The Reality Is My Wife Wants Me To Be A Loser

With a good night sleep still taking residence in my eyes I walked out of the house to warm up the Jeep.  I  opened the door and found a note on my seat.  "Don't be offended, but you belly is getting too big for your heart. Stop eating so late at night because I love you and want you to be healthy"

I was not offended, after all lately my belly is getting too big for my heart.  Still my thoughts immediately tuned in to the weekly recurrence of one of the more ridiculous realty shows on TV.  The Biggest Loser, unfortunately,  is a must watch in my house.  In fact in had been on in our bedroom for about two hours just the night before.  It became  apparent to me that  this show had  prompted the Debster to write me what I have come to view as a "reality show era love note".  I really didn't know what to say, but since I was alone I didn't say anything.  Instead I called her,  to thank her for the note, and  to apologize for causing her to worry about me.

As I drove to work I started to think about the evolution of this note, the reality show that I think prompted it, and perhaps how other reality shows and programs on television that my wife may have been exposed to c may affect the very sanctity of my life. 

First my weight situation.  In my never ending battle of the bulge I am currently at a peak.  I am  convinced that Debbie's  weekly viewing of  two extremely fit people screaming and abusing some severely overweight people, (all for their own good mind you.....hah!)  prodded her to become vocal about her concerns for me.  She no doubt pictured me sometime in the future with my shirt off, throwing up on a treadmill while Jillian yelled at me in front of a television audience of 40 million people.  Potentially this could be embarrassing and effect Joelle's prospects of getting into the high school of our choice, so Deb sent me the love note.

I'm sure most of you will view this as a positive thing, and I would tend to agree.  After all it caused me to pledge to her that I will lose at least some of that belly. Still, I remain extremely concerned about how easily Debbie is influenced by what she sees on the tube.

What if she sees that infomercial for Breathe Aide that breakthrough anti-snoring device.  She may leave  me a note along with those plastic tubes to stick up my nose while I sleep.

 Or maybe after watching Dancing With The Stars and seeing  Kevin James make it to the quarter finals, she'll lovingly suggest that I take dance lessons on Tuesday nights at Kingsboro Community College.

  Or what if after an episode of Jersey Shore she starts fist pumping at me in public, or maybe she'll turn me to that guy on the HGTV who embarrasses husband who can't finish jobs around the house.  It could get even worse.  What if she starts grinding up male enhancement pills like that guy Smiling Bob does on all those commercials (his wife does look awfully happy), and sprinkling them in my coffee.

 Or worst yet, what if she doesn't like the dishes I prepare for our holiday party calls me a F****ing  A**hole and throws me out of my kitchen like Gordon Ramsey does on Hell's Kitchen. 

Well my future is clearly uncertain.  If I think about all the possible hurdles I may have to face I won't be able to sleep.  So for the time being I'll just give my props to the reality show that has my wife writing me love notes again, and hope she doesn't decide to go on the Bachelorette. 

Thanksgiving Without The Jewish Santa Claus

I love this time of year.  Fall is at its' crisp and colorful peak.  Thanksgiving is steps away and Christmas is just around the corner.  Thanksgiving in particular is a favorite due to the warmth of my family get togethers.  It brings back memories of my grandmothers and so many good feelings.  A big part of my holiday for the past 16 years or so has been the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Since Jackie was about 2, and year after year with the arrivals of Samantha, and Joelle, and along with a litany of family and friends, I have attended the Thanksgiving Day Parade.   Not on some corner packed into a crowd 17 rows deep but instead with prime reserved seating on Columbus Circle, or on Central Park West and even a few times at the Macy's Grandstand.

This made for dozens of moments that dreams were made of in the eyes of each of my girls as they grew up at the parade watching their favorite cartoon character floats or teen idol of the moment pass by in front of their eyes.  We have seen them all from Barney, Hilary Duff, Miranda Cosgrove, the Cheetah Girls, Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, Santa Claus and dozens of others. There is just one word to explain how a guy like me get such treatment.  Bernie.

My friend Bernie, started out as my boss Bernie about 24 years ago.  He was tough and gruff but we hit it off and he soon became an Uncle Bernie to me.  Along the way when I needed a favor, or someone in my family needed a favor he was my go to guy.  He didn't just seem to know everybody in the world, he did know everybody in the world.  Uncle Benny needs a job in security, Uncle Bernie gets him a job in security,  Grandpa Al needs a transfer to a kinder gentler OTB, Uncle Bernie gets him the transfer.  Joey needs an engagement ring for Debbie, Uncle Bernie has me sitting with his own diamond importer.  We were so close that when I got married Bernie was part of the trifecta that performed my ceremony, (along with a Judge and Rabbi) offering his own brand of spiritual well wishes.  When the Jackie and Samantha and Joelle dropped in Bernie helped out with their blessings and even their Hebrew names.  He was all over my life.

One early fall day when Jackie was about two Bernie called me up and said I have a few tickets for you and your daughter for the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  I thanked him but told him I had no desire to stand on a corner with 10,000 people and my two year old in the cold trying to see a float.  He said "Joey, would I put you and your daughter on a corner.  I have reserved seats for you on Columbus Circle."  He then went on to describe taking his kids to the parade as they were growing up, sitting in these great seats and getting hot chocolate and cookies for the kids as part of the whole deal.  It sounded too good to be true, but suddenly I was game.  So there I was on Thanksgiving morning, along with  Jackie and my Dad,  all of us bundled to top.  I remember it being about 28 degrees.  True to his word  the seats were great, the hot chocolate and cookies were great, Jackie was wide eyed, and I was sharing a moment with Dad and my daughter that still seems like only yesterday. From that Thanksgiving on, Bernie, my Jewish Santa Claus, ushered in the holiday season for me and my family every Thanksgiving with tickets for the parade.  I never had to ask, they became my rites of fall.  As Samantha and then Joelle came along the tradition continued every year for me and my girls, and most thankfully my Dad. Growing up my Dad had always gone out of his way to do everything for me, and there seemed to be a poetic justice to have him there we me as I shared these memorable moments with my kids.

As the years went by Bernie would sometimes get me up to eight tickets a year allowing me to share the experience with numerous members of my family and friends.  This guy made me such a big shot and I think he knew that and enjoyed that.  Even as professionally we went different ways, we remained close and the tickets always came as the calendar greeted November.

A couple of years ago Bernie got sick.  I hadn't heard from him for awhile so I paid him a visit at his apartment.  He told me he had lung cancer, and I cried.  He battled and never complained and thankfully life with Bernie went on.  Then last summer things seemed to take a turn for the worse, and he was hospitalized for a stretch.  Less than  a week before the parade my phone rang at home, I picked it up and a rasped voiced Bernie was on the line "Joey your tickets are at the armory, make sure you pick them up before tomorrow night"   I was speechless. I thanked him of course, picked up 10 tickets for the parade, and shared another great day with my girls, some friends, and my cousin.  I remember calling Bernie from the parade and having everyone express their thanks to him over the speakerphone.  As always he took it in stride, like it wasn't a big deal.

It was a big deal.  It was always a big deal.

A couple of months later my friend Bernie, the Jewish Santa Claus died, and for me things still aren't quite the same.  I think of him often, and with Thanksgiving and the holiday season in the headlights, I think of him more than often. When this time of year came around I know he loved to make me a big shot with my girls. My joy and their joy was his joy.  He was a remarkable guy, with a lot of pull who knew everyone.  I think it is more than a coincidence that his beloved Giants won the World Series as soon as Bernie made it to heaven,  It clearly took him just a few months to make the right connections.  I miss him, and he will always be a wonderful part of Thanksgiving memories for me even though we never spent a Thanksgiving together.  You know what, knowing Bernie I wouldn't be surprised if tickets to the parade showed tomorrow in my mailbox

Hitting The Road With Joe - Saying Goodbye To Hannah Montana

Hitting The Road With Joe - Saying Goodbye To Hannah Montana

Nothing Could Be Finer Than The Highland Park Diner In The Morning!

There is nothing like uncovering a local road food gem.  Jackie's new residence in Rochester has opened up the possibility of endless discoveries on the roads to Western New York.  I had read about a diner in the Rochester area that was marked as a must go, but a previous attempt to enter the neon box car was thwarted by a nine o'clock closing time. (How can a diner close at 9:00?).  On my most recent trip to see Jackie, we decided to make effort to visit the diner from Sunday morning breakfast. 

A little removed from downtown Rochester the Highland Park Diner (960 Clinton Avenue South, Rochester NY, 14620)  is not located in what can be described as a bustling neighborhood.  As we pulled up, it became apparent that its' small parking lot was a no go.  After parking a block away, we approached the diner and were advised there would be a 20 minute wait for seating.  Definitely a good sign.  A peak inside the vintage box car diner revealed some counter seating, and just a few booths and tables....all packed in.   By the time our 20 minutes expired, the wait behind us climbed to 45 minutes and people were waiting.   This place could hardly be described as a hidden gem as all of Rochester seemed to be lined up for breakfast.

As soon as we were seated in our booth in became apparent why.  Besides having an extensive menu of classic diner food, loaded with breakfast combinations,  there was a specials menu not to be believed.  The various marriages of staple like omelets, pancakes, and french toast to seasonal fruits and vegetables was stunning.  Debbie and Jackie settled for the peanut butter stuffed french toast topped with raspberries and whipped cream, and I for the pumpkin bread french toast with pumpkin butter.  The girls seemed to enjoy their choice as their was little left on either of their plates (just enough to take back to the dorm for Jackie's roommate Kate).  My own choice......such a dish is just not fair to the palette.  The warm pumpkin butter on the dense pumpkin bread still gives me the shivers. 

If you ever happen to drive seven hours out of the way for breakfast, guess what, it will be worth it.  The Highland Park Diner is a must.

The Danbury Mint Issued A Highland Park Diner Collectible.

The True Meaning Of GPS.

What in the world does GPS stand for?  Incredibly, asking 10 different people will elicit 5 different answers the most common being Global Positioning System.  Right you say, wrong I say.  I too once thought that was the answer, but thanks to my in-laws I have come to learn that GPS really stands for something entirely different.  As successful as my in-laws have been in reaching new destinations thanks to their GPS, most notably Rochester to see Jackie, they have be unable to avoid some of the pitfalls of simply not being able to work the damn thing.

Where do I start?  If you are my in-laws, it is not at home.  Since their GPS has a fondness of taking them along the BQE whenever they seek to leave or return to the City,  they resorted to lying to the GPS about where they live so they can take their preferred route through the Belt Parkway or Ocean Parkway.  So home for them is somewhere on Ocean Avenue instead of where they really live on Flatbush Avenue.  So when "the bitch", as they commonly refer the voice on their GPS to, gets them "home", they first then have to go home.

One of their early GPS mishaps involved completing 3 round trips through the Lincoln Tunnel in an attempt to get home from New Jersey, caused by not being able to navigate the lane shift that takes you from the tunnel exit onto the West Side Highway as "the bitch" added to the lane confusion shouting "rerouting! rerouting!".  Another resulted in their ending up at Philadelphia Park while trying to get to the casino at Mount Airy Lodge in the Poconos.  That time "the bitch" couldn't distinguish between the two Pennsylvania Casinos taking them as far north as the George Washington Bridge and then all the way down to the entrance way of the racetrack.  The most recent episode involved them putting 13 miles on the odometer of their Sonata trying to get out of a BJ's parking lot in Rochester.

Still there is always one that rises above the rests.  My in-laws could not wait to take Jackie up to the Empire Casino in Yonkers once she turned 18.  So one night in June they decided to take the ride.  With the five of them in the car, Grandpa Al, Grandma Marcia, Jackie, Debbie and "the bitch" they set out for the night.  They left home, to their "home" on Ocean Avenue, and programed in the address of the Empire Casino in Yonkers.  With directions from "the bitch" they were there in no time. Optimal GPS usage.  After trying their luck for a few hours, successfully on this occasion as I recall, it was time to go home.  Now mind you, my father in law has been coming and going from Yonkers Raceway for most of his adult life.  But he is now addicted to "the bitch".  So he asked my mother in law to program the GPS for home; again not their real home, but their GPS home; and off they were.  After driving one exit south on the Deegan, they got off the highway, made a left and another left, as directed and found themselves back at Yonkers.  Convinced they had made a mistake, or failed to comply with the directions of "the bitch" they got on the Deegan again and headed home (GPS home).  After one exit they got off again, made a left and another left and were back at Yonkers again.  On the third round trip Jackie pointed out this looping problem, and discovered that Grandma Marcia had not successfully programmed home (GPS home that is) and "the bitch" was simply redirecting them to the locale that had been programmed in at the beginning of the evening. 

So in my house, or really in my mind GPS no longer stands for Global Positioning System.  No, GPS now means something entirely new to me, as it now has served a more important function than navigation.  It has  provided me with some funny but true stories that I can't help retelling.  GPS in my dictionary...Grand Parent Stories!

The Fifty Nine Dollar Bagel

   

   The culinary world is filled with delights that lighten the wallet.   At $99, there is the Double Truffle Hamburger at DB Bistro Moderne in Manhattan. http://www.danielnyc.com/dbbistro.html  Then there is the $1,000,  Grand Opulence Sundae at New York's Serendipity.  http://www.serendipity3.com/ Crave pizza? How about a $1,000 a pie (or $125 a slice)  a 12-inch thin crust, at Nino's Bellissima in Manhattan. http://ninospositano.com/   What could be next you ask.  Well now in my hometown of Brooklyn, New York there is actually a $59.00 Bagel. 

     How I came across this culinary curiosity is quite a story, and its starts with of all people Paula Deen.  Know for her down home southern cooking, one of Paula's favorite recipes is for her Southern Fried Chicken.  Its ingredients are rather simple, the preparation and cooking time underwhelming.  It provided an enticing welcome for any would be chefs.  Lets review the recipe for a moment.

Southern Fried Chicken Ingredients:

4 eggs

1/3 cup water

1 cup hot red pepper sauce

2 cups self-rising flour

1 teaspoon pepper

House Seasoning - 1 cup salt , 1/4 cup black pepper,  1/4 cup garlic powder

2 1/2-pound chicken, cut into pieces

Oil, for frying, preferably peanut oil

     What, you may ask,  does this have to with a $59.00 bagel? Well there are a few more ingredients that will put this all together for you.  First, there are my in-laws Allan and Marcia who decided to tackle this recipe for kicks this past Sunday.  The first call I fielded from them had to do whether they needed to use peanut oil in the Paula's recipe. Not knowing the recipe simply preferred peanut oil, I advised them to follow the recipe as it reads, if Paula says peanut oil its peanut oil.  They next questioned  the use of 1 cup of hot sauce.  My answer, if Paula says a cup of hot sauce, its a  cup of hot sauce.  I didn't mind the questions at all since no one in my house was talking to me that afternoon anyway.  A few hours later, the question concerned the importance of frying in oil at 350 degrees.  I told the in-laws that the temperature of the oil is crucial, and you cannot (as Marcia offered) just wait for the oil to boil.  I suggested they stop by the local general store for a cheap oil (or candy) thermometer.  It seemed at this point that they were mere hours away from a true Southern treat.

     When the phone rang a few hours later, my father-in-law was on the phone in distress.  The chicken was a natural disaster, so salty it was inedible.  It was resting comfortably at the bottom of the trash bin.

     What went wrong you ask? Well, there is a difference between "season your chicken" and dip in egg batter, and "dip your chicken in the seasoning" and then dip in egg batter.  Marcia must have been having  "shake-n-bake"  flashbacks, and since Paula's House Seasoning is basically two-thirds salt.....well.

 

Southern Fried Chicken Ingredients:

4 eggs  ($1.08)

1/3 cup water  (free)

1 cup hot red pepper sauce  ($1.36)

2 cups self-rising flour  (.40)

1 teaspoon pepper (.10)

House Seasoning - 1 cup salt  (.64), 1/4 cup black pepper  ($1.61), 1/4 cup garlic powder  ($1.46)

2 1/2-pound chicken, cut into pieces  ($8.00) *they fancy free range chicken 

Peanut oil ($14.95)

Oil thermometer ($29.95) *they went for the battery operated one

Total Cost - $59.45 (prices based on Shoprite Online)
    

    Oh well, its only a chicken, and by the way............ Allan enjoyed the bagel he had for dinner.


   Afterword:  Before discovering the error of their ways the in-laws tried the recipe again, changing from kosher salt, which they believed to be the culprit for the initial fiasco, to table salt on the second try.  No difference the second chicken was trashed as well. It was then through forensic questioning that I uncovered the error of their ways.  




  



Travel Blog: This Road Trip Ends In College

Travel Blog: This Road Trip Ends In College