Life In A Word

Fit For a (Fairy Tale) King

I was sorry to see the Germans bow out of the World Cup early, because I’ve had Deutschland on the brain lately. This month (seven years ago) my wife and I cruised down the Rhine River from the Netherlands to Switzerland, but it was pretty much all Germany in between. This month also signals full-on summer and more time in front of the barbeque. On our grill you’ll find German bratwurst as often as American burgers. But more than river cruises and brats, I’m thinking about castles. Not the kind made of sand on beaches, but the real ones made of bricks and stone on mountaintops. Like Germany’s Neuschwanstein Castle.

You’re already familiar with Neuschwanstein; I’m sure you are. When 1.5 million people tour the castle every year – one of the most popular attractions in Europe – it translates to a lot of photos on Facebook. Also, Neuschwanstein includes all of the castle elements you remember from childhood fairy tales: towers, turrets, balconies, gatehouses, courtyards, dungeons, and (the intention of) more than 200 lavishly decorated rooms, built up to the highest of heights. There’s no surrounding moat, but Neuschwanstein gets along fine without one, perched on a hilltop in the middle of the Bavarian Alps.

Frankly, all this castle needs to complete its picture is a king and his court. Alas, Neuschwanstein never had a king – never – not even after its completion in 1892. Yes, the castle was designed by King Ludwig II of Bavaria, but here’s where the fairy tale falls to pieces. To begin with, Ludwig built the castle to escape the stresses of his primary palace life in Munich, so more than anything else it was meant to be a vacation home. Then, Ludwig copied most of Neuschwanstein’s architectural elements from nearby castles, so the design is pretty much a mashup of structures that came beforehand. Finally, and perhaps the saddest statement of all, Neuschwanstein was never completed – not even close. With only a throne room, a “Minstrels’ Hall” (a sort of tribute to the entertainment of the time), a drawing room, and a dozen other spaces, Neuschwanstein’s construction fell well short of its intended 200+ rooms.

The whole idea of Neuschwanstein feels like a bit of a charade. Did Ludwig really intend to decorate and staff hundreds of rooms in a castle from which he didn’t care to lord over the surrounding land? Was he really just frittering away Mom and Dad’s money because he was bored in Munich and had nothing better to spend it on? And shouldn’t he have been focusing his time and energy on his royal responsibilities instead? No wonder he was often referred to as “The Mad King”.

Let’s forget about Ludwig. After all, this post is about a castle, not the king who never occupied it. For all of its lack of completion, originality, and use, Neuschwanstein is still a model castle. Most of you should recognize it from the castle designs it inspired: Disneyland’s Sleeping Beauty Castle and Walt Disney World’s Cinderella Castle. But I prefer another one of its inspirations.

If Neuschwanstein is the ultimate castle, then Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (which I wrote about five years ago in Delicious Clicks) is the ultimate fairy tale. The story of the magical flying car, its inventor Caractacus Potts, the evil Baron Bomburst, the lovely Truly Scrumptious, and on and on, comes back to me like it was yesterday. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was the first Ian Fleming book I ever read, well before anything James Bond. Yet it never occurred to me until this post that Neuschwanstein served as the story’s castle. The movie version includes several aerial shots (from the driver’s seat of a flying car, of course), and sweeping views of the surrounding countryside. Neuschwanstein has always had a familiarity about it. Now I know why.

Someday I’ll make the journey to see King Ludwig II’s creation in person… but not before I build it myself here at home. Just when I thought I’d tackled my last LEGO project, along comes another one I simply can’t pass up. The LEGO Neuschwanstein Castle is 3,455 bricks of towers, turrets, and Bavarian Alps, boxed and bagged along with the usual paperweight instruction manual. I’m ready to don my crown and get started and as usual I’ll include small updates alongside my usual posts. When all’s said and built maybe I’ll even suspend a flying car overhead, so the castle looks more like a fairy tale than a mere vacation home for a mad king.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Hitting the Sweets Spot

My brother owns a vintage Ferrari – not as pricey as it might sound. One of his neighbors sold him the 1960s-era car for cheap, in far less than mint condition, and he spent years bringing it back to life. I’ve never had an interest in a Ferrari myself. However, if I change up just two vowels in the word (the “a” and the “i”), I come up with Ferrero. Okay, now you have my attention.

Ferrero is a remarkable success story for a family business, especially considering its start as a modest pastry shop in a small town in northern Italy. Two brothers: Pietro with a love of creating new products and Giovanni a natural at networking, grew the business across the region over the years, but it wasn’t until they handed the reins to son Michele that Ferrero became a household name. Today, the “sweets-packaged food company” is one of the world’s largest, boasting an entire supermarket aisle worth of products.

Let’s start with Nutella (just like Ferrero did when they moved beyond pastries). Nutella was created as a spin on chocolate with the intent of making it more affordable. Add hazelnuts plentiful in local orchards and Ferrero came up with the butter-like confection the world knows so well today. That product all by itself would’ve been considered a success story, but since then Ferrero grew their sweets umbrella to a gigantic list… and one from which I’ve sampled way too many times.

Begin anywhere you want by adding sugar and you’re probably talking Ferrero. How about Tic Tac? It’s a Ferrero product. I’d love to know how many (hundreds? thousands?) of boxes of Tic Tac I’ve consumed over the years, with the excuse I always had a breath mint nearby when I needed one. My choice was the standard white “Freshmint”, but there’s a flavor for everyone now, including the orange “Citrus”, pink and white “Strawberries and Cream”, and even brown “Dr. Pepper”.

Ferrero also commands a good share of the candy bars you’d find at your nearby 7-Eleven. Take your pick from 100 Grand, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, Chunky, Oh Henry, or Crunch – they’re all Ferrero now. If you don’t recognize that last one, it’s because Ferrero (or actually Ferrara – one of their subsidiaries) reduced the word “Nestlé” to a really small font on the label. It’s true; a Nestlé Crunch bar may still be produced by Nestlé but it’s now licensed by Ferrero.

Maybe you’re a fan of movie candy. You’ll also find Ferrero at the theater, whether you choose a box of Goobers, Raisinets, or Sno-Caps. Cookies instead? How about the Mother’s Cookies brand? Their pink/white “Circus Animals” and frosted “Taffy Sandwich” cookies still tug at my taste buds. Or maybe you go for those bite-sized Famous Amos chocolate-chip cookies. Amos may not sound Italian but he’s in the Ferrero family now.

When I first met my wife she introduced to me to Fanny May “premium gourmet” chocolates. It was the first time my allegiance to See’s Candies was tested. Trust me, it’s hard to beat a Fanny May milk chocolate vanilla buttercream. For that matter, raise your game with a cherry-filled Mon Chéri or a gold-foiled Ferrero Rocher . Each of these indulgences – except See’s – are now Ferrero.

Which brings me to the ultimate get. The list I’ve covered is not even half of the name brands you’ll find at Ferrero but last year they might’ve reeled in their biggest fish yet… Kellogg’s. Seriously, who among us hasn’t had a bowl (or a hundred bowls) of Kellogg’s breakfast cereal? When I was a kid there always seemed to be a box of Corn Flakes, Special K, or Raisin Bran in the pantry (none of which I was crazy about) and better yet Apple Jacks, Froot Loops, or Honey (Sugar) Smacks. You’ll find a lot more choices than those on the cereal shelves, and in every case you’re talking Ferrero as much as Kellogg’s.

As much as I’ve enjoy Ferrero’s products, virtually all of them are past memories. I’ve moved on to more “adult” choices (translation: way less processed sugar). So I made myself a wager before I checked: There are no Ferrero products in my pantry. And then I promptly lost the bet – twice. I found a box of Raisin Bran (how’d that get in there?) destined to hit its expiration date sooner than the cereal bowl. And I found a box of Nonni’s, which are pretty darned tasty for an off-the-shelf brand of biscotti. I’m starting to think I took the wrong approach with today’s topic. Maybe my lead question was meant to be: what products aren’t under Ferrero’s umbrella?

Don’t Fence Me In!

Early on in the Christmas classic It’s A Wonderful Life, there’s a scene where George Bailey absentmindedly strolls back and forth on the sidewalk in front of Mary Hatch’s house, dragging a stick along her fence. Mary sees him from an upstairs window, leans out and yells, “What are you doing… picketing? It’s a great line, wordplay on her front yard fence.

For generations, picket fences have stood hand-in-hand with the American houses immediately behind them. These quaint-looking property markers are considered symbols of middle class prosperity and an idyllic family life. Even the “American Dream” includes a white picket fence. But maybe no longer. The dream seems to have been updated. Americans no longer want pickets… they want walls.

As much as I want to believe a high, solid fence is merely the mark of an eccentric neighbor, facts don’t lie. Suburbia is abandoning the picket fence in favor of taller, more robust barriers. A Connecticut fencing company used to fill 40% of its orders with pickets. How many orders have they had for the low white fences in 2026? Zero. Instead they’re filling a demand for panels of plastic (PVC) seven feet on a side, mounted between even higher columns. The welcoming American cottage is turning into the locked-down American fortress.

One could blame the abandonment of pickets on cost and maintenance. After all, wood needs to be kept dry and repainted to avoid rot, while PVC is less expensive and lasts a whole lot longer. Fencing companies tried switching out wooden pickets for plastic ones but apparently the open look isn’t “closed off” enough for today’s preference. There’s a concerning motive at work here. People no longer want to know what’s going on beyond their fences (or even more concerning, they don’t want you to know what’s going on behind them.)

To each their own but I’m still a fan of pickets. They define a property yet don’t remove the “welcome” because they’re short and have gaps. You can easily chat up your neighbor whether you’re twenty feet removed or right up against the fence. As for the look, pickets don’t have to be boring, pointy stakes. They can be crowned with spades, spears, balls, crosses, fleur di lis (for you French-Americans) or whatever else your circular saw can come up with.

A high, imposing fence is the last thing I’d want surrounding my property. Having said that, the first house my wife and I bought had one on three sides. We lived on a California postage-stamp, with both neighboring houses on minimum setbacks. Without the “privacy fence” we’d be looking from our windows right into theirs. It takes awhile to forget what you’ve seen when a neighbor doesn’t draw down the bathroom shade.

Our next couple of houses had no fences at all. The properties were bigger so privacy was solved by distance instead of by division. As for the house we live in now, we’re surrounded by “three-board” fence consistent with the other properties in our community. Three-board is designed to keep horses in the pastures where they belong, but doesn’t wall you off from your neighbors. A three-board is anything but a privacy fence and that’s fine with me. I just wish it was made out of pickets instead.

The math on a picket fence to replace my three-board is not what I’d hoped. Surrounding our five acres would take upwards of 1,000 pickets. Oof. There’s a lot “at stake” there, not to mention our horses would happily step over in pursuit of greener pastures. I’ll just stick with what I’ve got. There’s a wonderful life on the other side of my fence and I can still see it.

Some content sourced from the Pocono Record article, “Picket fence adds privacy, security with classic style”, and the U.S. Sun article, “Is the white picket fence completely dead?”

Best Feet Forward

Remember the scene at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Indy chooses from a dozen or more chalices in hopes of finding the Holy Grail? The correct cup turned out to be the most modest of them all. Starting this month, forty-eight soccer teams vie for their own Holy Grail (an entirely immodest cup), across sixteen venues jam-packed with thousands of delirious fans. This month, North America welcomes the madness that is the World Cup.

Let me admit right up front, I am a sports fan but not a soccer fan. I’ve enjoyed the American version of football as long as I can remember but not so much the other version made popular by the World Cup. By the standards of a lot of sports, soccer can be described as slow, boring, and low scoring. But of course, any soccer aficionado will tell you there’s more to enjoying the game than meets the eye; much more. Maybe the 104 matches over the next six weeks will get me to agree.

I won’t waste this space on a primer on soccer; not even the complicated format of the World Cup competition itself. Your favorite browser or AI will be happy to fill in those fútbol blanks. Instead, I want to focus on what lies just outside of the Cup. You’ll find headlines and curiosities that wouldn’t have happened without this event, but are perhaps more interesting than the kicks on the field…

for instance…

Trivia question: How many teams sought qualification to become one of the forty-eight participating in this year’s World Cup? I’ll give you a hint: We have 195 recognized countries in the world. Would you guess 150 teams? 125? 100? Sorry, you’re heading in the wrong direction (and it’s a trick question). There were over two hundred soccer teams when the qualifying rounds began almost three years ago. How that number was whittled to forty-five (plus one each for host countries Canada, U.S., and Mexico) would take way more words than I am allotted today.

Here’s something less trivial. One of six teams is destined to hoist the Golden Ball trophy (worth about $10M all by itself): England, France, Spain, Portugal, Brazil, or Argentina. Maybe your sentiments lie with one of the host teams but the facts and the resumes don’t lie: Europe and South America have dominated professional soccer for decades. Baseball may be as American as apple pie, but we’re talking about a sport for the legs, not the arms. Having said that, you won’t have to wait long to get your first look at the Americans. We “kick off” against Paraguay tomorrow night.

If you’re looking for a longshot to win this thing (and I mean l-o-n-g-g-g-g-g-g shot), choose one of the teams from Curacao, Jordan, Uzbekistan, or Cape Verde. These countries are playing in the World Cup for the first time (and the World Cup’s been going on for a hundred years). To me, curacao is a liquor that tastes like Triple Sec. Jordan is a man’s name. Uzbekistan is somewhere in Asia surrounded by countries whose names I also can’t pronounce. And (Cape) verde means green in Spanish. Notice nowhere here am I saying anything about the talents of their World Cup soccer teams.

Speaking of alcohol, it’ll be interesting to see how the fortunes of the beer, wine, and liquor producers are swayed by the World Cup. With sixteen stadiums and 104 matches, you’d expect a boost in drink sales big enough to create Niagara Falls. Unfortunately for them, the World Cup is hosted by a continent where drinking is descending to record low levels, with the younger generations promoting the idea alcohol “is bad for your health”. Maybe fans will raise a glass of milk to the winner like they do at the Indianapolis 500.

The final match will be held in New Jersey’s MetLife Stadium

Like the receiving line at a wedding, I’d love to meet every one of the World Cup fans who make it to the final match in New Jersey’s MetLife Stadium. Why? These people must do some pretty remarkable things for a living. Even with the likelihood the host countries will not be represented, a ticket is projected to set you back between $15K and $20K. Fifteen thousand American dollars for three hours of sport. Throw in peripheral expenses and a family of five could easily spend six figures. It’s kind of nuts. No, it’s a whole bowl of nuts. And mark my words, every last seat in MetLife will be filled.

There’s a lot more to be said about the World Cup, and I’ll be tempted to keep you updated over the next six weeks. In the meantime I need to get back to my regular routine. Game #1 and #2 take place today and I have no intention of sitting down to watch. I may kick myself for my lack of attention but hey, now there’s a great way to describe my ability to play soccer.

Some content sourced from the CNN Sports article, “World Cup beginner’s guide…”, the CNN Sports article, “Who are the World Cup favorites?, the CNN Sports article, “The World Cup debutants…”, the CNN Sports article, “Why sky-high ticket prices have sent fans searching…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Beachy Keen

South Carolina’s heat and humidity are quickly moving the dial to “broil” – as they always do this time of year – so my wife and I will go with our most dependable coping mechanism: travel to places other than South Carolina. Technically that’s not quite true because one of those destinations is still South Carolina. Doesn’t matter. The goal is to find temperatures closer to the “bake” setting, where the air movement qualifies as a breeze. Both conditions can be found, of course, at the beach.

I consider myself fortunate to have grown up near a beach. Others may counter by saying the mountains are more desirable, or the desert, or the shores of a pristine lake. To each their own. For me, an upbringing of Pacific Ocean sand and surf turned the calm of the coast into a part of my DNA. I thirst for the beach several times a year. And in the United States alone, I have 650 choices.

Inevitably, 10 of those 650 beaches are rated as “top”. The so-called authority on the subject is a guy nicknamed Dr. Beach. At first I scoffed at the notion that one person could choose the ten best from hundreds, but this doctor takes his medicine seriously. Dr. Beach has identified fifty criteria (fifty!) to evaluate beaches, including water warm enough to swim in, sand clarity, presence of pests (like mosquitos and seagulls), and the size of the ocean waves. He even rates the surrounding noise level generated by humans.

To further solidify his credentials, Dr. Beach disqualifies locales threatened by pollution, erosion, or out-of-control seaweed. He “retires” beaches that have reached the top ten too many times since he started his lists (in 1991). Finally, Dr. Beach has visited every… single… one… of those 650 beaches. He may be obsessed with his subject but I’d say he’s a bona fide authority, wouldn’t you?

Caladesi Island State Park in Clearwater FL

On his list for 2026, Dr. Beach prescribed four in Hawaii, three in Florida, one in Cape Cod, and one in the Hamptons. His tenth selection, coming in at #7, is right here in South Carolina. Whew, that was close. After all, he could’ve picked MY beach and then me and the good doctor would be having a serious conversation.

As you know, the problem with top-ten lists is exposure. Something or somewhere great suddenly becomes headline news and everyone wants a piece of it. Next thing you know that thing or that place becomes too popular, and no longer resembles its former wonderful self. With all due respect to Dr. Beach’s “retirement” strategy, once something becomes “top-ten” we’re not quick to forget about it.

Cape Cod gets busy in the summer months…

I’ve been to a few of Dr. Beach’s top choices for 2026. Maybe not Coast Guard Beach in Cape Cod, but just about every beach on Cape Cod is bucolic. Maybe not Caladesi State Park in Clearwater, Florida but I’ve dipped my toes in the sugar sand and warm waters of a beach in Clearwater. I’ve been to Poipu Beach on the island of Kauai, Hawaii twice, for my honeymoon and for a family reunion. I’m happy to see Poipu ranked as the #1 beach in the United States this year.

I’m even happier to see my two favorite beaches not ranked in the top ten (or anywhere near it) this year. One is on the West Coast and one is right here in South Carolina. One is big and one is small. Both have easy access to the quaint shopping of a nearby village. And both have the kind of views where walking, riding bikes, or simply staring out at the sea never gets old. The names of these beaches are…

Nope. Sorry, no big reveal. Not even the tease of a photo. There aren’t a ton of you readers out there but it only takes one to make my beaches go viral, and then what am I going to do? Find another couple of beaches? Uh-uh, no way. Go find your own beaches. You have 650 to choose from. And God forbid Dr. Beach ever ranks mine in his top ten. If that happens I’ll report him to the “surf board” and demand they pull his license.

Some content sourced from the CNN Travel article, “Hawaii and Florida top list of best U.S. beaches…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Make My Moon a Double

May’s flowers blooming from April’s showers have been a little hard to find this year. Maybe that’s because we haven’t had any showers. South Carolina just endured its fourth driest April in well over a century. We’re finally getting some moisture but it’s going to take a whole lot more to move us from “severe” to “moderate” on the drought scale. On the other hand May’s full moon was right on time… and it’s going to be right on time again.

A bookend is “one or two things occurring or located at either end of something else”. It’s not the sexiest of words but it’s entirely fitting for today’s topic. A full moon rose on May 1st and it’ll rise again on May 31st, like a pair of shiny silver dollar bookends. I think it’s mesmerizing to look at the full moon on a pitch-black night. And two full moons? Well that’s just double the pleasure.

May’s first full moon came with the label Flower Moon, to acknowledge “landscapes erupting into bloom”. No sir, not even close. If you ask me this year’s May 1 moon should’ve been named Weed Moon because weeds were about the only thing erupting around here. No matter what grows or doesn’t grow the rest of the month, May’s other full moon will be Blue Moon because that’s what we call the second one in a calendar month. You only get a Blue Moon ever two or three years.

I get a Blue Moon every two or three weeks, but now I’m talking about beer instead of Earth’s solo satellite. I’m not a big beer drinker but a Blue Moon adorned with its signature orange slice sure hits the spot after hot and sweaty yardwork. Molson-Coors has been brewing Blue Moon since 1995 and they’ve put several taste spins on it, like Honey Moon, Harvest Moon, and Full Moon. This time of year you can purchase a six of Rising Moon, which amps up the citrus flavors in anticipation of summer, but I’m still inclined to go with the original Blue.

Speaking of full moons, we should be happy ours is a perfect sphere (save for a few craters). The technology of the James Webb Space Telescope is teaching us a lot more about the other planets in our solar system. Neptune, the most distant of the eight (with apologies to little Pluto, kicked out of the club in 2006) has sixteen moons, but most of them look like orbiting shards instead of spheres. Triton, Neptune’s largest moon, made like a bowling ball back when it entered the planet’s gravitational pull, busting up a beautiful array of perfectly round orbs. Imagine if our moon looked like a shard instead of a ball. We wouldn’t be talking about full moons at all, let alone blue ones.

The “calendrical” Blue Moon from December 2009

The upcoming Blue Moon gets its name from an utter lack of imagination. I was hoping the word would refer to the moon itself, perhaps the result of some lunar bioluminescent algae like you see with an ocean red tide. Or maybe the blue would represent the tears of Luna, the Roman goddess of the moon, crying over some mythological misfortune. Instead, a “blue moon” is actually caused by Earth, in the rare occurrence where our forest fires or volcanoes generate atmospheric emissions which really do shade the moon blue. I’ve never seen this phenomenon before but even if I did, it probably wouldn’t come with a full moon. C’mon, we need a better name for “second full moon in a calendar month”. I propose “Déjà vu Moon”.

Speaking of déjà vu, you might have read about full moons in this blog before, in my post Sphere Elegance. It’s a little nostalgic to read something you wrote ten years ago. The focus back then was more on the science and less on the entertainment value (I’ve learned to flip-flop the two over the years since), but at least I was consistent with the definitions and my affection for the like-named beer. Hey, maybe I should address this topic every ten years. Then I could say I was writing about it, you know… once in a blue moon.

Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Whenever She Asks, Bake the Cake

I just did the quick math and realized my wife and I have been empty nesters for almost ten years now. When our youngest headed off to college in 2017 we pivoted and embraced the milestone of less clutter and chaos. But just as suddenly we have grandchildren now, and with them comes the reminders of those formerly frenetic chapters of our lives.

The moment that inspired this post was the one I never saw coming. We hosted our granddaughters earlier this week, in the first of what we hope will be countless “sleepovers”. At ages 3 and “almost 2” they’re a sight for sore eyes (and also a sight you should never take your eyes off of). My wife and I were in the kitchen doing a something-or-other task when suddenly the three-year old beckoned to me from the nearby screened-in porch. It’s pretty adorable when a little one uses “come here” gestures to get your attention because she still doesn’t quite have the words.

Now let me admit to a little annoyance. After all, I was in the middle of something and I was being interrupted by my granddaughter. In typical adult fashion I said, “Hang on honey, let me finish what I’m doing”, but she persisted. Apparently what needed to be seen couldn’t wait one more minute. So I let out a sigh, put down what I was doing, and wandered over to the porch.

Here was my granddaughter, holding her hands out wide to proudly display what was sitting on the table…. an empty wooden bowl. I looked at the bowl and then I looked at her, then back to the bowl, then back to her with obvious question marks in my eyes. And all she said to me was, “cake!”. Cake? What was that supposed to mean? Was she trying to pronounce some other word but somehow it came out “cake”?

It was then she gave me a glimpse into her wonderfully imaginative little world. I had no idea our screened-in porch was actually a world-class chef’s kitchen. There was some serious baking going on in there! And the cake’s ingredients – of which there were many – came from the most unexpected places.

To begin with my granddaughter produced a small rock (not sure where that came from), which served as the cake “starter”. Then she picked up the largest throw pillow from the couch and shook it vigorously into the bowl. Who knew we had a “bag of flour” right there on the porch? Immediately adjacent to the flour, a smaller throw pillow became a “bag of sugar”. More vigorous shaking. Finally she seized the third throw pillow, which she didn’t have an answer for (so we told her it was baking powder).

Other ingredients followed. When she asked for butter we emptied the box of butter sticks from our refrigerator so she could help herself to “the rest of them”. When she needed a little water she sprinkled some (literally) from the nearby wall fountain. An empty watering can was suddenly “full of milk”. And in a creative spin I could never come up with myself, she decided the four ornate corners of our patio table were dispensers for cake toppings like whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and rainbow sprinkles. She’d press press her hand down on them and make a “sh-sh-sh” dispensing sound that sounded just like the real deal.

At this point I’d completely forgotten whatever mundane task I’d been doing in the real kitchen because I was focused on the make-believe one instead. I contributed several (real) implements so the cake could be thoroughly prepared. Wooden spoons for stirring. Spatulas for turning. Tongs to pick up and put down the mysterious rock (a repetitive step in the recipe she clearly understood but I did not). An (empty) shaker of cinnamon. Impatiently I asked her if the cake was done but she just shook her head side-to-side and said, “No (Gran) Da, this cake will take hours”. And that was perfectly fine with me.

By the time our granddaughters were strapped into their car seats and on their way home I think we’d baked another four cakes on the ~~porch~~ kitchen. Little Miss Almost-2 occasionally pitched in as sous chef, although her older sister was only too happy to point out who was in charge. Today as I sit at my laptop I’m looking at a clean and organized screened-in porch. It suddenly seems a little boring.

As for the inside of the house, the dishes are washed, the toys are back in the cabinets, and everything’s pleasantly back in order. It’s an empty nest around here again. Except for some little handprints that need to be scrubbed from the living room windows. On second thought maybe I’ll leave those where they are, if only to remind me – whenever she asks – to drop everything I’m doing and go bake the cake.

A Relentless Rising Tide

Every year in mid-October, my mailbox gets noticeably fuller with holiday catalogs. The adverts are bold and glossy with all sorts of gifting ideas. I enjoy leafing through their colorful pages. But then they keep coming to my mailbox. And coming. And coming some more. If I saved every one of them I’d probably have a stack as high as my house by mid-December. By my calculations that’s almost as high as the stack I’d have for luxury cruises.

Maybe you’re familiar with the term First-World problem. It refers to “issues that are trivial, experienced by people in affluent, developed nations.” It puts minor annoyances in perspective compared to the more legitimate problems of this world. Good examples of First-World problems: 1) You can’t find the TV remote, 2) You have bad cell phone reception, or 3) Your favorite store only accepts cash. Today’s example of a First-World problem: 4) Too much junk mail from cruise lines.

Yes, I’ve taken a cruise. In fact I’ve taken four: one on the (Pacific) ocean with Carnival, one on the (Baltic) sea with Oceania, and two on the (Rhine, Danube) rivers with Viking. So it’s fair to say I’m a worthy target when it comes to cruise lines pushing their upcoming adventures. For some reason Carnival doesn’t pursue me (maybe I’m too old for their party boats?) but Oceania and Viking have gone – take your pick – full steam ahead or totally overboard. They send countless postcards advertising their cruises, and thick catalogs advertising their entire season’s worth. They love to push you to consider their “off-season, deeply discounted” options. And they love to NOT leave you alone.

It’s safe to say I receive a promotion for a cruise two out of every three days. Most days these adverts seem to give birth to a family. Just yesterday I received six, and two of them – go figure – were identical twins. I guess Viking really wants me to take that cruise. One of those six came from Regent (kind of an orphan), which makes me think Viking and Oceania share their mailing lists. Thanks a lot, guys.

Would I take a luxury cruise right now? Sounds nice, as long as it’s not through the Strait of Hormuz. Sounds nice, as long as I don’t pick up a pandemic-potential virus onboard. Sounds nice, as long as my ship doesn’t get torpedoed the way Cunard’s cruise ship Lusitania did in the early 1900s (read the remarkable story in Erik Larson’s Dead Wake). Maybe I should reconsider my “sounds good”. I sense the gods of cruising are trying to tell me something.

Admittedly, it surprised me to learn the demand for luxury cruises is not down but markedly up right now. You could point to the cost of fuel, the unrest in several parts of the world, or the thought of picking up a virus as reasons people wouldn’t want to cruise. Doesn’t seem to matter. Bookings are at record levels, especially those for “mega-ships” that look like floating water parks and the ones that take you to private islands. When one of my postcards advertises “up to 45% Spring savings!” and another “up to 30% off with free international airfare!”, you just know their profit margins are more than healthy.

But I digress. I need to address my First-World problem. Rather, let’s let Catalog Choice (CC) address it. With a quick online sign-up and a little info from one of my postcards, CC claims they’ll remove the cruise clutter from my mailbox, in the name of “fighting waste, preventing fraud, and simplifying life”. Will they? Time will tell. Maybe I’ll get back to you a few months from now since it’s a matter of global concern. Assuming I’m not on a luxury cruise at the time.

Some content sourced from the Travel and Tour World article, “U.S. Cruise Industry Faces Fuel Shock, Health Fears, and Mega Ship Boom…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Wheels of Fortune

Late last year, Belgium found itself at the center of a culinary controversy. A local company was producing and selling a bottled version of “carbonara sauce”, much to the dismay of Italy. The Italians are fiercely protective of the recipe for spaghetti carbonara they invented a hundred years ago. Anyone familiar with the dish understands there is no such thing as carbonara sauce, because the food is the result of a slow, methodical process using fresh ingredients (including eggs and cheese), where everything melds together perfectly. You can’t just bottle it and call it the same thing.

Carbonara is a good example of a product invented in Italy and dumbed down for mass consumption. Imagine how the Italians feel about Starbucks. Somewhere on the menu you can order a shot of pure espresso but it’s the drinks with the added flavors, sugar, and milk that generate the profits. Similarly, you’ll find a dozen packages of biscotti on America’s cookie aisles, but most aren’t twice-baked like the originals nor infused with real almond liquor.

Maybe you’ve already added pizza to this list of imposters. The transformation of pizza from the Italian original to the endless varieties offered in today’s restaurants could be the subject of its own blog post (and a long one at that). Suffice it to say, the Italians are justified in turning up their noses to any product we Americans call “pizza”. Unless you’ve had a pie made with authentic Italian ingredients and prepared the same way they made it centuries ago, you really don’t know pizza.

But let’s talk about cheese, because it’s the real subject of today’s post. Parmesan cheese is another Italian original, dating back to the Middle Ages. It’s made with just three ingredients: milk, salt, and rennet (enzymes). Today you can choose from a variety of parmesan cheeses in your supermarket deli or just cheat with the big green Kraft can from the pasta aisle (which includes several added ingredients you wouldn’t be happy about). But whether from the deli or from a can, you’re not purchasing the Italian original… unless, the package includes the official logo of Parmigiano Reggiano. That, my friends, indicates the real deal. Or, if you prefer, the “big cheese”.

Parmigiano Reggiano (shall we call it “PR” from here on out? Yes, let’s do that.) is one of the most tightly regulated foods in the world. Maybe the Italians got tired of losing control of their original recipes and declared, “Uh-uh, not this one”. PR is made from milk, salt, and rennet just like the other wannabes, but with two important differences. The cows that provide two of those three ingredients graze on the pristine grass of pastures in a single tiny region of central Italy. The cows, the grass, and the milk they produce are regulated in a way that would make Fort Knox proud. It’s a small, tight supply chain of cheese production with the same quality of centuries ago.

Here’s the other important distinction between PR and the others. It must be aged at least a year (and it’s typically more like two or three) before it can be sold. That requirement gets the cheese to stand alone even more than its carefully-produced ingredients. Why? Because most companies can’t sit around for a year or more waiting for cheese to generate profits while suppliers are demanding payment on the spot. So how do the makers of PR do it? They bank their cheese. Literally.

You know you have a really good cheese when your bank is willing to take it as collateral. Here are the staggering numbers. Italy produces four million wheels of PR a year, distributed throughout the country and the world for sale. (Fact: America is the largest consumer of Parmigiano Reggiano outside of Italy.) But 500,000 of those wheels are held back and “deposited” into a local bank to age, in exchange for the cash necessary to pay the suppliers. PR is of such high quality and so carefully regulated that the banks have agreed to this unique arrangement for generations. Of course, the combined value of those wheels probably helps (well north of $300 million).

If you’d care to know more about this whole cheese-for-money thing, read the article I reference below. More importantly, if you ever come across Italy’s “Cheese Bank”, you’ll probably find the usual ATM’s, tellers, and offices, but at least you’ll know what that big warehouse next door is all about.

Some content sourced from the CNN Business article, “Inside Italy’s secret ‘Cheese Bank’…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.

Birthday ‘Berty Bells

I was only fourteen when America celebrated 200 years of independence, but I remember it well. The U.S. Mint reproduced the quarter, half-dollar, and dollar coins in the birthday’s honor, with “1776-1976” across the bottom of each face. The quarter held the image of a Colonial drummer on the flip side, while the half-dollar went with Independence Hall and the dollar the Liberty Bell. Now, with America’s Semiquincentennial just two months away, maybe a visit to the Liberty Bell is in order. And you don’t even have to make the pilgrimage to Philadelphia to see it.

As a reminder of America’s 250th birthday, the Liberty Bell is more relevant than ever. The original was cast with the Bible verse Proclaim LIBERTY Throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof, and cracked during one of its first dings. The bell was recast twice, relabeled the “Liberty Bell” in the 1830s, and cracked yet again sometime after that. All these years later the crack has come to represent our country’s divisiveness; in other words, the perfect symbol of an imperfect union.

I knew about the Liberty Bell’s history but what I didn’t know about was its many replicas. In the 1950s the U.S. Treasury sponsored a drive to purchase savings bonds, and advertised the bonds by commissioning full-scale reproductions of the Liberty Bell. The bells went to each of the 48 states of that time, the territories of Alaska, Hawaii, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands, and one more each for the District of Columbia and the Treasury Department itself. So depending on where you live today, you might find yourself a lot closer to the Liberty Bell than you think.

The reproductions are true to the original in just about every way, including the size and the weight, the famous crack, and the Pass and Stowe (bell-caster) trademark. You’d expect to find the bells in prominent locations in each state but it’s more of a treasure hunt than that. Some are in museums. Virginia’s is in a fire house near Monticello. North Carolina’s is in a “secure storage facility”. Arizona’s is touring the state for the next several months. And the one at the U.S. Treasury? It is nowhere to be found, supposedly melted down for the value of it’s 2,080 lbs. of bronze.

The replicas were created at the Paccard Foundry in Lac d’Annecy, France (photo courtesy of Paccard Archives/Paccard Foundry via AP)

I like the thought of ringing the (er, ringing “a”) Liberty Bell to usher in America’s Semiquincentennial. A birthday of that significance deserves more than just extra fireworks. The year before the bicentennial, the Los Angeles Times sponsored a trivia contest, seeking the answer to one question for each state over a period of fifty weeks. Think about a trivia contest in the 1970s. No Internet. No email. Each week you had to look up the trivia question in the (paper) newspaper, write the answer on a (paper) form, mail the form to the Times (with an envelope and a stamp), and then hope you got all fifty right by the end of the year, to be entered into a drawing for a cash prize.

North Carolina’s Liberty Bell in the 1950s (photo courtesy of Pryor Emerson Humphrey Photograph Collection/State Archives of North Carolina via AP)

A few determined souls have been trying to visit all of the Liberty Bell replicas well before the onset of America’s 250th. Check out Tom Campbell’s pursuit at tomlovesthelibertybell.com (he’s up to 40), or Zoe Murphy’s pursuit at zlovesamerica.com (39). My respect for these patriots is not so much for the pursuits but more the effort behind them, which suggests they’re focused on America in a good way, an attitude we need more than ever these days.

Every morning after feeding the horses, I head out to the front of the house and hang the American flag. It’s a symbol of unabashed pride, no matter how some of my fellow Americans might see it. 250 years might be young compared to most other countries but the chapters of our history are just as colorful as theirs. I’m hoping all those Liberty Bells sound loud and proud over the next few months… without earning more cracks when all is said and rung.

Some content sourced from the AP News article, “Meet the Liberty Bell fans visiting little-known replicas…”, and Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.