Sweet thoughts – a sweettooth is not wasted on the youth

Thinking about taste memories from the past, I realized that the foods that made the greatest impression, in both the physical and emotional sense, on my mind were sweets.  I can picture and almost even taste them.  I have no problem remembering the pleasure I had in consuming them, regardless of whether I would eat them today. They even create a pleasant sensation merely thinking of them.

As my mother is French and I grew up in the United States, I enjoyed sweets from both sides of the Atlantic. At home, my breakfast was a petit pain au chocolat – a small croissant with chocolate. I know that such a breakfast would be considered highly unhealthily today but my mother justifiably was more concerned that I ate something before school. By the way, even in France, they don’t make them like they used to do, light and chocolaty at the same time. For special occasions, we might get an éclair, once again a light dough but with a wonderful chocolate cream, or a cannoli, an Italian pastry roll with vanilla cream.  On winter days, we might get a cup of hot Dutch Droste chocolate, which, in my mind, was in another league from any other hot chocolate. Later I discovered kouabiedes, Greek cookies made with butter and sugar, and a crêpe au Grand Marnier, a simple crepe with sugar, Grand Marnier and lemon, still one of favorites. During my time in France, I learned to appreciate Italian gelato, relishing those small but tasty cones with pistachio ice cream bought from the cart near the Hotel de Ville in Paris. A real treat was a chocolate liegeoise from the Drugstore on the Champs Elysée. In Paris, I also discovered the joy of banane flambée, the Chinese flambeed dessert. I admittedly was not a typical American kid.

So you don’t think I was a snob, I equally enjoyed American sweets.  The pleasure of plowing through a box of Oreo or Chips Ahoy cookies with some milk is as basic as it gets.  By the way, I always first opened the Oreo when I was a kid. For that matter, I would never refuse a jelly donut if was offered nor do I do today especially since Hanukah is about to arrive with all its sufganiot, the Israel version of that donut on condition that they are fresh or made by my wife. On special occasions, I would have a banana split, which consists of a banana split into two with ice cream, sauce and whipped cream on top, a root beer float, a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a glass of cold root beer, grantedly a strange but tasty combination that I think has disappeared, or a chocolate malt, which is like a chocolate shake with malt added to it, giving it a singular taste. Curiously enough, it is still sold at Dodger Stadium, which is appropriate since the whole park, food included, is a relic of the 1960’s. In summer camps, I actually liked the cinnamon toast and smores, camp-fire roasted marshmallows with chocolate on a graham cracker, as long as the marshmallows were only lightly roasted, not burnt.  In college, due to the awful dorm food, I survived on special banana mocha milk shakes, which included, besides milk, chocolate and coffee ice cream (with pieces of coffee in it), chocolate syrup, a shot of expresso and a banana. Believe it or not, I still lost weight even with that caloric package.

I am no longer 20 years old nor even 30.  Yet, I still have a sweet tooth.  Today, my taste is more Middle Eastern. I relish a piece of baklava or ush el bul bul (bird’s nest) as well as a crème brulée. I have not taken to local crembo, a chocolate-covered crème puff sold in the winter “instead” of ice cream. In practice, my standard dessert is a plain medjool date, moist and just sweet enough to end a meal satisfactory.  I do confess to occasionally pigging out on many of those sweets from the past. All in all, I am happy that I profited from my youthful metabolic balance as much as possible and did not waste my youth, at least in that aspect. 

The sound of silence

The volume of poems, songs, books and research on the subject of love is almost deafening.  From beginning to end, from the boundless extasy of falling in love to the seemingly bottomless pit of pain of breaking up, human beings are well prepared, at least theoretically, for anything that can happen in this process.

Unfortunately, there is one aspect of love that very few people mention but is becoming ever more common. Admittedly, it is hard to imagine and unpleasant to contemplate. Still, with life span increasing, it is something that many will experience. Specifically, I am referring to the challenge of loving people that, due to chronic pain, mental deterioration or medical problems, have changed so much that they have become completely different people. Kind, patient and generous partners turn into mean, impatient and self-centered individuals. Warm, loving homes turn into battlegrounds. Heaven turns into hell.

I have seen that various degrees of this transformation with friends and family. My father has not adjusted well to being handicapped and getting old as he approaches the age of 94. One of my friends told me how difficult it was to recognize the woman he married in his bed-ridden, grumpy wife. I do not judge these people because I cannot say how I will be if and when I reach that state.

Making that situation worse, there are no words of wisdom, magic formula, rosy outlooks or even lights at the end of the tunnel to this martyrdom. We are all left alone, trying to remember our loved one as they were once upon a time, a bit like looking an old smelly dog and remember the wild puppy of yesteryear. Memory and fortitude are the only tools in this truly final chapter of love.

In praise of the human species, the vast majority of people stand by their partners and take care of them despite their extreme emotional suffering. Caught unprepared in all ways for the challenge, they cope as best as they can in the same silence they previously encountered regarding this transformation. These people have my sympathy and admiration. As the French say, chapeau. As the Jews say, may you never know.

Dyslexic enablement

This week, a cousin of mine, David Rifkind, died at the early age of 51. He was a very successful real estate promoter in Los Angeles. During our last conversation in the summer at his house, we discussed dyslexia and its effects on our lives.  It turns out that we also had that "disability" in common. His comments expressed my feelings exactly and hopefully can serve as an inspiration to those who have it and those who work with them.

He enthusiastically stated that dyslexia was the key to his success.  Specifically, he noted that his ability to think differently allowed him to find solutions that "normal" people could not imagine. Instead of handicapping him, it gave him a leg up. If a task needed more analytical and less intuitional skills, he hired the appropriate person. So, dyslexia is not a curse but a blessing in many situations.

Naturally, depending on the type of dyslexia, other tasks can become difficult or even almost impossible. Dyslexics require great concentration to execute specific routine tasks. On the other hand, everybody finds certain simple jobs quite complicated. Most dyslexics find a way, granted unconventional, to attain reasonable success in these deficiencies. These strategies include proper scheduling, extra time, and no multitasking, to name just a few. Ultimately, dyslexics can achieve their goals no less successfully than others, sometimes on their own and sometimes with the help of others. The road is not always smooth or conventional but does lead to Rome.

Depending on the level and type of dyslexia, working with dyslexics may involve showing some flexibility and understanding. The price is well worth it. In a rapidly changing world, every company needs people that grasp the situation quickly and think outside the box.

So, to all those feeling frustrated by dyslexia or using it as an excuse for failure, I suggest that you embrace it and appreciate your unique approach to the world. Accentuate the positive, overcome the negative and find the niche in which your special talents will shine.

In memory of David Rifkind