I Miss My Pink Bunny Slippers And My Jimmy Hoffa Report

“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” Oscar Wilde

Some fond memories we hold dear aren’t necessarily life changing by any means.

They may be small, quiet and warm and bring a smile to our face at times of need. Memories appear suddenly from a smell, a song or seeing the face of someone on the street.

There are those memories we all seem to share like family times together, picnics, days at the beach, skiing or building a snowman. Perhaps seeing the Beatles or Elvis on Ed Sullivan the first time.

Jumping into a pile of autumn leaves after your father has raked them to the curb, or licking the beater after your mother bakes cookies.

These are the sorts of memories we all hold dear.

And then there are some that are simply reminders of times we spent in a special place. Something inconsequential and meaningless to anyone but you. Yours alone to ponder on and fondly recall.

We all have those. Finishing an unforgettable book and wishing it weren’t over. Tasting a new food that suddenly becomes a necessity instead of an unknown quantity. Giving a special gift to a favorite teacher.

Yes, these are not earth shattering in any way.

Of course there are those recollections we laugh about with others. Not because they were necessarily funny, but because now they seem so foolish.

Remembering walking in a line toward the school basement to hide from the atom bomb.

Now of course we know how foolish an exercise that was.

Not just because an atom bomb couldn’t be stopped by concrete, but because the harm done by the asbestos-covered pipes in the basement were the bigger threat.

Or having a health fear eliminated when we received that Salk polio vaccine-covered sugar cube from the school nurse.

There are also the unpleasant ones that seem to crop up at odd times like a hole in your sock in the middle of a long walk.

I choose to forget those and drown them out with the good memories. Okay, so maybe a piece of chocolate, too. Hey! This is a judge free space.

The point is as we age, we collect more and more of these memories. Our brain becomes a photograph album bursting over with moments that pop up like a digital picture frame.

It’s also true they are often enhanced by having someone with whom to share them.

I really understood that when my brother died suddenly. When a memory popped up, I couldn’t’ call him and say, “do you remember?” Three words that now bring tears to my eyes instead of reaching for the phone. I always think of him when I hear Jimmy Hoffa’s name. He’d call when someone, somewhere allegedly found Hoffa’s body and we’d laugh together. Now I smile and cry.

I know it’s good to recall those memories because they keep my brother alive and that is a good thing, despite the sadness.

Memories shared with siblings may differ from person to person, but at this age far too many of us are experiencing that loss.

But we must move on, right?

Creating new memories with our children and grandchildren they can turn to and recall with fondness is what matters now.

Sure, looking forward instead of backward is the way to see things of course. Yet, there is comfort in embracing past, happy moments that even for a minute or two returns those now gone to us once more. There are also reminiscences shared with friends.

When I was editor of the Beverly Hills Courier newspaper we put the paper to bed every Thursday. Back in prehistoric times before we switched to computers, we literally pasted each story onto boards and then sent them to the printers. It was a daylong process that involved walking around the composing room for hours.

In order to make life easier and silence my bitching feet, I would wear a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. I didn’t mind a bit looking like Ralphie on Christmas morning. Soon my friends in the community began to buy me new and unique ones. My feet thanked them every Thursday.

This memory seems so small and unimportant, but it was part of the bigger one of my wonderful years at the paper. And how lucky I was to have generous friends who gifted me with comfy slippers.

Now friends mention my slippers from time to time because it’s something they also recollect with humor.

Is it a life changing moment? Okay, well maybe to my feet. But the point is it sits in my mind and is there to share with friends or alone when I see a fuzzy pink anything now.

It’s true memories cut both ways. There are happy and sad, life changing and insignificant, positive and negative and everything in between.

But I truly think we underestimate how important these recollections are to our mental well-being and happiness.

Recalling joyful moments make us feel blissful.

Remembering loved ones, even though laced with sadness, brings them back to share a moment again.

Creating new memories with family and friends keeps us alive and vibrant, and creates a wonderful gift to leave for them someday.

For my birthday last year my family took me to Disneyland. My grandson said it was one of the best days ever. I guess, that’s the most important part of our legacy after all.

This year I’m leaning toward Harry Potter at Universal. A game of Quidditch anyone?  

Hockey Puck Latkes on Chanukah? Oh The Humanity!

From time to time throughout life stuff happens for which there is no name. So as creative humans we find it necessary to make up a designation for a new disease or illness which medical science has not yet nor probably will ever recognize.

Thus I present to you a new sickness I contracted recently and from which I still suffer. Readers, may I introduce you to Latke Trauma?

No, I haven’t completely gone off the rails. Okay so I do teeter on the edge at times I admit, but this one is actually quite logical. I’m quite certain the same thing has happened to you as well. Only now we have a name for it instead of “Boy, that Christmas ham was so tough it turned me off ham for a year.”  May I present “Ham Trauma?” Or, “boy that awful tasting egg roll caused me to lose my appetite for Chinese food.” I give you “Egg Roll Trauma.”

Sorry, I never met a pizza I didn’t like so I guess that food would be exempt from such trauma. But latkes, sadly, are not.

At Chanukah meals it has long been the custom to allow the mighty latke to take either the lead, or a very important supporting role in a cast of yummy eats during the holiday.

Latkes, so rooted in tradition they call up the flavors of childhood even into old age. When one’s teeth are on their last legs they are still able to gum a latke down. Okay so it might take a bit more sour cream, or applesauce, but it’s well worth the effort.

So now that I’ve established how I feel about latkes you will better understand my illness.

Chanukah has just passed and I, as so many others, looked forward to chowing down on some crispy, perfectly fried latkes smothered in sour cream and or applesauce.

As we all know they always taste better at someone else’s house when you don’t have to fry them yourself and have the lingering smell of oil around for weeks.

So I was thrilled to be invited to a Chanukah party at a friend’s home and anticipating my first Chanukah latke of the year.

The crowd was large and platters of food covered the extensive table. But I was transfixed on only one thing. My eyes scanned the table for the golden discs with the perfect edges.

And then I saw them. Small yes, a bit oddly shaped, but uniform, with a large mound of applesauce in the middle of the platter.

I placed two on my plate and helped myself to the applesauce. Then I looked for the sour cream.

No sour cream. Refusing to panic I walked around the table thinking it must be somewhere else. No sour cream anywhere.

I looked in the kitchen on the island filled with foods and condiments, but none in sight.

My friend walked into the room and I asked her if she had sour cream to go with the latkes.

She wasn’t sure but checked the garage refrigerator and arrived back in the kitchen with a new container. Who serves Latkes without sour cream? I know but what can I say? She’s thin.

So I plopped a portion on my plate and set out to enjoy my first latke of 2024.

I placed my fork on the side of the latke and began pressing to release it from the whole. No movement. I tried again, but the latke was unwilling to part with any size piece at all. Perhaps a knife I thought.

I took a steak knife from the caddy and began sawing my way through the potato laden disc that had now taken on a rubbery consistency. I struggled to achieve a bite and when it finally came loose I dipped it into the applesauce and sour cream with great anticipation.

Now I don’t know about you, but at this age my teeth have cost quite a bit of money to keep in my mouth. Therefore, I am quite protective over each little molar and cuspid still hanging in there with me.

I bit down and the latke fought back.

Surprisingly it had a texture I struggle to find words to describe.

Okay, I’ll try…a gummy bear married a potato and they had a baby and it sat out in the dry air for a month.

It was painful. Oh, not just for my teeth, for my psyche.

It became instantly apparent I would be having no latkes. Quell disappointment!

But don’t cry for me Argentina, I drown my sorrows in jelly donuts, but I digress.

Now, despite the fact I have all the ingredients in my home within reach to create a generous supply of latkes, I have lost my taste for them. The memory of the hockey pucks disguised as latkes haunts me and has removed my craving for them in every way.

So although my waistline is happy about this new development, I can tell you my fat cells haven’t stopped bitching. Well they actually did when I started stuffing the jelly donuts into my mouth.

So although I will never have a vaccine named after me like Jonas Salk, I have managed to name a disease that afflicts us all at times.

“Favorite Food Trauma.” The only cure is the passage of time and for me at least, a jelly donut will always manage the pain.