Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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Midwest Cookie Madness
I wonder how many modern-day brides still wear “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue” on their wedding day. This time-honored gesture of good luck includes a nod to 1) continuity, 2) optimism for the future, 3) borrowed happiness, and 4) purity, love, and fidelity. But some brides would rather not mess with the dress, understandably distracted by other wedding-day traditions. Like 18,000 homemade cookies.
Thirty-one years ago, after my wife and I exchanged our rings, we sliced into an impressive three-tiered wedding cake at the reception; miniature bride and groom perched on the smallest layer at the top. Per tradition we took that smallest layer home, stored in our freezer and shared on our one-year anniversary: a toast to continued good luck and prosperity. Had we been raised in Ohio or Pennsylvania however; our guests might’ve been drawn to the cookie table instead. So says a recent article in the Wall Street Journal.
Thousands of cookies at a wedding reception? Sounds to me like the latest quirk of the my-wedding-is-more-memorable-than-yours game (besting cupcake towers and chocolate fountains). On the contrary, cookie tables are almost as traditional as wedding cake, dating back several generations. They are the reception obsession of some Italians, Catholics, Greeks, and Scandinavians.
Cookie tables are traditional in Ohio and Pennsylvania as well, and these communities take their baking seriously. There’s even a Facebook page to exchange recipes, ideas and guidelines (see here). Cookie tables may soon become a wedding reception norm from coast to coast.
Here’s a “taste” of cookie table guidelines. Every item must be homemade by family members; or if purchased, only specially-ordered from your neighborhood bakery. Cherished recipes (i.e. “lady locks” and “buckeyes”) must carry over from generation to generation, no matter how time-intensive the preparation. Cookies must be as fresh as possible, leading to a flurry of baking in several houses days before the wedding (and lack of freezer space in those houses). Even the layout of the table itself has rules; considering the number of cookie varieties and which varieties deserve prominent placement. Finally, the table “reveal” must be decided: 1) Already on display as guests arrive? 2) Revealed by the bride and groom with a dramatic pull of a curtain? 3) Self-serve, or closely guarded by tuxedo-ed cookie stewards?
Cookie tables have one advertised – if not followed – rule-of-thumb. The ratio of cookies to guests should be around 12:1. That number allows a guest to sample several cookies at the reception, and take several more home for later. If I apply the 12:1 ratio to the 18,000-cookie wedding (a real-life example), there should have been 1,500 guests. In fact, there were only 360. According to the mother of the groom, “…my goal was to have a spectacular cookie table…” I’m sure the guests thought it was spectacular, helping themselves to an average of 50 cookies each.
Competition plays a role with cookie tables, with the goal of “mine is better than yours”. One example boasted of “…tens of thousands of cookies, filling nine banquet tables… six people worked for two days on the display”. Another boasted of “reserved varieties, prepared especially for (and only for) family members of the bride and groom”. Even the take-home boxes get a personal touch. With all this attention to cookies, wedding cake – or any other dessert for that matter – stands in the shadows (like the bride and groom themselves?)
When my son or daughter gets married, perhaps my family will extend the tradition to Colorado and prepare a cookie table. With my baking skills, I’ll commit to an impressive 3:1 ratio, five different varieties (provided I’m allowed to use store-bought refrigerator dough), and guests will delight in a consistency I can only describe as week-old-but-slightly-burnt. I guarantee it’ll be memorable.
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Sugar Cured
Coke. Zero. Sugar. Three little words; one new drink. In a nod to those who eschew sugar (and detest calories), Coca-Cola proudly offers its latest beverage. Coke was the original, of course. Coke Zero was the low-cal offering for men (Diet Coke was perceived as a “women’s” drink). And now the soda junkie may opt for Coke Zero Sugar, with the claim of original taste but no calories and no sugar. For my money, let’s hope the sugared varieties still have a shelf life. Otherwise my cure for headaches just went out the window.
Coke cures headaches? Well, why not? Those of us who experience the recurrent forehead fevers will jump on just about any bandwagon to chase away the relentless pain, and a Coke seems relatively harmless compared to the more potent options out there. But truth be told, a can of Coke is only half the solution. Chase the Real Thing with a Snickers bar and you have the coup de grace of headache cures. The combined overdose of caffeine, sugar, salt, and protein packs a punch more powerful than half a bottle of Excedrin tablets.
When I was a kid, headaches were my constant companion. I could sense the pain unfolding well before it up and knocked on my forehead door. In full bloom, my headaches could only be cured by retreating to a dark, quiet room and sleeping them off. But try falling asleep when someone’s rapping a hammer against your brain. The mental/physical anguish of the battle surely coined the phrase “toss-and-turn”.
My mother and my doctor (seemingly one and the same) drew frustratingly repetitive conclusions. My headaches were not strong enough or persistent enough to prescribe migraine medication. My headaches were likely brought on by “not enough of this“ or “too much of that“. Not enough sleep or not enough water. Too much sun or too much sugar. Too much sugar? And now I’m promoting a headache cure with sugar as an essential ingredient? Sorry Mom – it works.
At one point in my life my headaches were so bad I believed I could generate one by merely thinking about them. My mother used to say, “don’t get too excited; you might get a headache”. Ironically, her good intentions were dashed by the very mention of what she was trying to get me to avoid. But the conjuring really did happen – on more than one occasion. Think about a headache = get a headache.
Headaches are attributed – at least in part – to dilated blood vessels. (Dilated blood vessels are attributed to way too many conditions to list here.) The brain’s response to dilation is to summon a pain companion; a vehicle to announce, “something’s wrong”. You see, for all its intelligence the brain lacks its own pain receptors, so it seeks another part of the body to act as its surrogate. Enter: the headache. Fascinating perhaps, but no fun for the recipient. There were times I would’ve traded all of my worldly possessions (which admittedly didn’t amount to much) in exchange for the removal of headache pain. On that note, I don’t want to even think about how a migraine headache feels (after all, I might get one).
Forty-five million Americans suffer from some form of headaches. Thankfully, I’m no longer a member of that vast club. Whether from corrective eye surgery I had as a teenager or better control of the “not enough of” or “too much of”, the pots-and-pans forehead pain endured as a kid simply doesn’t visit anymore. I’m very thankful for that. I’d like to think I’ve done my time with those miserable toss-and-turn episodes. But as a former Boy Scout, I know it’s wise to be prepared. If my brain gets into a “for old time’s sake” mood, I’ll have a can of Coke and a Snickers bar at the ready.
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All That Glitters
Audrey Hepburn will always be one of my favorite actresses. Her grace, beauty, and acting – especially her comedic roles – combined for an enchanting big-screen presence. I’ve only seen a handful of her movies but it didn’t take many to fall in love with Audrey’s delightful characters. Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady (which premiered shortly after I was born). Sabrina Fairchild in Sabrina. Hap in Always (her final film). And perhaps my favorite role, the quirky Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
In the opening scene of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Holly gazes into the New York City Fifth Avenue store window and famously observes, “Nothing very bad could happen to you there.” Holly’s probably right, but that’s not to say something very bad couldn’t happen to Tiffany’s itself. Sales and profits are down significantly over the last two years. Cartier and David Yurman steal market share from the ultra-wealthy. As detailed in a recent Wall Street Journal article, Tiffany & Company is resorting to pedestrian strategies to restore its cachet. And those strategies are so not Tiffany’s.
The first sign of Tiffany’s troubles might have surfaced last February, when the company debuted its first-ever Super Bowl ad. I’m not sure what tarnished the Tiffany’s image more: a television commercial stuffed between plugs for beer and tortilla chips, or Lady Gaga as its newest sponsor. Apparently, that’s an appeal to the Millennial generation (as if young people shop at Tiffany). No offense, but Ms. Gaga is no Audrey Hepburn, as Zales is no Tiffany. There’s a bit of a stain on the robin’s-egg blue.
The one and only time I visited Tiffany’s New York City location was two years ago with my family. Despite our touristy dress we were greeted warmly by the security guard as we passed through the grand polished brass-and-glass doors. Once inside, after a nervous glance at the showcases of diamonds (as if we could afford anything whatsoever), we were politely redirected to the fifth floor to “more affordable offerings”. I took no offense, as I was only hoping my daughter could snag one of the famous blue boxes as a souvenir. Turns out she purchased a Tiffany’s gold ring for several hundred dollars while my wife and I settled for a set of Tiffany’s ceramic mugs.
As satisfied as we were with our purchases, I have to admit gold rings and ceramic mugs removed a bit of the Tiffany prestige. I more associate Tiffany’s with priceless diamonds and silver – befitting royalty. In fact, that’s where Tiffany’s got its start: almost two hundred years ago as a purveyor to the Russian imperial family. Tiffany’s also brings to mind its trademark advertisement, showcasing a single piece of jewelry against the silhouette of a couple embracing – a refined, iconic portrait of elegance. Audrey Hepburn, not Lady Gaga.
Today you can purchase Tiffany ceramics, as well as Tiffany leather goods, paper products, watches, fragrances, and even a limited-edition cell phone. You can find over 300 Tiffany shops in 22 countries around the world. I thought Tiffany was more of the “Rome-Paris-London-New York City” kind of retailer, complete with stern, immobile security guard at each front door.
Admittedly, some of my first associations with “Tiffany” were far removed from diamonds and gemstones. Tiffany Darwish was a flash-in-the-pan American singer in my late teens (her only real hit: a retread of Tommy James and the Shondells’ I Think We’re Alone Now). I developed an affection for Tiffany lamps – the stained leaded-glass variety – when I studied the Craftsman style of architecture in college. And it’s hard to get the lyrics to Big Blue Something’s singular hit out of my head; especially the lines: “And I said, ‘What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s?’ She said, ‘I think I remember the film.’ And as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it.”
Tiffany & Co. recently ousted its Chief Executive in search of a new one, with hopes of improving both sales and image. To the new leader in search of new answers, I say look back to the Golden Age of Hollywood for guidance, when the Tiffany blue was truly iconic. As Holly Golightly would say, nothing very bad will ever happen to you there.
Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.
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Flying in the Face of Reason
If you’ve traveled across the United States more than a handful of times, chances are you’ve passed through Denver International Airport (DIA). There aren’t many connecting airports in the Rocky Mountain states, so DIA gets most of the east-west air traffic. The sharp peaks of the main terminal roof fabric serve as the signature design element, symbolic of the nearby snow-capped mountains (and Native American teepees from Colorado’s history). DIA’s land mass of 52.6 square miles is twice the size of Dallas-Fort Worth (DFW), making it far and away the largest airport in the country. A “cutting-edge” automated baggage system became an infamous failure back when DIA opened, causing a 16-month delay and ballooning the budget by $2 billion.
But enough about the facts. I’d rather focus on the conspiracy theories attached to DIA; the conjecture to make your airport experience a little more entertaining. Clearly, there’s more going on at Denver International than just takeoffs and landings.
Let’s start with DIA’s biggest conspiracy of all. Remember the movie The Da Vinci Code with Tom Hanks; the wild-goose chase across Western Europe in search of the Holy Grail? Tom should’ve included DIA in his travels because the newest Illuminati headquarters is located several stories beneath the airport. The DIA dedication capstone inside the main terminal (and several cryptic words inscribed in the terminal floor) serve as hints, referring to funding from the “New World Airport Commission” (NWAC), a wholly fictitious organization (Google NWAC – you won’t find anything). As is the case with conspiracy theories, NWAC somehow associated to the Illuminati, including their efforts to establish a single all-powerful global government. Controlling America’s largest airport certainly helps. That $2 billion of budget overrun apparently built the headquarters – a complete working underground city.
NWAC also associates to NWO – or New World Order – a more believable conspiracy theory tied to world domination. NWO is said to be a resurgent Nazi group, so perhaps the Third Reich financed DIA as its future headquarters. At least you’ll find symbolism on the map: DIA’s runways are laid out in the shape of a swastika. (DIA prefers “pinwheel” as the more politically correct term.) So, if not the Illuminati, the Nazis are amassing under DIA. What say the rest of the world’s leaders? Crickets. They’re sitting back and letting the Nazis foot the bill. They see DIA’s “underground bunker” as a refuge for their own safety during the next apocalypse (a conspiracy theory of its own). They’ll pounce on the Nazi facility if/when they need to.
DIA contains a lot of artwork too, but the large murals in the baggage claim area are particularly disturbing. Titled In Peace and Harmony With Nature and The Children of the World Dream of Peace, some interpret them as anything but “peaceful”. The imagery suggests apocalyptic bio-warfare leading to mass chaos; step one of the NWO plan of world domination. Even if that’s not your interpretation, you won’t overlook the image of the ghostly Nazi soldier, or the epitaph from a child who perished at Auschwitz.
Here’s one more conspiracy theory. DIA has “Blue Mustang”, the 32-foot tall 9,000 lb. rearing horse as you approach the main terminal by car. “Blucifer” is solid blue with creepy red eyes, glowing day and night. Ask Luis Jimenez – the artist – why he chose blue and red, but he won’t reply to your email. He was killed during the statue’s construction when a piece fell on him and severed an artery in his leg. For this reason (and the bizarre colors), Blucifer is said to represent the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse, from the biblical book of Revelations. So, take comfort; Death awaits you at the door of DIA (or at least in the morgue supposedly hidden somewhere inside the facility).
For more details on Denver International’s conspiracy theories, check out the entertaining Buzzfeed article here, or the Business Insider article here. My favorite part of the Buzzfeed article: the comments that follow, where several way-too-serious types debate the legitimacy of the claims. To them I say, life’s too short. Let the conspiracy theories bloom, if for no other reason than we might grin a little more as we bear our oft-nightmarish airport experience.
Some content sourced from Wikipedia, “the free encyclopedia”.
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Blame it on the Dutch
Last Saturday, after the umpteenth edition of dinner-and-a-movie with my wife (or in this case, movie-and-a-dinner), we arrived back home to a phone message from the restaurant, saying I’d left my credit card behind. I never make that mistake. Let me rephrase – since my wife reads this blog – I almost never make that mistake. Credit the restaurant for taking our phone number when we arrived, “just in case we need to contact you later”. Credit the very nice bottle of wine – empty by the end of the meal – for contributing to my forgetfulness (though not to my driving).
Hey, at least I paid the bill before I left my card behind. Because that’s what I do when it comes to nights out with my wife. The gentleman pays.
“The gentlemen pays” is up for judgment in the new world order. “Paying etiquette” – especially on first dates – has become a lot more complicated with modern social conventions (i.e. dating apps). As if first dates aren’t stressful enough already.
Whether the guy invites the girl out for a drink, or the guy invites the girl out for dinner, or even the girl invites the guy out for dinner, you’d be inclined to say he/she who does the inviting picks up the bill, right? I know I would, but it’s not that simple.
“A drink” (as in, the result of a swipe on the Tinder app) implies a quick meet-up, where one or both parties dance around the potential for a longer-term relationship. If this really is the agenda (and nothing else), I’d argue both parties split the bill. Could get awkward.
“A dinner” (as in, the result of a well-designed profile on the eHarmony app) implies a more serious stab at a relationship. In this case I’d argue the “inviter” pays the bill, not the “invitee”. Unless you’re in New York or San Francisco. Social convention in those cities leans towards both parties splitting the bill, since restaurant tabs flirt with the $200 mark. Not exactly disposable income for most young people. Could get awkward.
In “the girl invites the guy” (as in, the Bumble app, where only she can “make the first move”), I’d argue the girl pays. But what if the girl is “traditional”, and holds out on paying just to see if he’s a “gentleman”? Again, could get awkward.
If “who pays?” hasn’t been decided beforehand, the mind games really kick in with gestures to pay the bill, otherwise known as “the reach”. Some women do “the reach” to appear a team player (when in fact they have no intention of paying the bill). Some men interpret the woman’s reach as her wish to pay; in return, somehow “looking good by not falling into stereotypes”. Other men pounce on the woman’s reach as the perfect opportunity to suggest half and half.
Half and half is also known as “going Dutch”; a phrase with take-your-pick origins. The most common origin ties back to the 17th century Anglo-Dutch wars (also coining the phrases “Dutch treat” and “Dutch courage”). The more fitting origin however, comes from “Dutch door”; the farmhouse invention of two equal halves. A Dutch door is sometimes referred to as a “split door”. “Fits the bill”, wouldn’t you say?
Going Dutch is not as safe as it sounds. One time my wife and I met a couple in downtown Chicago, for a pricey meal atop the John Hancock tower. As we waited in the bar for our table, the husband knocked back several expensive drinks, followed by several more at dinner. Imagine my shock when the dinner bill was merged with the bar bill. The husband casually said, “let’s just split this, shall we?”
My daughter is a twenty-something, brand new to the dating scene in Los Angeles. As far as she’s concerned, forget everything I’ve discussed in the paragraphs above. She has one and only one rule: the gentleman always pays. Frankly, that’s just fine with me.
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The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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