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boomerang

Posted by cgcopy on October 20, 2023 in empowerment, finding the good, it's life

I’m not quite sure when it started, but, seemingly all of a sudden, I’m hearing of lots of friends dealing with the kinds of physical ailments that I used to associate with those much older. Than me – a baby boomer. And not an “original” boomer either – I’m talking about those of us born a little later on in the boomer generation.

Heart surgeries, hip and knee replacements, torn rotator cuffs, spinal fusions, rehab from falls and broken bones – when did all of this happen? And, more important, when did it start happening to such young people?

Ah, there’s the rub. Maybe we’re not so young after all. It’s really hard to claim being middle-aged when you’re a card-carrying Medicare member (how many people do you know who live to age 130?). But a senior? Maybe, technically, when it entitles me to discounts (and to polite young people reaching something on a too-high shelf for me when I’m shopping). But I just can’t get my head around that designation.

In short, we’re not the same kind of people as our parents were when they became seniors – they seemed to age more quickly in their thinking (and in their dress – dads in white belts and white shoes, anyone?). Our generation looks younger, acts younger, thinks younger, lives younger. Rather than looking forward to retirement as the time for early-bird specials and shuffleboard on the Lido Deck, we’re the ones looking forward to more adventure and intellectual fulfillment. Ninety percent of it, I think, is attitude; the rest is a combination of things – awareness; being willing to think outside the box; healthier living, maybe. And the fact that we love rock and roll (always have, always will).

Maybe my generation’s senior status is more like being a senior in high school versus a stereotypical senior citizen. We’re the cool kids; the ones who get to do stuff the others aren’t old enough to handle; the ones everyone wants to be like.

Alas, maybe not. But we’re still cool – we know it. We may be older, with some parts needing repair or replacement, but we’re built with a mindset that sets us apart from those who came before us. It’s hard to believe that those days of being the bright new minds in our various crafts have passed; that our era of working way into the wee hours without missing sleep is gone; that those evenings of dancing until dawn (in high heels, no less) are rare; and that the idea that, more than feeling the pulse of the times, we actually were the pulse, is behind us. But the passions we’ve stoked, the love we’ve nurtured, the wisdom we’ve gathered and continue to share, and that brilliant energy to believe – those things still define us.

Sonic boom.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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there’s a name for that

Posted by cgcopy on October 5, 2023 in a writer's life, color me happy

When it comes to naming, I’ve done my share. As a professional copywriter, with a career spanning 40+ years, I’ve had the chance to name all kinds of products as part of my job – beauty treatments, sandwiches, cocktails, opening-night events, nail polish colors, pet-food flavors, desserts, children’s toys, blue-plate specials, bank products, games.

Name it, and I’ve probably named it. Even a friend’s puppy.

Full disclosure – on a personal level, I’ve even named some of our household items. There’s Midge the Mini Fridge; Chuck the Hand Truck; Champ the Floor Lamp. (Talk about bringing your work home with you.)

The funny thing about professional naming is what others may think about it. That’s it’s fun (it can be). That it’s easy (talk to me after submitting your first ten pages of names). That it’s the world’s best job (these are the people who think that all it involves is sitting back, eating bonbons, and just plucking names out of thin air). As an aside, “bonbons” is a great name – it translates to “good goods” (only it sounds sexier in French) and is the perfect description for chocolate candy or other sweets.

What makes a good name? Not to minimize the strategy or the art behind creating a moniker (another great word) that fits a product well, but you want something that has the “it” factor – eye-catching and meaningful; fun to say, maybe; something that sticks in a customer’s mind; and something they actually want to ask for – by name.

I’d say I’ve created thousands of names for hundreds of nail colors for several beauty companies (no, not at the same time). None of the names were duplicated (yes, I’m sure – I kept lists). Someone once asked me how I managed to keep coming up with new names. I had never thought about it before but, once asked, I froze. “You know,” I finally replied, “if I ever stopped to think about it, I don’t think I’d ever create another name again.” And I’ve never thought about it again. Until now. (Thank you very much.)

My secret? Most of the names were based on very clever wordplay. Some were based on themes. Still others were inspired by a visual prompt. Or by rhyming. Or from a feeling evoked by a particular shade. Or a specific experience. It’s hard to explain – some of it is instinctual.

One of my favorite naming stories came from my showing off in front of B. We were in Portland on a “cuisine” walking tour, where we visited several different restaurants and food shops to taste all kinds of goodies – pizza, wine and chocolate pairings, boutique olive oils and vinegars, artisanal breads, gelato, and more.

There were about 20 people on the tour with us, and as we sat at each place and tasted, we struck up an ongoing conversation with one couple. When asked what I did, I said that I was a marketing copywriter for a certain beauty company and explained that that included writing advertising, press releases, promotional pieces, point-of-sale, and, in this case, color names for nail polishes. The woman of the couple lit up like a birthday cake and told me she loved those polishes and bought them for their names.

I asked her if the color on her nails was such-and-such and she nearly fell off her chair. “How did you know that?” she asked. “I named it,” I said, not as modestly as I might have, I guess. She took off her clogs to show off her pedi, done in a different color. After I correctly identified that shade, she screamed with delight. I was clearly her new BFF.

She was beyond wowed, B. was indeed impressed, and I continued to answer her questions about which other colors had I named and didn’t I have the best job in the world?

Whatever I’ve named, yes, it’s been fun to see that name on a bottle (whether nail polish or bourbon), on a menu (whether burger or pie), or in an ad (whether in a magazine or on social). Or on an adorable little rescue puppy just looking for a loving home.

Name game.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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heads up

Posted by cgcopy on September 15, 2023 in baking tales, finding the funny

When it comes to baking, sweets are my forte. Cookies, cakes, the occasional pie – you get it. But when it comes to bread – real bread, that is, not a banana or zucchini one – not so much. And for good reason. On one occasion, I used water that was too hot and killed the yeast. Other times, the yeast has just not risen to the occasion. It seems that whenever I try, no matter how closely I stick to the recipe, I cannot seem to tame the beast made with yeast. To wit:

Having a whole afternoon to myself the other day, I thought it might be the perfect time to try my hand (again) at making challah. This wasn’t my first attempt, but I had lost the previous recipe and decided to try a new one. From what I remember of the first one, the results were just so-so; not terrible, but certainly not delicious enough to bother with again. This new recipe sounded good, though, so yeast and flour and eggs and sugar (to feed those little yeast beasts) in hand, I set forth.

This time the yeast acted appropriately. Dissolved in the perfect temperature of H2O with the right amount of sugar to nibble on, it produced a thick, robust foam. So far, so good (or so I thought).

Then there was the standoff with the dough versus my stand mixer. I love my mixer for many reasons – it’s red; it’s helped me create countless yummy desserts over the past 20 years; it’s red; it never lets me down; it’s red; and I feel like a star using it. I should preface this by saying that I usually don’t use the lever that locks the top part of the mixer in place because I often have to stop and scrape down the bowl. Yesterday was no exception. Except.

Except that once the dough collected around the dough-hook attachment as a ball (an enormous ball, I should say), the mixer began to buck like a bronco under its weight. Quickly, I moved the dough back into the bowl and put the locking lever in place, but to no avail. A few more times around (this was all on low speed, mind you) and the dough ball collected again (as the recipe said that it should), and the mixer went into spasms again, the top part bouncing up and down and the entire piece of equipment starting to do the moonwalk across my countertop. Uh-oh.

Turning the dough onto a floured surface and kneading it went smoothly. Then into an oiled bowl, covered with a clean kitchen towel, and on to the rising process. Like most recipes, this one said that the dough would double in size. Turns out, that depends on one’s definition of “double.” If you think it means double the size of the ball of dough you put in the bowl, that answer would be reasonable; apparently, though, it would be wrong. If you think it means that the dough would have grown to quadruple its volume, you would be correct (although we really need to work on why you’d think that).

The ball of dough had, indeed, grown by four sizes (the Grinch’s heart grew by ten, so I’ll cut my losses where I can). It also seemed to be particularly redolent with that usually nice, comforting smell of bread as it rises – a scent that seemed a bit more pungent than usual. (Foreshadowing of trouble ahead.)

Once the dough had been punched down, it was time to braid and let it rest, to allow it to double (?) in size yet again. My braiding was beautiful, if I say so myself, and as I tucked the loaf under its kitchen-towel blanket, I hoped that it would have enough oomph still in it to rise the right amount. Surely, I thought, it must have used up all of its rising power earlier. Wrong.

When I came back into the kitchen after the prescribed time, I saw that the challah had practically outgrown its towel covering and was creeping off the edges of the cookie sheet it was sitting on (my largest cookie sheet, one that was bigger than the recipe recommended). I had to cut off the ends of the loaf and re-curl the edges under to make it fit. As I slid the giant challah into the oven, I was already planning on which neighbors I’d have to share it with – it was either that, or stock my freezer with a months-long supply. Or stock up on cream cheese. Lots and lots of cream cheese. (All the while, images of Lucy and Ethel with that uncontrollably growing, never-ending bread forcing its way out of the oven flashed through my mind.)

When it was through baking, the challah looked gorgeous. Jewish-cookbook ready. Magazine-spread delectable. Which only goes to show you that you can’t judge a bread by its cover. Because after I let it cool – and I was so careful to let it cool completely as the recipe directed – and sliced into it, all hell (chall?) broke loose. The challah smelled like a brewery.

The odor of alcohol was overwhelming. While the texture of the bread was fine, the taste wasn’t. B. gamely tried a slice, resulting in a tummy ache soon after. As for me, the aroma was so off-putting that I could only manage a bite. And that was the end of that.

Trying to figure out what went wrong, I combed through the recipe word by word but could find nothing. I had followed the instructions to the letter – both ingredients-wise and step-by-step-wise – but I couldn’t see where or how I might have strayed. The only thing I could figure out, after checking other challah recipes, is that this one called for an inordinately larger amount of yeast than many others. Way, way more.

Aha. Way more yeast = way more rising = way more fermentation. Which equals a challah that reeked like a beer hall. No way out around that one.

Challah-balloo.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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creature features

Posted by cgcopy on August 30, 2023 in finding the funny, life imitates art, movies

Living in a neighborhood set in the midst of the entertainment industry, there are plenty of things that one would expect to see on a morning walk – the requisite number of ultra-luxury cars; the Hollywood Hills; at least a couple of celebrity sightings; views of movie studios; an inordinate number of pampered puppies and spoiled kids. What one might not expect, though, is wildlife much beyond squirrels, crows, and an assortment of songbirds. Wildlife that doesn’t live in the city. Wildlife that you only see in the movies. Or so I thought. To wit:

On a recent early-morning walk, B.’s voice was suddenly drowned out (no small feat) by a bird sound we’d never heard around here before. A noise so raucous that it made the usual sound of crows seem tame. So loud that it stopped us in our tracks to look up, up, up into the very tall, very full tree next to us. And there it was – an entire flock (maybe 20 or 30) of wild parrots taking off for another perch. Unmistakably parrots by their brilliant green plumage, their beaks, and their sound (although smaller than those you might find in a pet store or in a rainforest), and unexpectedly here, knocking at Hollywood’s door.

Parrots in non-tropical, desert-like LA? Were they here for a casting call? (Was a live-action version of Rio in the works with parrots instead of macaws?) Nope. While the stories of their origin are varied, apparently they have been here for decades, and are not looking for their big break (no matter what the tabloids may report). Talk about mavericks.

Another walk brought to mind that scene in The Wizard of Oz where one of those awful flying monkeys picked up poor little Toto and carried him away. (I hate to even type those words, so fearful am I that one will swoop down and find me. Yes, it’s a childhood thing, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.) Okay, this walk didn’t involve a flying monkey. Or a dog. In this case, a cute little squirrel was running along the top of a driveway gate when, all of a sudden, boom! A bird of prey, probably a hawk (seriously – in this neighborhood?), swooped down, picked it up, and carried it off in its claws. (Sort of like the eagle picking up the sweet little puppy in The Proposal while Sandra Bullock’s character is on the phone with a client, completely oblivious. I wish I’d thought of that example before the flying monkeys came to mind.)

“Wait! Stop!” I yelled, while B. reminded me that birds of prey do not actually respond to commands of passersby. (Good tip.) A block or so away, though, the bird dropped the squirrel and it scampered way, probably not to be seen again for weeks. As for me, I’m on flying-monkey watch for the indeterminate future.

And lastly, who remembers the pack of evil hyenas from The Lion King? This was just like that – well, almost. Sort of. All right, not really, but it’s a good story anyway. As we were rounding a corner in the neighborhood last week, there it was – a coyote. Living here for all these years, we’ve seen coyotes on our walks several times, usually pretty scrawny and always trotting along at a good pace, keeping to themselves and hurrying to keep away from people. This one was large and well-fed, and it wasn’t trotting. Wasn’t moving. Wasn’t interested in going unnoticed. And was in our way, just hanging out at the end of the block. Waiting. (Cue the Jaws theme. Dun-dun.) While lone coyotes usually aren’t a threat to adults (it’s the packs or rabid ones that are certainly dangerous), we decided that maybe walking in the opposite direction might not be a bad idea. Coyote ugly.

Maybe living here has stoked my imagination just a little. Maybe I make screenplays out of life, at times, and hear soundtracks in my head. Sure, sometimes a tiny little lizard is just a lizard – but sometimes it’s Jurassic Park.

Keep walking.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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love notes, revisited

Posted by cgcopy on July 21, 2023 in a tribute, heartfelt, music

Hearing this morning of Tony Bennett’s passing, I am saddened at the loss of this extraordinary talent, of a man whose music has been such a part of my life, of a voice that is inextricably linked to a city I adore. His courage in standing up to Alzheimer’s made him all the more remarkable – his instantly recognizable voice made him legendary. It is as a tribute to him today that I am reposting this piece from 2021, originally entitled “Love Notes,” written just after his courageous and unforgettable “One Last Time” performance at Radio City. Mr. Bennett, your golden sun will always shine for me.

I’ve been in love with San Francisco from the first time I visited it at age six (I even grew up to write a novel that is a love letter to the city, much as this blog post is). It started with my dad, who was equally smitten by the city by the bay, with its mix of morning fog and golden sun. The affair of the heart continued into my adult years because that’s where B. was living when we reconnected for one unforgettable week in our late 20’s after a teenage romance a decade earlier (and before we Harry-and-Sally-ed our way into another decade until we realized that we were each other’s “one”). And the city has kept a hold of my heart ever since, as we return every year to experience the look, the light, and the absolute lure of this place that is like no other.

All of these thoughts converged the other evening while we were watching a tour de force – Tony Bennett’s “One Last Time” concert at Radio City Music Hall. While suffering from Alzheimer’s, Bennett astonishingly gave what could certainly be called the performance of his life, summoning the energy, the memory, and the unbelievable-at-95 voice to sing his way through his songbook of American standards with his signature style and oft-times jazzy edge.

Right by his side was Lady Gaga, his partner in song for the last several years, who provided much more than an arm to lean on. She gave Bennett a reassuring presence, an amazing voice to duet with for part of the performance, and the sensitivity, respect, and love to get through the evening – an evening that Bennett could not recall at all just days later.

While one could certainly talk about the heartbreak of that particular note – that a man whose mind unbelievably retains the lyrics and melodies of his music throughout the ravages of this memory-stealing disease but cannot remember more basic things – one can also marvel at the miracle that took place on that stage. That for a brief time Tony Bennett managed to capture all the vocal artistry and grace that has endured him to so many for so long. That, for a few moments on that enormous stage in front of a sell-out, 6000-fan audience who gave him standing ovation after standing ovation, he sang his heart out, maybe not with the same range as his younger self, but hitting notes of pure beauty along the way, leading up to his solo finale – I Left My Heart in San Francisco, the song that will forever be associated with him.

When the curtain rose for that last song, there was Bennett, standing alone at the piano. As the familiar notes filled the auditorium you could feel (even through the television screen) his love of music, his passion for living, and his courage. While he sang of leaving his heart in San Francisco, I (and I imagine everyone experiencing that moment) felt a piece of my heart break. But, even more important, I felt a piece of my heart soar at the absolute magnificence of such a feat. Bravo, Mr. Bennett, bravo.

I left my heart in San Francisco a long time ago – when I had to return home after visiting B. there in 1985 and realized even then (actually I knew it when we were 17) that he was my heart. And I leave it there each time we leave the city behind for another year. Despite the challenges San Francisco faces in these difficult days, its sun will always shine for me.

Brilliantly.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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but you can never leave

Posted by cgcopy on July 20, 2023 in no, really, what?

We look forward to our summer vacation each year with much anticipation, and this year was no exception. We had been planning our two-week getaway to British Columbia and the Pacific Northwest since last fall, and it turned out to be wonderful. Although we had originally thought to drive from LA all the way to Vancouver and Victoria and then back again, better sense kicked in (about three weeks before our departure) and we opted to fly – our first foray into the friendly skies since the pandemic. All went smoothly, and we came home with tons of fond memories (including getting together with four sets of friends at various points along the way, all of whom live in the PNW – so cool).

Every vacation has a hiccup or two, though, and this one was no different. It came at the very end of our trip and it felt like something out of Hotel California. To wit:

The hotel we had chosen (for convenience) for the last night was a seemingly nice, albeit new-wave-corporate-style, place (you know the type – heavy on the USB ports and recharger outlets but light on personality and warmth). Our intended room wasn’t ready, so the front-desk staff (too young, too beautiful, too Stepford-esque) put us in what they deemed a comparable one in order to get us settled. And while it was, technically, a balcony room like the one we reserved, the balcony looked out not on the street as promised but on a portion of the hotel roof that held the building’s air conditioning units (an ironic twist, as you’ll soon see). Of course, we didn’t notice it until we had unpacked and opened the curtains and, at that point, we were too tired to argue.

Later that night, we realized that the room was too warm. And then we realized why – the air conditioner didn’t work. Calling the front desk resulted in a repair person (I use the term “repair” loosely here) coming by and determining that yes, the unit didn’t work but that no, he had no idea of how to fix it. That resulted in my calling the front desk, their offering to move us to another room (at 10 pm? I don’t think so), and my insisting on their adjusting the room rate to make up for the inconvenience. They did and very generously so. Thinking that that was the last of our issues, off to sleep we went.

The next morning, we had an early breakfast in the hotel restaurant right before we needed to leave. And here’s where things went further south. The hotel offers a $25 breakfast credit, but the only way to take advantage of it is to charge the entire breakfast to your room and then to have the adjustment to your bill made as you check out. For people like us, who rarely charge anything to the room because we want our check-out to be quick and (hopefully) error-free, it was annoying. The front-desk person the afternoon before had assured us, though, that it would “work perfectly,” as did the waitress that morning.

Wrong and wrong. Because when we went to check out, things got really interesting. According to the maniacally smiling young woman at the front desk, our breakfast charge was still pending, even though we had finished eating nearly an hour earlier.

We: “We’d like a final bill including the breakfast charge before we leave, please.”

She: “That’s right.”

We: Huh? “Pardon?”

She: “You’re all checked out.”

We: “No, we’re not. We’d like a print-out with the final charges on it, please.”

She: “That’s right.”

Silence.

We: Waiting. “Is that bill coming?”

She: Smiling.

We: “When do you think we’ll have our final bill?”

She: Smiling in an increasingly disturbing way.

We: Waiting. “Excuse us, is that bill coming anytime soon?”

She: “You’re all checked out.”

We: “No, we’re not. We need the final bill.”

She: “That’s right.”

We: “When will we have it?”

She: Grinning, à la the Cheshire Cat. “You’re all checked out.”

We: Starting to feel like the song is right – that we can check out anytime we like but that leaving is another matter. “Could you please supply us with our bill including the breakfast charge and credit before we leave?”

She: “Oh.” Printing something out and giving it to us.

We: Looking at the print-out in despair. “This still doesn’t have the charge or credit on it.”

She: “That’s right.”

We: Growing increasingly frustrated. “Could we speak to a manager please?”

She: “I am the manager.”

Of course she was. Finally, Ms. Front Desk (or should I say, Ms. Managed?) printed something else out. It now showed the room charge and the entire cost of our breakfast, but no credit. Grrr. Several more minutes passed of her staring at us vacantly and smiling the whole time as we tried explaining yet again what we needed. She then printed a bill with the same amount showing but now with an added line below it reading “$25 credit.” Yeah, no. Although we took it and left (we had already wasted a half hour of our lives that we would never get back), we had absolutely zero confidence that this would “work perfectly.”

So it wasn’t a shock when, a couple of days after we got home and checked our credit card bill, we saw that the $25 had not been credited at all. The problem was happily resolved, however, with one very efficient phone call (maybe the person who helped me should be promoted to manager), and we are now left with a balance of one very amusing (albeit grimace-inducing) story.

Pink champagne, anyone? (No ice, the machine’s broken.)

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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a tip of the cap

Posted by cgcopy on June 20, 2023 in life moments, pure joy

The other evening I had the honor of attending a college graduation even though no one I know was graduating. Explanation? Last Friday night was commencement at the community college where B. has taught for two decades and he invited me along. I hadn’t been to a college graduation since my own in 1980, and it was supposed to be a beautiful evening, so I accepted happily. (Also, I’d get to see him in his impressive academic robe, hood, and cap, so why not?)

Here’s the thing about an evening graduation in an outdoor stadium in southern California in mid-June. If it’s sunny, and it usually is, the stadium has been heating up all day and holding on to that heat because it’s a bowl. Next, the sun is out until at least 8 pm. Combine that information with the fact that we had to be there a couple of hours before the 6 pm ceremony and you see where I’m heading. But I’m a trooper, so, armed with sunscreen and my trusty black and pink Dodgers cap (both cute and functional), I toughed out the time until the sun shifted and shade arrived.

Seated in the second row of the stands, I had an up-close view of the crowd filing in. Thousands of people, all there to cheer on their graduates. And that’s where I started to feel the enormity of the evening. It was all about family – little kids, dressed in their finest and clutching a relative’s hand, there to support mommy or daddy; grandparents and great-grandparents, there to kvell at this wonderful life moment; and parents – so proud, so excited, and so overjoyed to see their children (maybe the first members of their family) get their college degrees.

One of the things about community college that I find so impactful is the “community” part. The students at these schools reflect their community because they live in it. Unlike most four-year universities, particularly the private ones, community colleges are filled with students who have to really make the effort to fit their learning into their already busy, responsibility-laden lives. Students often hold down more than one job; many are single parents; others are busy taking care of parents and grandparents; still others can only attend classes at night, after they have seen to their other obligations. Their lives and their communities are intertwined, and the commitment they bring to their studies and their loyalty to their school are really quite something.

And so, at 6 pm sharp, this year’s class of graduates, like countless before them and countless after them, marched into the stadium to the strains of Pomp and Circumstance. Just hearing that melody made me tear up, its notes carrying with it the promise of the new opportunities, challenges, and life moments that awaited these students. In a particularly lovely gesture, the students walked between two lines of the professors who have taught and guided them – professors clothed in velvet-striped gowns with jewel-toned hoods (hanging down the backs of the gowns) bearing the colors that signify their specialty and where they went to school. (B.’s hood is green, red and purple – the purple for law, the green and red for the colors of his law school). The faculty loves this part of the graduation ceremony because it’s a time for them to high-five, hug, or generally congratulate their students. And the sight of it only underscored the achievement of these young people.

And finally, the flowers. One of the most beautiful graduation traditions on the West Coast at least – and one I’d never seen before moving out here – is to present graduates with leis, and so many people in the stands carried boxes of these beautiful, plumeria-scented blossoms. And then there were the bouquets – bunches of roses, two dozen each; masses of peonies; clusters of tulips and lilies – all held until that moment when diplomas had been handed out and families reunited on the field to celebrate.

The big moment – when the students were finally declared graduates and tassels were moved – evoked such a huge outpouring of applause, cheers, and confetti, that it literally took my breath away. You could feel the happiness radiating throughout the crowd at the enormity of the occasion, and it was a privilege to share it.

To the nth degree.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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out of focus

Posted by cgcopy on May 28, 2023 in baking tales, finding the funny

Everyone’s favorite bumbling TV spy, Maxwell Smart (from the 1960s hit spoof Get Smart), had an expression he used when he messed things up – “missed by that much.” That would be an apt description of my latest kitchen bumblings. In short, it seems that I really need to focus more on focusing more (daydreaming and imagining need to be put on the proverbial back burner). To wit:

The off-the-rails journey began a few weeks ago when I was finally in the mood to bake banana bread again (everyone made so much of it during the pandemic that I’d grown tired of even hearing about it). There I was, back with a brand-new recipe I’d found that had a surprising secret ingredient (you’ll have to contact me to find out what it is – that also gives us a chance to chat and say hi. Hi.)

Thinking I’d done everything right, I couldn’t wait to taste the results. When the oven timer rang, I could see that the bread looked fully baked on the outside; for some unknown reason, though, it had risen very little (unlike a previous mishap, this time the oven was working fine). The bread passed the clean-toothpick-doneness test, so I removed it from the oven, let it cool, and then cut into it.

Not only did the banana bread resemble a brick, it cut like one too. It was hard, it was heavy, it was inordinately chewy, and it tasted way off. B.’s expression when he tried it was like a little kid’s when he learns that Santa isn’t real. The bread was not unbaked. It was, however, unappealing. Unappetizing. Unacceptable. Uh-oh.

I checked to be sure I hadn’t used baking soda instead of baking powder. Nope. Got that right. B. suggested that I check the date on the baking powder. “No,” I insisted, rolling my eyes at him, “that can’t be it.” Turning the container over, I showed it to him to prove he was wrong. He wasn’t. There it was. The baking powder was indeed six months past its expiration date. Okay. Mystery solved (one would think). The unsalvageable bread met its demise and baking powder went on my shopping list (if B. rolled his eyes, he at least had the grace to do it when I wasn’t looking).

The next day, as we passed Trader Joe’s on our morning walk, I pulled B. inside. At first, he went reluctantly because he hates shopping, but he cheered up considerably when I bribed him with one of their one-pound Belgian Milk Chocolate Bars. (If you haven’t tried those, they are the best. Don’t worry, one bar lasts us for a couple of weeks – almost. Wink wink.) Baking powder and chocolate purchased, we were homeward bound.

Once the new bread was in the oven, I threw out the old baking powder. I was just about to toss its large yellow plastic box with blue lid (the label had fallen off at some point in the past) into the recycling bin when I realized what was wrong. Any baking powder I’ve ever purchased has come in a small can, including the one I’d bought that morning. This container was an imposter. Although it was not labeled, I’d always recognized it by its yellow color. What I’d missed the previous day, though, was that it was not – and never had been – baking powder. In a flash of hindsight, I realized that I had tried to bake my banana bread using corn starch. Corn starch. Not used for rising. Used for thickening. For densifying. For crying out loud. Missed by that much.

My next misstep was more recent. The other night, while B. was at a school function, I thought I’d surprise him with homemade chocolate-chip cookies. Nestlé Tollhouse cookies, specifically, which I’ve been baking for decades and can practically make with my eyes closed (which they may as well have been, as you’ll soon see). Even with all that experience, I still make sure to check the recipe on the chocolate-chip package as I go. And so I did – 2 1/4 cups flour, 3/4 cup granulated sugar, 3/4 cup brown sugar, etcetera, etcetera. Except.

The cookies didn’t come out exactly right. They were a bit too chewy (again with the chewiness?) and much, much too sweet (sweet enough to make the aforementioned chocolate bar seem tasteless). Interestingly, B. didn’t have any complaints. I think he was so delighted to have fresh-baked cookies waiting for him that he actually devoured several without even realizing something was amiss.

“Amiss” is a good word to use here because it seemed that a miss on my part was exactly what had transpired. While I was washing the measuring cups, I realized what it was. Instead of using the 1/4 cup measure for the flour and sugars, I had used the 1/3 cup. (And I had been so good in fractions when we learned them in grade school.) That resulted in a little bit more flour in the cookies (everyone knows that baking, unlike cooking, is a lesson in chemistry, and that even a fraction off can make a difference) and a whopping 1/2 cup extra of the combined sugars. Missed by that much more.

Do not ask for whom the cookie tolls.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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a fine pickle

Posted by cgcopy on May 19, 2023 in oops!, seriously?!

With pickleball sweeping the nation – and the world – as the newest fitness sensation, it’s hard not to have read about it, seen it, or maybe even tried your hand at it. For me, probably the least sports-playing person out there, I’ve only watched from a distance. Admittedly, it looks enjoyable, but I’ve heard both the positive and the not-so-much. To wit:

It’s a wonderful workout; it’s easier on the body than something like tennis, let’s say; it’s great for those who might not want to run on a court as much; it’s lots of fun; and the paddles and perforated balls are just so cute (okay, that last comment is my personal observation).

I do know of a few people who have been injured playing the game, though, including a dear friend who is one of the most active and most fit people I know. There she was, playing pickleball one moment, then down on the ground with a torn Achilles tendon the next (arguably, an injury that can happen in any sport – NBA basketball comes to mind, although that’s not exactly the same thing). To be fair, while I have yet to hear of pickleball elbow (sounds like a recipe for macaroni salad), it probably does exist.

Either way, the non-athletic me has chosen to cheer from the sidelines. Given my ongoing propensity to get into trouble because of my impressively high klutziness factor (adorable, I know, but you’ve got to know your limits), walking seems to remain my safest bet (hopefully).

Not surprisingly, pickleball became a focal point of a discussion one morning as we waited on line for bagels. An older gentleman ahead of us was talking about his workout regimen at a very ritzy (this was the point of his talking about it) athletic club, where he indulged regularly in a round of golf followed by a game of tennis followed by a sauna, then an ice bath, and then a massage accompanied by a glass or two or three of the finest, private-reserve, single-malt Scotch. Didn’t we all love to do that? he asked the group of several people within earshot.

I managed a non-response response while B., trying to be friendly, mentioned that his own game used to be tennis until he injured himself several years ago (if you’ve never heard or felt a calf muscle snap, consider yourself lucky). Mr. I-Could-Buy-this-Bagel-Place-with-the-Money-in-My-Wallet nodded knowingly and then moved on to more feats of his own greatness including his driving a Mercedes S-Class to get to and from his club (apparently his Jag XF was being shipped to the south of France for his summer in Nice) and wasn’t the cost of valet parking just outrageous? You get my drift here. Fortunately, his everything bagel (the perfect order for the man who apparently has it all) was now toasted and cream-cheesed and ready to go.

But then a new voice emerged on the scene, a guy who had come in for a refill on his latte and had cut to the front of the line to get it. I recognized him immediately or, should I say, his type. I went to college with lots of guys who could be his father – a full-of-himself, entitled, trust-fund baby who was raised to believe that every word out of his mouth was a jewel. Apparently, he had overheard B.’s tennis story and felt compelled to jump in with his assessment of the situation:

“You know,” he said, “what you need to do is play pickleball. It’s really easy to pick up and would be ideal for the both of you.” We thanked him but told him that, while it was probably a great pastime for lots of people, we had our concerns. “That’s ridiculous,” he said dismissively. “It’s the perfect game for older folks like you who probably haven’t been very active recently and who probably want to get back in shape.”

Nice, very nice.

“In fact,” he continued to pontificate, “you’d have to be an idiot to hurt yourself playing pickleball. It’s easier to hurt yourself by falling out of bed.” Even nicer. Seriously, dude?

But then, in one of those perfect moments that seemingly only happens in movies, the universe handled things on its own. While young Mr. Who-Knows-More-Than-Me-About-Anything began to walk out the door, busy laughing to himself at the inane idea of someone getting hurt playing pickleball, he took a wrong step and and bumped – hard – into the side of the doorway.

In a difficult-to-watch domino effect, he rebounded over a couple of potted floor plants, did a twirl or two, and then careened into another patron – and that person’s bagel – before teetering precariously on one foot and finally ending up flat on his butt. His newly refilled decaf latte with extra foam spilled all over his spotless (until then) designer athleisure ensemble, and a blob of cream cheese from the bagel collision decorated his forehead (attracting the attention of a tiny Yorkie who scampered over for a lick). Rudely brushing off anyone’s help (“I’m fine – leave me alone!”), he hurried off to his Porsche (conveniently parked nearby in a no-parking spot) and sped away. Any injuries? A major bruise to his oversized ego.

“Didn’t that look harder than falling out of bed?” I asked B. “Because I kind of think it did.”

Schmeared.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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commence & sensibility

Posted by cgcopy on May 15, 2023 in beginnings, life stages, next steps

With the commencement of commencement season, I turn again to this blog post that I wrote and posted for the first time several years ago. It is still as true today as it was then – and as it was when I, myself, graduated from college decades ago (although I, of course, didn’t have the life experience to give this advice at that point). I offer it now to this year’s crop of graduates – and to all of us who can use a reminder of how we got to where we are and, perhaps, as a gentle guide to how to get to where we still want to go. The adventure and the learning continue.

While I don’t suppose I’ll ever have the chance to deliver a commencement address, that doesn’t mean I don’t have something to say (rarely do I not have something to say). But, should that invitation ever arrive in the mail, here are some of the things I’d like to pass on. Devices off, please. Just listen.

Following your passion is priceless. Once you discover it, nurture it, protect it, feed it. It will help you believe in yourself – the most valuable commodity you have. Following the crowd? Not so much.

Sometimes you may need to settle. For a not-perfect job. For a too-small apartment. For just being friends. Sometimes you should never settle. For less than self-respect. For less than a partner who believes in you. For less than your right to that last French fry or slice of pizza. (Only kidding. About the fry, not the slice.)

Don’t tell the world that it’s been waiting for you. Show it.

Never lose your sense of curiosity. Always find a way to share.

Don’t smoke. It’s stupid and you’re not.

Keep your friends close and your close friends closer. As far as your enemies, life is too short.

It’s never too early to start saving for retirement. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, you’ll thank me later. Seriously.

Think with your head. Lead with your heart. Nourish your soul.

There is so much waiting out there in the real, often surreal, world. Things you’d never expect that will change your life for the better – and things you don’t see coming that will break your heart. It’s scary and it’s magnificent. And it’s time to begin.

Don’t forget your ruby slippers. Or your courage.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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