or ten-year-olds with absolutely no fear. No, I hyperventilate just watching commercials for those roller coasters. What I’m talking about are the more classic rides. My roller coaster mojo is gone. You know how the signs always say you need to be this tall to ride?  I had reached the point where I was crouching down, attempting to look too short. No dice.

My roller coaster intervention, as it were, happened some years ago. B. and I were at a Six Flags amusement park, and I was facing the Colossus, a giant classic roller coaster with peaks as high as the Rockies (okay, maybe not). I really, really didn’t want to go on it, but I really, really wanted to prove to myself that I could (ah, pride is such a double-edged sword). So we rode it. And as we climbed up, up, up the first peak, my heart sank down, down, down into my stomach. At the top of the peak, the coaster made its stop. At that moment, I wanted to get off the ride. Seriously. At that moment, I also thought that I was about to die. Seriously. The rest of the ride passed in a blur — probably my life passing in front of my eyes.

But, rather than admit defeat (there’s that serpent pride again), I then wanted to ride one of the park’s smaller roller coasters. How bad could that be? Did I mention that it was named the Psyclone? Notice the spelling. Not Cyclone, like the classic Coney Island ride — Psyclone, as in crazy. Should have been a clue.

But no. In we climbed and off we went. The coaster’s claim to fame was that it was built of wood, like its Brooklyn namesake. So with every curve and every climb, we were slammed from side to side on the plank seats. The more we slammed, the unhappier I got. And the unhappier I got, the more I was certain that this was going to be my last roller coaster ride. Because — wait for it — I was sure I was going to die.

Finally, the coaster pulled into the unloading zone, and I sat there, in tears and in need of a paper bag to breathe into. And then, the moment of truth. Directly in front of me, an adorably demonic six-year-old boy popped up and looked at me in disdain. “Hey, lady,” he said, “what’s the problem?” Shown up by a little kid. (Insert laugh track here). I accepted my defeat gracefully and gratefully. It was time to leave my coaster career (such as it was) behind.

But give up chocolate and old movies? Not a chance. Give up Springsteen concerts? No way. I may have given up the roll — but never the rock.

 

 

 

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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scout’s honor

Posted by cgcopy on July 16, 2015 in must love books



Peck_400x316 2[Spoiler Alert: If you have not yet read Harper Lee’s Go Set a Watchman (I can’t help it, I had to read it immediately), please note that there are some plot details revealed herein.]

Atticus Finch, the main character of Harper Lee’s brilliant To Kill a Mockingbird, is one of the most beloved heroes of all time. Exhibiting integrity, honesty, wisdom and a true sense of color blindness, the character inspired an entire generation of young men and women to become lawyers for the right reasons. Atticus has long endured as an example of humanity at its best.

That is why the release of Go Set a Watchman, the novel that takes place after Mockingbird but was written prior to it, has so many Atticus acolytes up in arms and crying into their beers. The Atticus of Watchman is an idol with feet of clay, a man who, while he believes in justice and liberty, doesn’t necessarily believe that liberty should extend to everyone in the same way. To find that the “you-can’t-judge-a man-until-you-walk-in-his-shoes” Atticus does indeed judge men by the color of their skin is mind-blowing and goes against everything you thought about the man. But.

Go Set a Watchman, while being marketed as a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird, really, in my mind, is not. Certainly there are some of the same characters; the main character — the lovable, irrepressible Scout — is now a grown woman, Jean Louise, returning to her Alabama hometown to find that things are not what they seemed when she was a child. But the masterful Mockingbird is so much more of a riveting, moving story, rich with wonderful writing and unforgettable characters. Watchman, while a good read, not so much.

So, to all Atticus adorers, take heart. Yes, the Atticus of Mockingbird is race-blind while the Atticus of Watchman is racist. But if you look at these two novels as totally separate from each other, then there is no reason to despair about the demise of our hero. Enjoy Go Set a Watchman for the novel it is (and for the first draft of these characters before they found their true lives in To Kill a Mockingbird). And don’t cry for Atticus.

In the movie The Judge, Robert Downey Jr. plays a barracuda defense attorney. His mantra: “Everyone wants Atticus Finch until there’s a dead hooker in the hot tub.”

True. But in the escapism of reading, everyone wants Atticus Finch the way he is. And that’s okay.

Court adjourned.

 

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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is that a brisket in your basket?

Posted by cgcopy on May 22, 2015 in it's life

0d9b4d95b3fdd7daf095100f3a523b00There’s a famous ad campaign that ran in the ’60s and ’70s for Levy’s Rye Bread — the tagline was “You don’t have to be Jewish to love Levy’s real Jewish Rye” and the images were of a variety of people from non-Jewish cultures enjoying the bread. I feel the same way about brisket. You don’t have to be Jewish to love it. I’m not talking about the smoked, barbecued brisket of the American South. I’m referring to the simmered and roasted, carrot-and-onion laden dish that proverbial Jewish grandmothers perfected (grandmothers from the South — of Brooklyn and the Bronx).

As anyone who has ever attended a Jewish family gathering will attest, there’s usually plenty of food — enough to feed a small army. And brisket has always had a special place. Right alongside the roasted chicken for Uncle Murray, who has a sensitive stomach; the noodle pudding for spoiled cousin Tiffany, who really should watch her waistline if she wants to attract a doctor-lawyer; and the chicken soup made by Aunt Esther, whose matzoh balls could have been used by that small army. As weapons.

But those of us who grew up on that cuisine tend to keep a distance these days. Healthier foods, less fat, fewer calories, and a more varied palate are good reasons. So is the fact that no one ever liked Uncle Murray; cousin “Mrs.-Doctor” Tiffany turned out to be a high-maintenance ex-wife (no shock there); and Aunt Esther was just downright nuts. And who wants to be reminded of all that?

Still, brisket is true comfort food (even if those family meals might have been, oh, let’s say, just a tad uncomfortable). My recipe is not my mother’s or mother-in-law’s — it includes cranberry sauce, chili sauce and a bottle of Corona beer (one for me, one for the brisket). It’s really good — so much so that maybe I should rename it to give it a new image. Maybe Not Your Mother’s Brisket. Perhaps No Guilt Served Here Brisket. Or New Age Brisket.

One more tip. The best thing about brisket is leftovers. Next-day brisket sandwiches served71w8CWnTI7L._SL1500_ 2 on rye bread (oh, look, I’ve gotten back to Levy’s) are absolute nirvana. Sure you could have one with a diet Coke, a decaf iced green tea, or a glass of boutique Napa Syrah. But to really get the full experience, the authentic pleasure, the maximum deliciousness factor, have it with a bottle of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. (I bet Mrs. Brown landed Dr. Brown with her brisket recipe.)

Don’t tsk it until you try it.

ⓒ 2015 Claudia Grossman

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