A Keg Tale

16 Friday Aug 2013

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sun blocked keg

Sun-blocked.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Yesterday, Julie wrote of a short supply of non-alcoholic beer in bars. I have a beer story, too. No shortage here, though. A party in my backyard last weekend left half a keg of un-drunk beer. It’s been hanging out for almost a week now. And as one who hates to waste food, and even more – alcohol – I’ve been at a loss as to what to do with all that beer. There’s another party lying in wait right outside my back door! But can the beer hold out?

So for the past six days I’ve coddled my keg. I untapped it, iced it, kept it out of the sun, and taste-tested it every morning for, as Julie describes ” … the nice malty carbonated taste of hops.”

“Have a beer!,” I’ve pleaded to everyone who has stepped so much as a foot on my property.

So while the morning taste-testing yesterday passed my muster (I am also someone who enjoys stale Cheez Doodles, and will eat fish that smells fishy), I was sitting on a potential powder keg. The situation was becoming tense. I had to do something with the beer. A lot of beer. And apparently, despite my pampering – flat beer:

flat beer from above

Low carb(ination).

I found good use for a good portion:

watering plant

Beer Garden.

And then I bought 15 pounds of chicken, pulled out my huge container of oil that I never use:

chicken and oil

And battered the bird with beer:

cooking chicken

Fried it up:

frying

And sent out a come-eat-chicken-with-me text to some friends known for their spontaneity. I managed to lure three. So, with enough beer-battered chicken left over to fill a keg, another party just might be looming. Just bring your own beer.

Hey Bartender, Where’s My O’Doul’s?

15 Thursday Aug 2013

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P1170652

BY JULIE SEYLER

I have a friend who, for one reason or another, and many in between reasons, has given up alcohol. She has no complaints but one. When going out to eat, she would love to participate in the cocktail hour with a delicious non-alcoholic beer, and no, she does not want a virgin Bloody Mary. She wants a beer – the nice malty carbonated taste of hops, sans the alcohol.

She’s on the West Coast and I’m on the East Coast. We got together recently for a mini-reunion. We stayed at a great hotel in a resort town on the beach. We went out to dinner every night, but it didn’t matter if it was upscale, or downscale, she could not score the drink of her choice. Not one restaurant stocked non-alcoholic beer. One proprietor explained because there is so little demand, he simply does not bother. We refused to drop the topic, and asked would it be that big a deal to keep one case of O’Doul’s or St. Pauli Girl on hand? He said he would consider it.

I promised her that when I got back to New York City, I would start a campaign to raise restaurant awareness that non-alcoholic beers should be included on the drinks menu.

So now whenever I go out, I ask for a non-alcoholic beer. If they do not have any, I go through my spiel about how there are non-drinkers in the world who still want the option of having an alternative to a Coca-Cola or a virgin Bloody when they dine out, and restaurants should accommodate them.

On behalf of my buddy in LA, please spread the word.

This “Old Lady” Can Be a Mean Girl

14 Wednesday Aug 2013

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meanoldlady

BY MARGO D. BELLER

When I was growing up, and I am sure when you were growing up, too,
there was usually a rundown house in the neighborhood in which lived an
elderly person. In my neighborhood, it was a woman. She lived alone, the
lawn was weedy, and the house needed painting.

We referred to her as “Crazy Mary” or, “the witch.”

I was around 10 years old at the time, and she could’ve been 50 or 60.
Didn’t matter – to us she was old. We’d dare each other to run in her yard,
but ran away when she came out to yell at us. I can’t remember what
happened to her or the house.

Now that I’m in my mid-50s, I know exactly what “the witch” was going
through because there are times I’m the neighborhood’s Mean Old Lady.

My house isn’t rundown, and my lawn hasn’t gone to weeds – quite
the opposite. That is why I get mad when I find children, deer or the
occasional adult, crossing my (unfortunately) un-fenced yard.

I have no children, and until the last few years, my street had few children
on it. But now my neighbors’ kids have kids, and some still live at home.
Three generations live in a house on one side of me, four generations now
live in the house behind, and my last neighbor said the new owner of his
just-sold house has a small child.

In short, I am now surrounded.

Perhaps if I’d had kids I would be more flexible about their random
wildness; the yelling; the running across property lines. After all, I was a kid
myself yelling and climbing over fences, and making messes.

However, I don’t have kids. I know they are capable of wonderful things, but
I rarely see it. To me, they are just noisy at a time when I get more easily
distracted by noise – especially now that I work from home. It has become
harder to concentrate as I’ve aged, and I used to live in some very noisy
neighborhoods in the past. But that was in the past when I was younger.

On occasion I’ve gotten into trouble with kids (and their parents) for
reprimanding them. Embarrassed, I apologize and calmly try to explain
myself. Luckily, we’ve worked things out – at least to the extent that no police
were ever called. I tell myself to leave them alone. As long as they keep
moving, and don’t harm anything, it’s OK. (I think this about deer, too.)

In this era of Facebook, I fear there is a page about a mean old lady with
my picture on it.

My husband and I enjoy the company of our relatives’ children, and when I let down my wariness to speak to some of the local kids, we are friendly to each
other. It doesn’t hurt waving at them, and saying hello.

Still, to them I am “old.” What goes around comes around. When I watch
parents with kids, I wonder about those decisions I made that will come
back to haunt me when I really become old.

No Matter How You Slice It (or Rip It), Bread Rules

13 Tuesday Aug 2013

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bread at fisherman's wharf

BY JULIE SEYLER

There are bread people and non-bread people. Bread people eschew store-bought packaged brands as a tasteless waste of carbs, BUT completely justify gobbling up an entire loaf from their favorite bakery because of the divine indulgence imparted from well-baked kneaded flour.

Bread people swoon over seeing a loaf with a golden-brown crackly crust, while envisioning the crunch as that first chunk is ripped off to start nibbling on before they’ve even paid the cashier.

Tearing open bread

Tearing open bread.

They debate the merits of this loaf:

bread1

With that loaf:

bread2

And if they can’t decide which is tastier, they buy both, and compare and contrast each until each loaf has vanished in their stomach.

And they definitely know not to buy one of these loaves:

bad bread

The lack of pop, crackle and crust is all too obvious and sad.

I have been a bread person since, well, since as long as I can remember. I used to have the nickname, “Bread,” coined by one of my best friends in 5th grade. It may be a gene thing because the entire maternal line waxes romantically over baked dough. When my mother moved back to the city after a 50-year hiatus, she spent endless hours tracking down the best rye breads ever.

A bread person is lucky to live in Manhattan because of the cornucopia of establishments that feature fresh baked bread:

le pain quotidienne
maison kaysereli zabar copy

Anyway, this whole line of bread thought came to mind because a recent article in The New York Times reported the declining consumption of bread amongst the French. It has caused much so much consternation that the bread lobby organized a campaign to reinvigorate consumer desire in the baguette. The advertisements promote eating bread because it is “rich in vegetal protein and fiber and low in fat.” It is good for your social life, and most importantly, patriotic, because bread is the symbol of French culture and heritage. It is true that there is nothing more wonderful then wandering through the streets of a small village in France in the early morning while the aroma of bread wafts through the air.

So, while Parisians are being bombarded with the merits of eating bread, New Yorkers are going to court over the size of a soft drink cup. C’est la difference!

Formatting My Music Includes Keeping it “Reel”

12 Monday Aug 2013

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Music 5

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

If you are on the right side of 50, you have lived through a music migration from records to cassettes to CDs to MP3s. And if you’re someone who never throws out music in any form, you may also have 78s, 45s and 8-tracks. These days, I have to think of the vintage of the music I want to hear to know where to look for it in my house. Beatles – look for records. Bread – look for 8-tracks. Bee Gees – look for cassettes. And if you’re like me, you probably have bought CDs of your favorite albums from the ‘60s that replace records that have more skips than a five-year-old girl. Music 2

Because I have gotten tired of buying and re-buying music in different physical formats, in recent years, I have taken to buying MP3s of my music and storing them on my computer, my phone, and my iPad. I back them up on the Internet. But despite all this redundancy, I don’t trust digital formats. They’re too ephemeral. I prefer to have physical backup. That’s why I still keep all the original source material that the old music came on. I also buy CDs as a backup of my most vital music.

Music 6

Back in 1972, I purchased yet another music source – a reel-to-reel tape recorder. I used it primarily for recording, but I also purchased commercial “albums” that were available in that format back then. For example, I have the Moody Blues’ “Days of Future Past” on a reel-to-reel tape. Recently I dusted off my old reel-to-reel, and played some of those old tapes, and I was surprised at the great sound. Audio enthusiasts insist that records have better sound than CDs, but to my ears, reel-to-reel tapes have better sound than records. More than 40 years of sitting in boxes has not degraded the quality of the tapes. Of course, my children look at my reel-to-reel as if it was a contemporary of Edison’s wax cylinder. But they can’t dispute the great sound.

Frank music

In addition to music, being on the right side of 50 means maintaining machines to play video cassettes, DVDs and Blu-Rays, but that’s another story.

All this is why I have a home entertainment center that looks like NASA launch control while my son has an Ipod connected to a speaker and an Ipad to stream video. I don’t care. I’m not throwing out any of my music and video formats. Someday I may want to listen to my 8-track recording of “Winchester Cathedral.” What? It’s available for 99 cents in the iTunes store? Anybody want to buy an 8-track player?

My B.Y.O.B.: Bring Your Own Brine

08 Thursday Aug 2013

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Brine

I’m big on brine.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

The younger me has memories of dining with my mom at a restaurant, and her dipping into her purse and spreading two or three Sweet’N Lows on the table for her coffee or tea – just in case the restaurant didn’t carry it. And then there was Mrs. W., who would stealthily drizzle her tupperwared low-cal salad dressing, brought from home, on her salads at the diner. And who among us hasn’t known someone who would order a cup of hot water, and then soak a home-brought tea bag in it?

All behavior that mortified me. How uncouth! Beyond rude! Unladylike!

I’m now them. I would never tote a sweetener, a dressing, nor a tea bag. Never. But when it comes to my dirty martini – after years of imbibing many that are not green enough – I’m considering stashing a bottle of olive brine in my bag, and bringing it to the bar.

Unlike my predecessors in gaucheness, though, this is not about my health, or frugality. It is all about sniff, sip, swallow … and salt. You may recall, that for me, it’s that first mouthing of a martini that counts the most, and can make or break the drink. It’s crucial that, “the lips greet the glass with precognitive delight.” And I need to assure that, “that premiere swig” will “always deliver.” Lately, I’ve come to have too many “first swigs” that don’t “deliver.”

If I sip, and my teeth clench, or if my tongue recedes, or worse – if I sip, shiver and shudder – that means the balance of vodka to brine is off-kilter. Sometimes I just suck it up and begrudgingly drink it anyway. Especially when the barkeep smiles proudly, upon delivery, at his or her perceived success at delivering my requested, “filthy, extra-extra-dirty” martini.

But I’ve decided that I can’t take it anymore. What it’s come down to, is me, with a galvanized stare (not unlike a mother teaching a child), explaining to the uninitiated bartender that, “I like it dirtier than most – like the Hudson River.” It borders on begging. Some get it; most don’t.

So, I’ve begun to take back my martini. I will now meekly (always with an apologetic smile), push my glass away from me, and back towards the bartender, with an Oliver Twist(y), “Please sir, I want some more.” Brine, that is.

To which I’ve been admonished (usually with an astonished smile):

“Ew.”
“This drink is a travesty.”
“Why bother with the vodka?”
“Let me see your ankles – they must be swollen.”
“You took the last of it – and you need more?”

But I’ve only taken one personally:

“Why don’t you just bring a bottle of brine with you, and drink that?”

OK, I will. In the tradition of my mom, Mrs. W., and all the tea-bag toters, I guess the older me has earned the right to have it right. The next step is to bring the brine.

So, I’m imagining once I find a travel-size bottle of brine (maybe I should just tupperware-it?), that I will then begin to send back those puny, pea-sized olives that often garnish martinis these days, and ask that my drink be properly topped with big, fat, juicy (bleu-cheese, please!) robin-egg-sized olives. Or I’ll bring my own.

Hey TSA: Don’t ‘Wave Me Up, Pat Me Down

07 Wednesday Aug 2013

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Scanned

Scanned at the airport.

BY JULIE SEYLER

It is standard fare: the excitement of a flight-based vacation tempered by the prospect of wending one’s way through the layers of security imposed by the Transportation Security Administration (TSA). Actually, dealing with security issues begins at home, when we have to remember to not inadvertently pack that new 6.5 ounce tube of toothpaste in the carry-on bag, and ends when we remove our footwear so that we can stroll through the device that detects gadgets hidden in the nether regions of the body. It is unpleasant, but necessary, given the harsh and horrible reality that there are people out there bent on designing ways to blow up airplanes.

For years we have been walking through machines that detect only metal objects. But because they were ineffective against plastic, gels, ceramics and other solids, new technology arose in the form of whole-body scanners. Setting aside issues of privacy (and there are many), these machines pictorially undress you and scan and scope the body for everything. After the hue and cry that the government was deploying radiation in the name of security, and simultaneously increasing every traveler’s chance of cancer by so many leaps and bounds, we are now subjected to scans that operate on millimeter wave technology. According to the TSA and various other Web sites, millimeter wave technology is perfectly safe because it does not use ionizing radiation to zap you.

I did not know all this when I went to Puerto Rico in March 2013 with a friend for a 4-day trip, but I knew the basic ritual. I was directed towards the body scanner, or as I prefer to call it, the ‘Wave Machine. It looks like a silver cylinder pod, somewhat reminiscent of the transformer from Star Trek. At the time, I had heard vague buzz that these scanners were not so safe, but the TSA guard pooh-poohed me. She explained the machine operates on microwaves, not Xrays. No fear of being irradiated in the name of safety.

I waltzed into the pod, held my hands up, was microwaved, and cleared security. I met my girlfriend on the other side. She said she would never go through one of them, and had opted for the pat down.

I said, “Why? I was just assured how safe they were.”

She rolled her eyes and said, “Hah!”

Fast forward five months, and I am back in an airport having to go through security. I see the ‘Wave Machine, and I see the standard issue metal detector, and recalling my girlfriend’s, “Hah!” I proceed to walk through the metal detector. I am immediately halted by the TSA guard.

“You cannot use this machine. You need to use that machine.” He pointed to the ‘Wave.

“But I do not want to go through the ‘Wave Machine.”

“Well, then you have to get patted down.”

“Fine.”

“You might have to wait.”

“Fine.”

So as I am waiting, I see a woman sail through the metal detector. I figure the TSA guy must have made a mistake, so I try to walk through again. And again I am halted.

“How come she gets to go through?”

“She has a child.”

“So what!”

“Only adults with children, and employees, are allowed to use these machines.”

“Whoa, you have got to be kidding me!”

“No. Those are the rules.”

Hmmm. Is the TSA practicing a little unequal protection on the bodily harm spectrum? Even though the online literature repeatedly states that non-ionizing radiation is perfectly safe, does the TSA know something else? Has it perhaps determined that the organs and tissues of little lads and lasses, as well as employees of the TSA, are too delicate and vulnerable to be microwaved, but the rest of us wear invisible armor that protects against the assault of the people scanner?

I would love to see the risk assessment memos on this issue, penned by the lawyers and actuaries: Please analyze the monetary damages if a six year old successfully sues for wave damage vs. what would be incurred if a 60 year old sued.

The mere fact is that it would be so much more difficult to establish the link, so cause and effect on someone who has lived beyond 18 must have made it a no-brainer for the TSA to institute this policy. Or am I merely a right-side-of-50 cynic?

Fifteen minutes later the pat-down lady showed up. And on I went through security.

Herman Hupfeld: A Jersey Boy From a Time Gone By

06 Tuesday Aug 2013

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Herman Hupfeld will never be forgotten.

Herman Hupfeld will never be forgotten.

By FRANK TERRANELLA

It’s one of the most famous songs ever written because it is the centerpiece of one of the most famous movies ever made. But its author is largely unknown – the answer to a trivia question. The movie is “Casablanca,” and the song is, “As Time Goes By.”  But who wrote it?

Earlier this year I attended a screening of “Casablanca” at the State Theatre in New Brunswick, New Jersey, with the New Jersey Symphony Orchestra providing the music. Max Steiner’s classic score never sounded better. But Max didn’t write the song that people remember most from “Casablanca” – the song that Ilsa asks Sam to play again. Max Steiner, for all his musical genius, did not write “As Time Goes By.” A man by the name of Herman Hupfeld did that.

Who, you may well ask, was Herman Hupfeld? He was the son of a church organist in Montclair, New Jersey. He began his career in 1912 singing his own songs in Ziegfeld’s Midnight Frolic. This was the after-hours entertainment that Florenz Zeigfeld staged after the Zeigfeld Follies on the roof of the New Amsterdam Theatre on 42nd Street. Hupfeld went on to serve in World War I as a saxophonist in the United States Navy Band. In the 1920s, he wrote songs for various Broadway shows. He was the “go-to-guy” for what they called “additional material.”

In 1931, Hupfeld provided additional material for a musical called “Everybody’s Welcome.” The show had a book by Lambert Carroll, lyrics by Irving Kahal, and music by Sammy Fain. Fain and Kahal wrote, “Let a Smile Be Your Umbrella,” and Fain went on to write, “Love Is a Many Splendored Thing.” But “Everybody’s Welcome” did not produce a hit for the duo. The hit of that show, which ran for 139 performances, was the additional material provided by Herman Hupfeld – “As Time Goes By.” Rudy Vallee had a successful recording of it.

Fast forward to 1942, and Hal Wallis is producing a movie inspired by the 1938 Charles Boyer, hit “Algiers.”  It’s based on an unproduced play by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison called, “Everyone Comes to Rick’s.” The screenplay adaptation by Julius and Philip Epstein has as a key plot-point, a song played by Sam, Rick’s pal and piano player, that used to be Rick and Ilsa’s favorite when they were in Paris together before World War II. Max Steiner tells Wallis that he would write a song for the movie. But Wallis feels that the song should be something old and familiar, a song that Sam actually would have played in the late ‘30s. The choice was Hupfeld’s, “As Time Goes By.” And the rest is history.

While the song became world-famous, Hupfeld remained in near obscurity at his home at 259 Park Street in Montclair, a short walk from the Watchung Avenue train station. Reports say that he rarely left his hometown. He wrote many other songs with titles such as “When Yuba Plays the Rhumba On the Tuba,” A Hut in Hoboken,” and “Let’s Put Out The Lights (And Go To Sleep).” He died in 1951 at the age of 57. He’s buried in the Mount Hebron Cemetery in Montclair.

While few people remember Herman Hupfeld, his creation lives on in film history. It’s safe to say that a century after his death, people will still be echoing Ilsa’s request, “Play it Sam. Play,`As Time Goes By.’”