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girls’ night out

Posted by cgcopy on October 27, 2022 in empowerment, strong women

I originally wrote this post a few years ago. But the message and the relevance seem particularly apt today (and the humor so truly needed). So for every woman who longs for change – now is the time to lose the glass slipper. And vote.

So Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty walk into a bar. Ever-after can be long – especially when it’s not so happily – and it’s time to let down their hair (Rapunzel notwithstanding) and get real.

“A pitcher of Margaritas, Walt,” Snow calls out to the bartender. “And keep ’em coming.”

“So girls,” Cinderella says, “my feet are killing me.” The other two look at her sympathetically.  “It’s these damn glass slippers,” she continues. “They’ve got no flexibility, zero padding, and the arch support isn’t very stable. Plus, they come in one color – clear.”

“Then why wear them?” asks Sleeping Beauty.

“Because apparently that’s my story line,” Cindy explains. “And I’m tired of it.”

“I hear you,” says Snow. “If I have to continue cooking, cleaning, and singing with little birds just to keep seven men with silly names happy, I think I’m going to scream.”

“I’m just so tired all the time,” Sleeping Beauty sighs, licking the salt from her Margarita glass for sustenance. “I can’t seem to get my energy back after sleeping for years. And then what do I wake up to? Some so-called Prince Charming who just wants me to ride behind him on horseback forever.” She yawns. “Boring.”

“Did you say Charming?” Cindy raises her voice, her peaches-and-cream complexion turning red. “That’s the name of my glass-slipper fetishist prince!”

“What a glasshole!” Snow pipes up, causing some of the bar patrons to turn around. “That’s the name of the guy who keeps promising to take me away from being housemother to what’s turned out to be the most annoying bunch of psychologically challenged frat boys ever drawn.”

“Yup, that’s the name of the character who kissed me awake.” Sleeping Beauty nods. “And between you and me, what he doesn’t know about kissing could fill a story book. Plus, he could use a breath mint.”

“I’ve had it,” Cinderella stamps her foot. The sound of glass shattering is heard. “Enough with all this. I’m going to start wearing Nikes – and then I’m going to start my own shoe line.”

“You go, girl!” Snow cheers. “I’m going to open my own bed and breakfast. I’m not dopey, bashful, or grumpy, and I don’t need some three-timing spoiled loser to run my life!”

“And I’m going into scientific research,” Sleeping Beauty says excitedly, her energy returning by the minute. “I want to study sleep disorders and start my own clinic.”

“Another pitcher!” Cinderella orders. “To hell with the midnight curfew!”

“You’re all so cute when you get animated,” comments a guy at the bar, oozing with familiar cheap charm.

“Yo, Prince Smarming, go find yourself some two-dimensional women to save,” Snow hoots. “And don’t let the door hit your horse’s ass on the way out.”

Once upon a time. For a change.

©2016, 2022 Claudia Grossman

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really, she wrote?

Posted by cgcopy on October 22, 2022 in movies and stage, strong women

Angela Lansbury’s passing several days ago brought to mind an encounter I had had with the legendary actress nearly ten years ago. The impression she left with me was one of utter grace, elegance – and more than a glimmer of humor. I wrote a blog post about this very encounter at the time without revealing her name. I am reposting it here as a tribute to her and her extraordinary career. Brava.

While browsing the aisles of an LA shop well known to makeup artists and their clients, I suddenly saw Ms. Acting Legend. Awarded and beloved for decades for her work on stage, screen, and television, there she was. Not a young woman by any means, but absolutely regal in how she carried herself and in how she looked. Living in LA, it’s not hard to see celebs on a somewhat frequent basis, but even by those standards, this sighting was truly a find.

Being the cool chick I am (!), I gave Ms. Acting Legend her space and privacy, only to find myself standing right beside her at the cashier desk a few minutes later. Because this store deals with the entertainment community so closely, it offers a discount to actors, professional makeup artists, etc.  The young cashier asked, and Ms. Acting Legend said yes, she was in the industry. (You’re actually asking her that? Don’t you know who she is?). But then came the shocker – the cashier asked to see her SAG card for verification.

Really? You work in a store that caters to movie and television clientele and have no idea who the actress standing right in front of you – larger than life – is? Even if you don’t know her name, she doesn’t look even the least bit familiar? And you’re asking for proof of her actorhood?

And then it occurred to me. The cashier was just too young to know whose credit card she was swiping.

It took me a few seconds to recover from the realization that I’ve reached an age where the legends in my reality may not even exist in the lives of people 25 years younger than me. Whoa. Mind warp.

To give the actress credit, she wasn’t the least bit put out or offended. She was utterly gracious about it all. She smiled, signed for the purchase, thanked the cashier, and, as she turned to leave, gave me a conspiring wink.

And that, as they say, is all she wrote.

©2013,©2022 Claudia Grossman

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like, oh my dog!

Posted by cgcopy on October 17, 2022 in finding the funny, must love dogs

As I’ve written before, I love dogs. I love their friendliness, their personality, their unconditional love (as in, “I don’t know you, but if you give me a belly rub, I’ll follow you forever” or, in the case of goldens, “If you pet me, I’ll show you where my owners hide their valuables”). And I love their absolute ability to make any moment sweeter, warmer, better. Sure, not all dogs are this wonderful (we’ve all heard bad stories here and there) but, in my experience, most certainly are.

Our dog, Ilsa (named for the Casablanca character), lived for 18 years and was perfect in our eyes. In fact, she was the inspiration for the title of this blog, rice on your head (you can read that story here). An Australian shepherd / spaniel mix, Ilsa was a rescue dog who lived most of her life right here with us in the City of Angels. And while we loved her dearly and took great care of her (she never ate “people” food; she went on 4-mile walks each day; she had a dog bed that was oversized so that she had all the room she could possibly want), she was never, ever an “LA dog.”

While we no longer have Ilsa, we still take long walks as many mornings as we can, and we’re lucky enough to run into lots of neighborhood dogs, enough to satisfy my puppy fix. Some of them fit the “LA dog” designation – the too-fabulous LA that is known for its swimming pools, movie stars, glitz, and glam. (Not the LA we know and love, mind you, but the one that most people think of because, well, that’s part of it.) To wit:

First, the labradoodle we met recently that was wearing a diamond pavé collar. While scratching the dog’s ears, I commented on the collar to her owner, who explained that it was indeed real, terribly expensive, and had been given to the dog by A Very Famous TV Star (he dropped the name, I won’t) whom he had worked with for years. The dog, sitting at my feet on the sidewalk while her owner name-dropped his way through the next ten minutes, was sweet, although she, too, seemed bored with his monologue. She only agreed to leave with him when he offered a treat – one, he made sure to tell us, that had been purchased from A Very Famous Hollywood Establishment. But of course.

Next, the basset hound being shown off by his owner as we walked by, carrying out commands and appearing to love our applause. When the owner boasted that the dog took agility lessons at a very exclusive school, I asked, “Is that because of his short legs? Do the lessons make it easier for him to get around?” Wrong questions, I guess. The owner gave me a baleful stare and responded in clipped tones, “No. My dog is so intelligent that he needs to be continually challenged!” Or what – he won’t get into Harvard? OMG.

Finally, the dog that, in another life, could have played the Miranda Priestly character in The Devil Wears Prada – a perfectly coiffed miniature French poodle, pushed around in the Mercedes-Benz of strollers featuring velvet pillows and piped-in music. Diva dog wears oversized designer sunglasses (how they stay on I do not know) and, when thirsty, is served water from a crystal bowl that her owner fills with Evian and places carefully on the sidewalk. (You can’t make this stuff up.) With a click of her pedicured-pink toes, the dog then jumps from the stroller and laps up a few sips before resettling herself. All that’s missing is for the dog to utter a single bark to let its “chauffeur” know that it’s time to move on. Miranda would be proud.

Seen and scene. In LA.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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seventh inning stretch

Posted by cgcopy on October 5, 2022 in baseball, heartfelt, little bits of joy

I can’t help it – I’m a Yankees girl. Growing up in NY when I did, the choices were the Yankees or the Mets. Given that my mom rooted for the Yankees and my dad the Giants; given that the Giants moved out of town the year I was born (along with “da bums” from Brooklyn); given that my dad adored my mom to the ends of the earth – well, it seems like it was a given that we all became Yankees fans. And those boys of summer in their pinstripes still fascinate.

To understand why my mom was a Yankees fan, you need look no further than where she was born and grew up – the Bronx. To understand why my dad became a Yankees fan, you need look no further than my mom. His affinity for the Giants probably came from his living in Harlem until his early teens, not far from where the Giants played ball at the Polo Grounds. Even long after he had moved to the Bronx and met (at age 14) and married (at age 19) my mom, my dad would hop a train from work in Manhattan to catch a Giants game on the occasional summer afternoon. But when the team left New York (followed by my parents leaving the Bronx for the suburbs), he turned his allegiance to the Yankees. (Except for his lifetime love for Willie Mays. Say hey.)

In fact, my father met my mother because of a giant among Giants – Mel Ott. The story goes that my father’s best buddy was someone whom my mom knew very well – this boy was her neighbor in the Bronx apartment building where they both lived. When my father asked his friend to introduce him to my mom (my dad had seen her many times and was smitten), he offered his prize possession as motivation – his Mel Ott baseball card. The friend accepted, made the introduction, and sparks flew.

Back in the ’60s and ’70s, Yankees games were on the car radio whenever my dad was behind the wheel during baseball season, Phil Rizzuto’s voice coming through, bringing the play-by-play to life. (I still get a kick out of people who listen to the radio broadcast of a game while sitting in a ballpark. The late and legendarily great Vin Scully, master of the genre, was renowned for having been in everyone’s ear in Dodger Stadium.)

Often those trips brought us to my mother’s sister’s home for dinner. My aunt was17 years older than my mom. It was such an age difference that when, as a single woman, she would take my mom (then a baby) out in her stroller for a walk, neighbors at first whispered of a scandal – that perhaps my mother was actually my aunt’s daughter being passed off as her sister. (Very Chinatown, the movie, but nope, no cigar.) She was a tiny, lovable character and the biggest Yankees fan I’ve ever known. She and my uncle always had the game on when we got to their apartment and kept it on throughout our visit.

Even as an elderly woman, my aunt always referred to the team as “My Yankees,” never missing a game. In fact, she had her TV on a rolling cart out on her apartment terrace, where she could watch the games while working on her suntan at the same time (baby oil and iodine were still a thing back then).

All of which is to say that I remain a Yankees fan to this day both for sentimental reasons and because the team has always personified the romance of baseball to me. Aaron Judge’s remarkable 62nd homerun last night adds to the extraordinary history of this baseball institution. Remaining a Yankees fan seems to tie me to my roots in ways I never could have imagined as a child. This time of year – which happens to include the end of baseball season – is one in which I always seem to miss my parents more, and the tie to the Yankees is a sweet reminder of them.

So yes, I have always cheered for the Yankees (not as vocally since I’ve been living in LA, but still). This fandom was an especially not-easy task in the late 1970s when, as a student at Tufts, in Boston, I rooted for them in a couple of World Series – this in a town that detested the Bronx Bombers (and still does, Curse of the Bambino and all that), even though the Red Sox weren’t even playing.

If the Yankees were to play the Dodgers in a future World Series (even later this year), where would my loyalties lie, you ask – with my roots or my wings? Hard to say, but a series I’d love to see.

Field of dreams.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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a new leaf

Posted by cgcopy on September 24, 2022 in circling the sun, finding the good, making a change

I never was one for New Year’s resolutions. No sooner are the words out of my mouth than the promises seem to vaporize into thin air. Committing to losing those few pounds, swearing to write 3000 words a day (speak, yes; write, not so much), promising to look before I leap (or, in some cases, to leap before I look) – all of these made-in-the-moment plans just never seem to come to pass. Blame it on the pressure (everyone’s doing it!); blame it on the Champagne (even one glass makes me silly); blame it on the fact that there’s a new month starting every 30 days or so and picking January (boring, back-to-blah January) isn’t much of an impetus.

But.

As much as the first of day of the new year isn’t the get-up-and-go I need to make those changes, the first day of fall certainly is. (Of course, the summer-to-fall transition was clearer when I lived back East and fall really felt like a new season. Here in LA, fall weather – or the kind of fall weather we get out here – usually doesn’t really settle in until later in October. Even the end of September is often good for one last blast of summer heat.) But the first day of autumn brings with it all the promise of the starting-again season of my youth. That first-day-of-school feeling imbued with all kinds of “news” – new box of crayons, new books (yay!), new pencils (with perfectly sharpened points), new clothes, new crisp snap to the air, new feeling of possibility and of reaching new goals.

Maybe it’s that summer’s laziness feels gone, washed away by cooler mornings. Maybe it’s the appeal of a cup of hot tea with breakfast instead of summer’s staple iced version. Maybe, this year at least, it’s having gotten through a summer marked with the challenge of my covid and other health issues and the turning toward the refreshing wash of fall’s new palette, new pace, and new promise of better things ahead.

Or maybe’s it’s that box of 64 shades of crayons (still to this day) just waiting to be cracked open, its rainbow of colors at my fingertips making me smile. Not that my drawing talents are noteworthy – doodling is my specialty – but those crayons are a symbol of what fall has always meant. The fact that it’s okay to hope, to dream, and to wish.

It’s also that feeling of freshness in the air (yes, even here in LA) that wakes you up to face what the day has to offer. Like the ability to go for long walks without the heat of summer cutting them short. Or the crunch of autumn’s profusion of apples replacing summer’s sticky-sweet harvest of peaches. Or the chance to have your cheeks turn pink from nature’s chill, not makeup. All changes, and all for the good.

So yes, I’ll make my resolutions now, when they feel possible, not three months from now. I’ll resolve to write more (entirely doable), worry less (more of a challenge for someone like me, but more embraceable this new season than last), and look forward to positivity even as we get ready to turn our clocks back.

Be-leaf it.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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sounds like magic

Posted by cgcopy on August 14, 2022 in heartfelt, movies, music

At a time when headlines blare what once seemed inconceivable news, the cacophony is enough to send so many of us searching for the sounds of peace. Of quiet. Of simply a silence to the awful noise.

On a recent evening when just one more newscast was one too many, B. and I looked at each other with the slightly glazed eyes of people who have seen just too much of something that was, well, just too much. Scrolling through the TV listings only seemed to offer more of the same old, same old. We wanted something familiar but not boring; distracting but not creepy; hopeful but not heavy. Or anything Marx Brothers. We were about to call it a night because there was nothing that fit the bill – not a hint of Groucho or Harpo in sight – when suddenly, there it was. The Sound of Music.

I know, I know. You can call it sappy. You can wince at the fact that it’s a musical. And you can run screaming from the room because the idea of just-short-of-three hours of a singing family is too much to contemplate (don’t think that all of those thoughts didn’t enter our minds). But something told us to give it a chance and let this classic that we’ve seen so many times before (including the first time for each of us, as seven-year-olds, when we saw it in the same neighborhood theater without even having met each other yet) work its magic once more.

And you know what? It did. First of all, Julie Andrews is a treasure. She of the utterly beautiful voice brought a sweetness, an innocence, and just the right amount of sass to the role of Maria. And have I mentioned her soaring, glorious voice? Then, of course, there is Christopher Plummer (my very first crush – shh, don’t tell B.). Handsome, strong, and redeemed by said Maria to love again, Plummer as Captain von Trapp found his heart (of gold) again thanks to her and to – wait for it – the sound of music. And finally, the children – their voices creating gorgeous melodies and harmonies that sounded joyful, both to our ears and our hearts.

Go ahead, say it, it’s time to cue the violins. But hear me out. The score to that movie – including classics like Do-Re-Me; So Long, Farewell (are you kidding me about the cuteness factor of little Gretl?); Sixteen Going on Seventeen; My Favorite Things; Something Good (what an incredibly touching duet with passion just beneath the surface) – was like a soothing balm to what ailed us that evening. Just hearing Christopher Plummer sing and strum Edelweiss was enough to evoke healing tears.

Of course, the story behind the movie – about how the von Trapp family escaped the terrors of wartime Austria – is a compelling and harrowing one. But escape they did, and that kind of happy ending – seeing them crossing the Alps – while obviously romanticized somewhat for the big screen, was the note of hope we longed for as a nighttime lullaby.

Would listening to great music on its own have done it? Possibly, but we needed the visual fairy tale-esqueness of this love story set in the midst of turmoil to really make a difference that evening.

After all these years, the movie holds its own – art that transports, transforms, and transcends.

Some of my favorite things.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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what’s up, buttercup?

Posted by cgcopy on July 20, 2022 in in a food mood, little bits of joy

Few inanimate objects are as happy as a cupcake. These delightful “cups of cake” (as B. calls them) provide the exactly right proportion of downright joy per square bite. Because each cupcake is its own universe of pure indulgence, each is another chance to explore something new. Unlike a slice from a full-on cake (and I love cake, believe me) there’s something about a cupcake’s personality that makes it a frivolous choice. And besides, there’s the cuteness factor of getting icing on your nose.

My history with cupcakes began with Drake’s Yankee Doodles. When and where I grew up, your family was either a Drake’s or a Hostess family, and we were the former. Yankee Doodles came in packages of three and were dense little chocolate cupcakes filled with white creme. I thought they were the best (that is, until I visited a friend’s house after school and tasted Hostess cupcakes – those had chocolate icing with that famous white squiggle on top plus the white creme center). Yankee Doodles got me through years of after-school homework; sometimes, if I was very lucky, they found their way into my brown-bag lunch.

Later on, Yankee Doodles were replaced in my heart (and tummy) with what remain to this day my favorite-ever supermarket-sold cupcakes, these from that bastion of New York-bakery goodies – Entenmann’s. In those days, Entenmann’s cupcakes came six to a box. They were all chocolate and all filled with white creme. But three were frosted in chocolate and the other three in bright-white vanilla. And that frosting! It was creamy but just hard enough so that when you peeled the cupcake wrapper away chewy bits of the frosting remained on the paper, too delicious to pass up. I loved the times when that box showed up on our kitchen counter.

But then. Magnolia Bakery opened shortly before I moved from NY to the West Coast and, while I didn’t get a chance to try its famous cupcakes, they were something I heard and read about a lot (thank you, Carrie Bradshaw). These boutique-bakery cupcakes promised a next level of pleasure (plus they were so beautiful to contemplate). Sigh. Had I missed my chance at cupcake nirvana?

Nope. Because in a stroke of luck brought about by the cupcake gods, Sprinkles Cupcakes opened here in LA and I fell in love. Deeply. Madly. Truly. All it took was for a box of these cupcakes to show up at work one day and I was smitten. The vanilla cupcake I chose was an “aha!” moment in and of itself (and so good that I had to sneak a second one to take home). The marriage of fluffy cake and decadently outrageous frosting was enough for me to say “I do!” any time someone brought in another box. And that adorable little candy-circle dot on top? Pure love.

These days, I write from home and we don’t live near a Sprinkles. And yes, I know that it (and Magnolia Bakery) deliver, but that just doesn’t feel right. I want to walk into a charming little bakery, peer at all the cupcake choices in the glass case at the counter, and pick out my treat in person. One day recently while wishing for cupcakes (I keep my wishes small and achievable), a postcard arrived announcing a new cupcake bakery opening not too far away (in LA, anything less than a half-hour’s drive is considered not too far). Thank you, genie.

Trays and trays of choices, changing each day, with at least one or two (or three or six) kinds that I covet with each visit. B.’s current favorite is a birthday-cake cupcake (yellow cake, milk-chocolate icing, colorful sprinkles). Mine is a coconut cupcake with at least an inch of cream-cheese-buttercream frosting smothered in a blizzard of coconut. Just describing it makes my heart beat faster (the way it does when I eat too much of the frosting).

Let’s face it. The world is a scary place these days. And if an excellent cupcake once in a while helps center me, helps make me smile, and helps me believe that there is still some sweetness left out there, so be it.

Mea cup-pa.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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end of the innocence

Posted by cgcopy on July 11, 2022 in heartfelt

No matter how many amusing anecdotes I recount in this blog, no matter how many of life’s lighter moments I attempt to capture, no matter how hard I try to bring a smile to my readers (and to make myself laugh), it’s truly a struggle these days not to be overtaken by the times we live in. The inherent innocence required to be truly joyful – to cast aside worry even for a few minutes in order to celebrate the smallest things – seems to hide itself these days behind the shadow of seeing and knowing too much.

There are two enormous moments in my generation’s history that stand out to me as signaling that the sense of well-being so many of us believed in was, sadly, at an end – starting, in my memory as a five-year-old, with the assassination of JFK. Anyone old enough to walk and talk and sense that something was amiss on that day will never forget where they were or what they were doing when they heard Walter Cronkite on the news. Personally, I was outside in the backyard, playing with a friend, when my mother called me in, a strange quavering in her voice. There were workmen in the house finishing our basement and I remember my mother and grandmother in tears and those big, burly men sobbing.

I knew that something awful had happened and that something had changed. Why else would my father come home from work in the middle of the afternoon? Why else would the kitchen remain dark that night as we all gathered around the television? And why was little Caroline, just a few months older than I was, looking so sad? Years of history classes later, I, of course, learned more about the why of that day and how it affected the country and the world. I learned what it meant for Camelot to end. And I got my first taste of the end of the innocence that had surrounded our lives.

That beautiful sunny autumn day in 2001 brought any innocence we might have had left at the time to its knees. September 11 left us all shivering in the cold hard reality that we were no longer secure at home, that the country many of us had taken for granted for years as being a bastion of untouchable safety from any of the evils the rest of the world might improbably aim at us was, frankly, no more. Our country had unknowingly shown a vulnerability that had been breached – it was unthinkable, unbelievable, unimaginable. There we were – a nation aging a hundred years in a day. Far less innocent and far more wise in ways we wished we never had to be. Another date where we all remember where we were and what we were doing when we heard uncomprehendingly the news of the first plane. Saw impossibly the first tower fall. Wept ceaselessly at the terribleness of the day and the horror of the evil. Acknowledged regretfully that allowing ourselves to feel innocent was no longer safe or smart or sensible.

And now, the little children and their teachers at school. Families enjoying a parade during the most American of holidays. Scenes that could not be more innocent had Norman Rockwell painted them. Lost. Finished. Ended in a way none of us could ever have imagined and that all of us collectively feel as a wound in our own hearts. This pain is more than the sorrow for those who have perished and their families and friends who now mourn. It is more than the agony of feeling helpless. And it is more than the leaden recognition that these events seem to keep happening.

It is the fear of believing that we may never feel any of that innocence again.

But it doesn’t mean that we will never feel joy again. In the distinctly human mode of survival, we recognize that our lives do go on. In time we will laugh. And dance. And celebrate. In time.

Heart to imagine.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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melt my heart

Posted by cgcopy on July 8, 2022 in finding the funny, little bits of joy, sweet stuff

I’ve found that trying to be zen is more stressful than not, so I have learned to just let myself be me and roll with the punches. The truth is that the more I may try to get through a day without some kind of silly mishap, the more the mischief gods notice me and decide to have some fun – it’s just easier to let them laugh versus try to change their script.

To wit: the ice-cream-cone incident. Not just any ice-cream-cone debacle, mind you. No scoop of ice cream falling off the cone and landing – splat! – at my feet, as if I were a five-year-old. Not even the slightly more sophisticated, sophomoric humor of the bottom of the cone breaking off and the ice cream running down my shirt and onto my toes without my noticing until it was too late. Nope. That would be too ordinary, too “seen it before,” too easily unnoticed by the surrounding public. No, when I have an ice-cream fiasco, it’s big, it’s embarrassing, and it’s sitcom worthy.

There we were on vacation last week in the Bay Area. (If you’re a regular reader, you already know that San Francisco is my favorite place in the world and that visiting there each year is like coming home – even though I’m originally from that other coast and have been living in Southern California for over 25 years. Wow – where did that time go?). In my mind, San Francisco has some of the best, if not the best, food in the entire country. While many in Los Angeles might disagree (how novel, LA and San Francisco competing over something), to me, San Francisco outright wins (yes, I’ll give New York its due, but the City by the Bay still has my heart – and tummy).

Anyway, after a week of great eats, including Chinese, Italian, French bistro, All-American burgers, and Turkish cuisine (kebabs that I’m still dreaming about), I decided that the one thing missing was ice cream. While strolling through B.’s old neighborhood (did I mention that he lived in San Francisco more than 30 years ago?), we passed a place selling soft-serve ice cream. Soft-serve ice cream with a hard chocolate topping. I was a goner.

I need to preface the rest of this account by saying that I am no stranger to chocolate-dipped soft-serve ice cream. Growing up in the shadow of a Carvel store (or two or three), I had more than a passing acquaintance with that chain’s Brown Bonnet. So I knew what I was asking for. Or so I thought.

My cone arrived in my eager little hands perfectly swirled and dipped, and we sat down to enjoy a few minutes of ice cream nirvana. Except. While B.’s non-dipped cone behaved perfectly, my cone turned into, shall we say, a Bellagio-Hotel-like fountain of ice cream. For some reason (maybe the ice cream wasn’t cold enough to be dipped, maybe the dip was too hot, maybe the folks behind the counter didn’t know what they were doing), the hardened dip sprang first one hole, then another, and then another, and the ice cream started spurting out, first in one spot, then in another, and then in another. As soon as I thought I had one spot licked (literally) two more opened up.

Me: Napkins, I need more napkins.

He: Yup. Just a sec. Let me get my credit card back in my wal –

Me: Now! This is a mess!

He: Okay, hang on just a sec.

Me: (a Great Lake of ice cream forming on the table) I don’t have a sec!

He: (actually looking at me) Got it.

Hearing a giggle, I tore my eyes away from my cone drama to see an adorable little girl, maybe about two years old, trying to eat probably her first-ever cone and covered in ice cream from head to toe, pointing at me and cracking up. The more the ice cream spurted from my cone, the louder she giggled. And the louder she giggled, the more people looked over at her – and then at me. She had an excuse for her mess, though. She was two.

Disappearing wasn’t an option, so I grabbed the new supply of napkins and continued to try to catch the non-stop drips while eating the ice cream as quickly as possible. Suddenly, conquering the cone had become a competition. The cone was winning. And I was not happy.

He: (finishing his cone without an issue and watching me frantically attempting to finish mine, all the while trying really hard not to laugh) You could just break off the chocolate.

Me: (barely avoiding getting melted ice cream and topping on my new sneakers) Huh?

He: Just break off the hard chocolate. It should come off in in big pieces. Then you’ll be eating a regular ice cream cone.

Me: (staring at him suspiciously as the ice cream continued to leak) Really?

He: Trust me.

Figuring that I had nothing to lose (at this point the two-year-old was chortling hysterically – I’m sure the late-afternoon sugar high wasn’t helping things), I broke off the hard topping. Voilà! The leaking stopped, and I was able to gain control of my ice cream cone like a normal adult.

I’m not sure what I was more embarrassed about, the spectacle I had created or the fact that the solution was so simple yet had never occurred to me. Okay, I’m sure – it was the spectacle.

He: All good now?

Me: I guess.

He: Problem?

Me: I just feel like that two-year-old enjoyed her ice cream a whole lot more that I enjoyed mine.

He: Honey, she’s wearing most of it.

Me: I know. But still. She’s over there giggling uncontrollably and I’m kind of humiliated.

He: Look at the bright side. You made a little kid laugh.

Me: (cheering up slightly) Really?

He: Sure. And look at all the calories you saved by having all the ice cream drip onto the table.

Me: (eyes narrowing) Are you saying I need to lose weight?

He: No, I – (stopping because he knows that whatever he says now will get him into trouble)

Me: (voice rising a bit) Then what?

He: I meant, by not filling up on ice cream, you’ve saved room for a great dinner. What do you feel like?

Me: (rallying, visions of garlic bread dancing in my head) Maybe … Italian again?

He: (reaching over to wipe a dab of chocolate off the tip of my nose) You got it.

Sweet talker.

©2022 Claudia Grossman

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one potato, two potato

Posted by cgcopy on June 23, 2022 in finding the funny, in a food mood, love and relationships

When it comes to judging restaurants, many people compare the same dish in each. How was the filet mignon? The chili? The fried chicken? The French onion soup? For B., it’s the pesto. For me, it’s something much simpler and more basic. The potatoes. The mashed potatoes, that is.

Of course, the comparison only works in establishments that offer said potatoes, but there are plenty of those, to be sure. My top-rated venues range from our neighborhood Northern Italian place (garlic mashed potatoes that could make you swoon) to a local diner (just salted enough to make me crave even more) to a road-trip barbecue joint (leave the brisket, take the spuds). In short, if they’re serving mashed potatoes, I’m trying mashed potatoes.

It’s not surprising, given that I’m someone who believes that carbs equal hugs, that carbs equal curves (in a good way), and that carbs basically put the comfort in food. All in moderation, of course (yeah, I’ll let you know how that goes). And when it comes to carbs, mashed potatoes are my hug of choice. Am I really the only one who daydreams about floating on a cloud of mashed potatoes, sleeping on a bed of them, or crawling inside a pillowy pile and feeling safe, warm, and deliciously blissful? (Please tell me it’s not just me).

My two favorite mashed-potato recipes have nothing to do with restaurants, though, and everything to do with emotions (there’s a shock).

The first is my grandmother’s made-with-love mashed potatoes. Her secret ingredient? Chicken fat, aka schmaltz. Yes, I know – the thought doesn’t appeal to me at all today. But, as a little girl who didn’t know better, I couldn’t get enough.

My grandmother lived with us and would buy whole chickens (feet still attached – yikes!) fresh from the kosher-butcher shop. After cutting the chickens up herself (the sight was enough to send me running outside), she would collect the fat and render it down to a golden liquid by simmering it slowly on the stove. Then she’d add it to the potatoes, get out her masher and – voilà! – absolute irresistibleness. Haute-cuisine chefs reach for duck fat today, but I’d hold my grandmother’s nothing-fancy, learned-in-the-shtetl, schmaltz-laden recipe up to theirs any time.

The second recipe comes from, of all places (surprisingly), the summer day camp I went to for years as a kid. I was not much of an athlete back then (nor today, I’m proud to say) and was often the last person picked when the team captains chose their players for volleyball or kickball or tug of war or … well, you get it. I also hated the swim sessions because I was terrified of the water (also somewhat true today). After a morning’s worth of feeling like I didn’t fit in (everyone else was pre-Olympics level, in my mind), lunchtime came as a welcome break.

Whatever was on the menu that day, mashed potatoes were a constant (hey, this was in the 1960s, when nutritionally balanced, lots-of-fruit-and-veggies, lean-protein meals weren’t a priority). I loved those mashed potatoes – creamy, buttery, and with enough black pepper that you could see specks of it in each scoop. Yes, those potatoes were empirically delicious, but, more important, they were a comforting hug after those tough mornings and the perfect lead-in to afternoons filled with arts & crafts, music, and drama (all creative activities that I loved and felt at home doing).

I didn’t learn to cook until I moved in with B. (he was way more accomplished in the kitchen) and one of my first ventures was, you guessed it, mashed potatoes. I asked him to pick up the ingredients for me when he ran out to do some errands – one sweet potato for him (I found out, only after moving in, that he didn’t like mashed potatoes – good thing everything else worked out); one white potato for me; butter; cream. What I got back was one sweet potato, butter, cream, and one small, round, white new potato. Uh-oh.

Me: (pointing to the small white potato) What’s with this?

He: What?

Me: I asked for a white potato. What’s this?

He: It’s a white potato. That’s what the sign said.

Me: (impatiently trying to remain patient) But that’s not what I needed. I needed a large white baking potato to make mashed potatoes. You know, the kind you peel – an Idaho potato.

He: (patiently trying not to get impatient) That’s not what you asked for. You asked for a white potato. You should have asked for a russet potato.

Me: I grew up with two kinds of potatoes – sweet potatoes and white potatoes.

He: You grew up with sweet potatoes and russet potatoes.

Me: Seriously? You’re telling me that russet potatoes aren’t white potatoes?

He: No, I’m telling you that apparently they’re called russet potatoes in the store and if you ask for white potatoes you’ll get this (holding up the white potato).

Me: (tears starting to form and voice starting to quaver) But you should have known what I meant. We’re going to get married and you don’t understand me at all.

He: (thinking it might might be easier just to take me out to dinner) I do understand you, sweetie. I just didn’t understand what kind of potato you were asking for.

Me: (sniffling) But what if the potato is a metaphor for our relationship?

He: (not knowing whether to laugh or bang the potato against his head) It’s not. Trust me. Sometimes a potato is just a potato.

Indeed. The perfect mash.

© 2022 Claudia Grossman

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