The Yearly Holiday Inferiority Complex

The most important Sunday of the year in the United States is Super Bowl Sunday (it’s February 5th this year, mark it down). It rarely is a good football game; but it matters not. It is the ultimate party Sunday in America, and undoubtedly all the casual gambling and office pools sustain interest in following the game even if the participating teams are of little appeal.

And you don’t have to be a football fan per se, or married to one, to get caught up in the hoopla… the pageantry of the day… all the pre-game hype… all those pre-game “human interest” stories… the cornerback with one lung who cares for his grandmother (who raised him) and is wheelchair bound, and who graduated from Amherst… the cornerback, that is… with a 3.5 GPA and had to pay his way by waiting tables and taking in laundry…

Touching… when does the game start?

Luckily, if the game isn’t interesting you can simply enjoy the television commercials. You gotta know that “Madison Ave” struts their stuff on Super Bowl Sunday. Hands down, ads on this day can launch a new company to stardom (and the ad agency responsible for the creativity).

It’s just the way it is. The Super Bowl is a magnet for the devoted fan, the casual observer & the tag-along.

But what happens if you don’t give a twit about football? What happens if you don’t know if football is played on a grass field or on an ice skating rink (and couldn’t care less)? What happens if you think that Vince Lombardi is a capo de capo, or maybe a chef on the cooking channel?

And what happens if you think all these things and you’re a man (funny how women are given a free ride on this stuff)?

Well… all I can say is it’s a bit like being a “fish out of water”, isn’t it? All of America is watching the game, or at least “partying” with those who are watching the game… and there you are sitting in the front row of the 92nd St “Y” attending a recital of Edith Sitwell poems. Super Bowl? “Who really cares?”

Sure… hide behind a cloak of disdain. Pretend that the rest of the country is pandering to the commercial interests. Turn you nose to the air and say “not for me”… or “not for me, I’m better.”

But this is not a story about the Super Bowl, nor the unhappy souls who might feel inferior for not knowing (or caring) whether football is played in periods or innings. Although the stories do relate, after a fashion.

This is a story about Chanukah, and in part, its relationship to Christmas.

First… we have a problem even before the “coin toss”.

How do you spell it? I don’t think I have ever spelled it the same way 3 times consecutively. I’m a decent speller; but I cringe when folks ask me how to spell Chanukah. I have been able to spell Christmas correctly since the 4th grade.

Next… food. Real important to Jews, no? And the gastronomic highlight for the Festival of Lights? A side dish! Latkes (that’s potato pancakes, for those who don’t know).

Don’t get me wrong… I love latkes heaped with sour cream (my kids prefer apple sauce)… But somehow Roast Prime Rib and Yorkshire Pudding is a bit more satisfying.

And how is this for a holiday activity… let’s go to the video tape… a meek gambling game with the dreidel. A game that can’t retain the interest of a person with an IQ above a grapefruit for more than 10 minutes…

Let’s open up the presents. Chanukah lasts for 8 nights… a gift on each night! That will show the Christian World who is boss.

Great… in one fell stroke we send parents into debt paying for eight gifts, and at the same time incur the disgust of the Gentile population over this gaudy display of largesse.

Then add this critical detail. Truthfully, Chanukah is not that important a Holiday in the Jewish Calendar. In our own tradition Chanukah is like a divisional game in November… yeah, it’s important; but really it is a side show for what will follow.

Still, there is beauty in the story of Chanukah… and lighting of the candles on each of the night, in its simplicity is the true treasure of the Holiday.

And then importantly, regardless of all the presents, this Holiday is dwarfed by the breadth and importance of Christmas.

And understandably so.

And I guess you can go thru life pretending that Christmas is unimportant, or that it doesn’t matter… like sitting in Starbucks on Super Bowl Sunday doing crossword puzzles.

Or, you can go into the community, confident of your own traditions… and still fully enjoy the Tree in Rockefeller Center, warm to the richness of Midnight Mass, share the warmth of your neighbors, and bid peace and good will to each who we meet.

And how different are we really anyway? In the scope of things the spirit is much the same. It’s simply a beautiful time of the year. A time that everyone can enjoy the season and share in the richness of our traditions.

And in your heart I hope that you will forgive me while I boot that dufuss in the tail for not knowing the Colts are the best team in football (and I hope that they will be playing in the Super Bowl on February 5).

Cheers to all.

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Tale of Two White Wines or From the Ridiculous to the Sublime

For this story to make sense, this you have to know: for four years at Union College my white wine experience was confined to the slender green bottles of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine.

Consumption was an exercise in math. Road trips north to Saratoga (either to enjoy the ponies at the track or the fine young ladies at Skidmore) would require each passenger, upon embarking from Schenectady, to take on 3 quarts of Boone’s Farm (quarts being the convenient size available in this refreshing white wine).

One to drink on the way up. One to have there. One to enjoy on the return trip.

This might seem a challenge. It was. Not for the amount of consumption; but rather the unfortunate taste of the “anchor” bottle on the return leg to campus.

You see, Boone’s Farm was best consumed bone chillingly cold… and the quicker the better. If the wine warmed slightly it would thicken and then you could actually taste the wine, and/or the preservatives necessary to keep it safe for human consumption. You can see where that third quart (after a long evening in Saratoga) might be difficult to handle… am I tasting Granny Smith or formaldehyde?

For “party” weekends the math drill was put into more vigorous use. In anticipation of our dates arriving on Friday, serious studies were put aside on Thursday evening in lieu of Bridge. Our playing of Bridge was not serious; but the sipping of Boone’s Farm was. The four of us would polish off 10 quarts of wine.

Friday night we would kill 16 quarts aided in the enterprise by our dates…

Saturday we would coast thru 24 quarts… it’s what happens when you have a “pre-game bracer” before kick-off (well before kick-off).

Sunday we would finish off what was left.

It took me decades to shed these unfortunate experiences. For years every white wine I tasted was evaluated thru the prism of the fall harvest… not grapes… but of McCouns and Cortlands.

I can not pin point my white wine “epiphany”… suffice it to say that it occurred after I began working at Grapes… when I started to taste 20+ wines on a near daily basis.

After tasting a myriad of Chardonnays, mostly from California, I soon tired of the “big styled Napa Chards”… deep golden in colour, supremely rich in butter, vanilla, butterscotch, creme brulee, buttered sweet corn. The novelty of the lush huge taste would begin to wear thin half way thru your first glass. And pairing it with food was nigh impossible (maybe a loin of buffalo?).

For folks who don’t like Chardonnay… it is usually because their experience is with this form of Chardonnay… I call it “white wine on steroids”. There was a period when it seemed that California producers were engaged in a “Great Chardonnay War.” How big can we make a white wine? This is like asking how many quarts of Boone’s Farm can you go thru in a weekend.

You know… what’s the point?

But you taste enough wine and eventually all the pieces fall into place. So it was for me working at Grapes.

And like Scrooge after the visit of the three ghosts, I woke up to the beauty of a new day. In my case, the discovery of the white wine for red wine lovers.

I will make this simple for you. If you want to enjoy an “adult” white wine travel across the Atlantic to France & the home of Chardonnay. Seek out White Burgundies. Try Chardonnay wines (which is precisely what White Burgundy is) that exhibit balance… wines that offer layering of flavours blended with oak aging (no single part dominating).

And it is this extraordinary balance that gives these wines their distinctive character. Wines that combine richness with elegance… wines that don’t bombard the senses; but rather seduce the senses… wines that draw you in.

The “buy in” for Burgundy is not cheap. Grand Cru Burgundies are hard to come by and are pricey indeed (but oh, what a treat). But 1er Cru are more readily available and can be obtained for around $50. Look for Puligny-Montrachet, Meursault or the “insiders” wine: St. Aubin (which can be had for less).

But regardless of the “stripe” of White Burgundy you choose… do not over chill the wine! Good Burgundy should be enjoyed and savored slightly cool. Serving Burgundy cold camouflages both bouquet and flavour. It would be the equivalent of slathering a prime cut of beef in ketchup.

Here is another simple “Rule of Wine”… quality red wine, even great red wine, is a dime-a-dozen. You can find reds all over the place at every price level. Not so with white wine.

When you taste something as good as White Burgundy you don’t forget it.

And if I’m lucky enough to reach the “Pearly Gates”… and if the angels give me a glass of Corton-Charlemagne while they take care of my paper work… then I’ll be twice blessed.

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Try to Remember

The song has been around for an age and I have heard it numerous times.

But you know how it is… sometimes you see or hear something and it just hits you in a new way. Travel the same stretch of road, then one time you finally notice a breathtaking tree that had always been there… and perhaps from that point on, you will always make note of its presence.

This morning I heard an “old standard”… I knew the stage production where the song had come from… I didn’t realize that Jerry Ohrbach recorded it and that he was in the original Broadway cast… but that piece of information was a mere curiousity.

For some reason, this morning I concentrated on the lyrics… and it just hit me a little harder than I expected. Maybe it has to do with all this writing and reflecting I engage in… maybe it’s the time of the year, or better put the time in my years.

I share with you the lyrics… which I think stand alone quite well. But give yourself a treat… seek out a recording of it, too. You may want to give Ohrbach’s version a listen if you haven’t heard it… others who have recorded may have had better “pipes”; but I love the gentle emotion he brings to the words.

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh so mellow
Try to remember the kind of September
When grass was green and grain yellow

Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a tender and callow fellow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow

Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow
Try to remember when life was so tender
That dreams were kept beside your pillow

Try to remember when life was so tender
That love was an ember about to billow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow

Deep in December it’s nice to remember
Although you know the snow will follow
Deep in December it’s nice to remember
Without a hurt the heart is hollow

Deep in December it’s nice to remember
The fire of September that made you mellow
Deep in December our hearts should remember
And follow…

 

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It’s About the Bubbles

Perhaps you have heard me say, “you don’t have to be launching a battleship to open a bottle of Champagne.” It’s true, too many folks are caught up in popping the cork only if a celebration is on hand.

So be it… if you insist. Here are a few things to celebrate… I made the traffic light at Exit 17 on I-84, or I got the right change at Starbucks on Westport Ave, or I am wearing my favorite martini print boxer shorts. You see… lotsa reasons to sip some Champagne and celebrate! You get the idea…

I am reminded of lessons I learned from my parents. When I was 12 my Father told me to “buy low, sell high”. At the same age my Mother told me “pearls go with everything”. Sound thinking, on both accounts.

Friends, the way I figure it: Champagne is liquid pearls. Champagne goes with everything… it’s always appropriate… anytime of the year, anytime of the day. Serve it on New Years morning for breakfast with eggs benedict… serve 364 days later at midnight to bring in the New Year. And importantly, serve it countless times in between.

It’s simple really… bubbles bring festivity to our lives, it transforms the ordinary into the special, it adds expression to our eyes and a smile to our demeanor. If you don’t enjoy Champagne it’s probably because you are either six feet under or because you haven’t found the right one yet.

We are in the season when Champagne is most popular. This is not a mirage. Even if you don’t enjoy Champagne, you’re at least aware of its presence. So I thought it would be in keeping with the spirit of the season to supply a “mini primer” on the subject.

First, Champagne is a very specific district in France. Only grapes that grown within that delimited region produce sparkling wine entitled to be called “Champagne”. What can I say? The French are a fussy people.

Second, In Champagne the two most important grapes are Pinot Meunier and Pinot Noir… both black grapes. Chardonnay grapes will also be used in the blend for most Champagne. If a Champagne only uses white grapes (or Chardonnay) it is called Blanc de Blancs.

Third, Sparkling wine from Germany is called Sekt and sparkling wine from Spain is called Cava. In Italy, the country that both produces and drinks more wine than any other, the most consumed “wine” is sparkling Prosecco. Italians drink Prosecco in the morning, at lunch, before dinner & after, late at night, and on the way back from the “john” at 3:00AM. They drink Prosecco in glasses, in flutes, in tea cups, coffee mugs, old jelly jars and wooden ladles. In fact, it is safe to say that Italians drink more Prosecco than we drink still water. It is clear that Italians know how to celebrate living.

Fourth, If you don’t like Champagne it is probably because you have only tried French Brut Champagne. Give Cava or Prosecco a test drive. The grapes used are lighter, more flavourful and possess a softer bubble.

Fifth, Serve Champagne cold… very cold. Serve it in a slender flute (the saucer glass went out with the cigarette holder). Although somewhat irregular, I would try some from a ladies slipper if the circumstances were favorable.

Sixth, Don’t burp… don’t ever burp. Don’t suppress a burp either. If you have to, run out of the room or jump out of the window.

Seventh, If you’re toasting the Queen, take a quick sip and heave the glass into the fireplace. If you’re toasting you’re mother, take a healthy gulp and say, “I am sorry I don’t call more often.”

Eighth, With Champagne, bottle size counts! Champagne is available in large format bottles. Below is a list of bottles, their name, their volume and the origin of the name. If nothing else, this will give you instant credibility and will provide you with a convenient entree to polite society.

Magnum… 1.5 Ltr: an alternative form of address for a Roman Senator

Jeroboam… 3 Ltr: a hold in Grecco-Roman wrestling

Rehoboam… 4.5 Ltr: a precursor of the cod piece

Methuselah…6 Ltr: the Macedonian Goddess of the Panty Raid

Salmanazar… 9 Ltr: a Persian sailing vessel

Balthazar… 12 Ltr: a bigger and more impressive Persian sailing vessel

Nebuchadnezzer… 15 Ltr: a Hittite war lord who didn’t have a sober day after the age of 7

Gantsamegillah… 75 Ltr: only one known bottle was ever blown. It was mounted on a flatbed railway car and brought to the front by the Germans as “bait” during the siege of Verdun.

Well… there it is: Champagne — one of the three essential staffs of life (the others being good oysters and New York cheesecake). Go and enjoy… have a Happy & a Merry.

 

p.s. About the “lessons” from my Mom & Dad… I made that up, although I like the sound of it (my children… please take note). Most of the other stuff written here is accurate.

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