Category: Leisure

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The Cookie I Chased for 70 Years: Found Me On My Birthday

This post is rewritten to reflect recent developments:

Some people chase fame, fortune, or the fountain of youth. Me? I chase black-and-white cookies. Not just a black-and-white cookie—I’m talking about the black-and-white cookie. This is less a hobby and more a lifelong pursuit—part nostalgia, part stubbornness, and part refusal to accept mediocrity in baked goods.

My journey has taken me from childhood bakeries that no longer exist…to modern-day pilgrimages that occasionally end in heartbreak. (More on that Florida debacle later.) But every once in a while, just when the trail seems cold, something unexpected happens.

Like this year—on my 73rd birthday—when the cookie found me.

A Love Letter to the Black-and-White Cookie

Let’s get one thing straight: the black-and-white cookie is not a cookie. It’s a cake wearing a cookie costume.

Soft. Slightly domed. Tender but not flimsy. And topped with that signature half-and-half glaze—vanilla on one side, chocolate on the other—like a dessert that couldn’t decide and wisely chose both.

The icing is where greatness lives or dies. It should be thin, almost fondant-like—not a slab of sugary drywall. The vanilla side should be clean and bright. The chocolate side should taste like cocoa, not compromise.

No sprinkles. No fillings. No nonsense.

This is not dessert innovation. This is dessert perfection.

For me, it’s more than food. It’s memory. It’s New York. It’s childhood. It’s a time when bakeries smelled like sugar and promise, and one cookie could make your entire day.

A Bite of History

The black-and-white cookie has been around for over a century, which already gives it more staying power than most things on the internet.

Often associated with New York, its origins are debated. Some credit Bavarian immigrants. Others point to Glaser’s Bake Shop, which opened in 1902 and helped define the form before closing in 2018—an event that should have warranted citywide mourning.

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Jewish bakeries and delis carried the torch, turning the black-and-white into an icon. Even Seinfeld weighed in, famously declaring it a symbol of harmony.

I’ll leave the philosophy to Jerry. I’m here for the icing.

The One That Got Away: Adventurers Inn

Every obsession has its origin story. Mine involves a now-defunct amusement park in Queens: Adventurers Inn.

They didn’t just serve black-and-whites. They served a double-decker version.

Two layers. Twice the cake. Twice the icing. A structural achievement that should have required an engineering permit.

As a kid, I stared at it like it was edible mythology. And then—like all great childhood institutions—Adventurers Inn disappeared, taking my beloved double-decker with it.

I’ve been chasing that ghost ever since.

The Delray Beach Debacle

Fast forward to recent times. I hear whispers of greatness at Boy’s Farmers Market. Naturally, I go.

The bakery counter was five people deep. Not a line—a contact sport.

Elbows were deployed. Orders barked. Boxes clutched like lottery winnings.

I hovered. I strategized. I briefly considered a pick-and-roll maneuver.

But in the end? I walked away. No cookie. Just dignity… and a growing suspicion that the best black-and-white in Florida was five feet away and completely inaccessible without shoulder pads.

Still, if it’s that crowded, they’re doing something right.

The Birthday Surprise (When the Cookie Found Me)

And then—just when I least expected it—came my 73rd birthday.

No bakery pilgrimage. No crowded counters. No tactical maneuvering required.

Instead, my son’s mother-in-law—clearly a woman of exceptional judgment—had scoured the internet, found a recipe, and showed up with a batch of homemade black-and-white cookies.

What I walked into was less a kitchen and more a cookie workshop in full swing.

Rows of freshly baked cookies. Bowls of icing. Spatulas in motion. It had the feel of a family-run bakery—only warmer, livelier, and a lot more fun.

And then came the grandkids.

My granddaughter and grandson stepped right into the process with complete enthusiasm. They helped spread icing, sampled along the way, and brought a level of joy and energy that no professional bakery could ever replicate.

The cookies took on a little personality—some with a bit more chocolate, some with a bit more vanilla—but each one felt like it had a story behind it.

It was exactly how baking should be.

The cookies themselves? Genuinely excellent. Soft, balanced, with icing that captured the spirit of a true black-and-white.

But more importantly, they had something no bakery can reliably produce:

They had occasion.

The Search Continues

So here I am. Still chasing the perfect black-and-white cookie.

Maybe it’s in a hidden bakery.
Maybe it’s in a deli that hasn’t changed since 1975.
Maybe somewhere, somehow, a double-decker is waiting for its comeback tour.

But now I know something I didn’t before.

Sometimes the best version isn’t the one you chase.

Sometimes it’s the one that shows up—on your 73rd birthday—made in a busy kitchen, shared with family, and brought to life by a couple of enthusiastic young assistants who understand, instinctively, that dessert is supposed to be fun.

And frankly, they’re absolutely right.

The quest continues.

But for one day at least?

I caught it.

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The Mascot Hunger Games: Why Every City Needs Its Own “Running Presidents”

Let’s be honest: baseball is a game of statistics, tradition, and three-hour-long stretches where absolutely nothing happens except a grown man adjusting his gloves. That’s why we have mascots. Specifically, the Washington Nationals hit gold with the Racing Presidents. Seeing a giant-headed Abraham Lincoln accidentally clothesline George Washington is the peak of American athleticism.
But why should D.C. have all the fun? It’s time we localized the chaos. If we’re going to have 10-foot-tall foam caricatures sprinting for our entertainment, they should at least reflect the specific neuroses and local flavor of their home cities.
Here is my proposal for the “Mascot Races of the Future.”

New York City (Mets/Yankees): The Great Slice Scurry

Forget the subway race; let’s talk about what actually fuels the city.

  • The Competitors: Classic Pepperoni, Fancy Margherita, The Dollar Slice, and The Pineapple (The Villain).
  • The Twist: To win, they have to navigate a series of obstacles including a slow-walking tourist and a puddle of “mysterious liquid.” If the Pineapple slice wins, the stadium is legally required to boo for ten minutes.

Baltimore (Orioles): The Battle of the Bards

Baltimore is a city of history and very specific bragging rights.

  • The Competitors: Francis Scott Key vs. The Guy Who Wrote “America the Beautiful” (Katharine Lee Bates).
  • The Twist: Since Key wrote the “Star-Spangled Banner” in Baltimore Harbor, he gets a home-field advantage—but Bates gets to throw “Purple Mountain Majesties” (purple dodgeballs) at him from the infield.

Milwaukee (Brewers): The Hangover Heat

We know they have the Sausages, but let’s get corporate.

  • The Competitors: Giant foam cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller High Life, and Schlitz.
  • The Twist: Halfway through the race, they have to stop and eat a bratwurst. The first one to finish without their foam lid popping off wins a “Best Utility Player” award and a nap.

San Francisco (Giants): The Tech Disruptors

The race starts at the center-field wall and ends at the Silicon Valley bank account.

  • The Competitors: The AI Startup Guy, The E-Scooter, and A Rent-Controlled Studio Apartment.
  • The Twist: The Apartment doesn’t actually move, yet somehow its value increases by 15% every inning. The AI Startup Guy claims he’s winning, but he’s actually just hallucinating the finish line.

Philadelphia (Phillies): The “Everything is a Projectile” Derby

Let’s be real, Philly fans don’t want a race; they want a spectacle.

  • The Competitors: A Giant Cheesesteak (Whiz Wit), A Parking Cone, and Ben Franklin.
  • The Twist: There is no finish line. The mascots just run until the fans start throwing batteries. Ben Franklin wins by default because he’s the only one wearing a kite for protection.

Pro Tip: If you ever find yourself at a game where a giant condiment is winning a race, bet on the Mustard. Ketchup always gets complacent in the final stretch.

Which city do you think would have the most chaotic race—and more importantly, what local food item would you put in a footrace against a historical figure?

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The Lost Language of the Chart-Toppers: Why Bad Bunny Frustrates a Monolingual America

If you scroll through the comments of any major music publication today, you’ll find a recurring grievance: “Why is the biggest artist in the world singing in a language I don’t understand?” Bad Bunny’s refusal to “crossover” into English has become a cultural flashpoint. To some, it’s a triumphant display of Latino pride; to others, it’s a barrier to entry that feels alienating. But if we look back sixty or seventy years, the American listener was actually far more comfortable with a polyglot playlist than we are today.

What changed? It might be that we’ve lost the “shared trauma” that once forced us to look outward.

When the World Was on the Radio

In the 1950s and 60s, Americans didn’t just tolerate foreign-language hits; they celebrated them. Consider the landscape:

• Domenico Modugno’s “Volare” (1958): An Italian ballad that spent five weeks at #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 and won the first-ever Grammy for Record of the Year.

• Kyu Sakamoto’s “Sukiyaki” (1963): A Japanese torch song that reached #1 despite the fact that most listeners had no idea it was actually a melancholy poem about walking to keep from crying.

• Ritchie Valens’ “La Bamba”: A traditional Mexican huapango that became an indelible part of the early rock-and-roll DNA.

Even Doris Day’s “Que Sera, Sera,” while primarily English, leaned into its Spanish title as a universal mantra. Back then, the American ear was conditioned to find beauty in the melody, even when the vocabulary remained a mystery.

The Military Connection: A Global Perspective

There is a compelling argument that this mid-century musical tolerance was forged in the fires of World War II. After a global conflict that left 60 million dead, the world was irrevocably interconnected.

Millions of young American GIs were deployed to Europe and the Pacific. They weren’t just tourists; they were young people living in German villages, Italian cities, and Japanese occupied territories. They ate the food, heard the radio, and brought those sounds home in their kit bags.

This created a “globalized” generation. They had seen the wreckage of isolationism and, through sheer military exposure, developed a cultural elasticity. To a veteran who had spent two years in Naples, an Italian ballad on the radio didn’t feel like a “foreign intrusion”—it felt like a memory.

The Modern Divide: No Shared Experience

Contrast that with the environment that greets Bad Bunny today. Today’s United States lacks that unifying, outward-facing experience. We are more “connected” via the internet, but more “siloed” in our consumption.

• Algorithmic Bubbles: We only hear what we already like.

• The Lack of National Service: There is no longer a massive, cross-cultural “melting pot” experience like the draft to force diverse groups of Americans to live and work together.

• Language as Politics: In the current climate, Spanish isn’t just a language; it’s often treated as a political statement, making Bad Bunny’s success feel like a “takeover” to those who prefer an English-only status quo.

Final Thoughts

The criticism of Bad Bunny often stems from a feeling of being “left out.” But if the 1950s taught us anything, it’s that you don’t need to know the lyrics to feel the soul of a song.

Perhaps the reason we struggle with foreign-language hits today isn’t a lack of talent on the artist’s part, but a lack of curiosity on ours. We no longer have the grim necessity of global war to force us to see the world; now, we have to choose to look.

⭐ The True Foreign-Language #1 Hits in the U.S.

These were fully or predominantly non-English and went all the way:

  • Volare – Domenico Modugno (Italian) – 1958
  • Sukiyaki – Kyu Sakamoto (Japanese) – 1963
  • Dominique – The Singing Nun (French) – 1963

That’s it — only three in the entire two decades reached #1 in their original languages.

📊 By Language

🇮🇹 Italian

  • Volare – Modugno
  • Al Di Là – Pericoli
  • O Dio Mio – Annette
  • Quando, Quando, Quando – Pat Boone

➡ Italian was the dominant foreign language on U.S. radio in the late ’50s/early ’60s (Sanremo effect + Italian-American audience).

🇪🇸 Spanish

  • La Bamba – Ritchie Valens
  • Guantanamera – The Sandpipers
  • El Watusi – Ray Barretto

➡ Spanish entered via rock & Latin dance crazes.

🇫🇷 French

  • Dominique – The Singing Nun
    ➡ The most unlikely #1 of the rock era.

🇯🇵 Japanese

  • Sukiyaki – Kyu Sakamoto
    ➡ Still the only Japanese-language U.S. Hot 100 #1 in history.
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🎃 Trick, Treat, and Radiology: Reflections from a 1950s Halloween

From candy corn kernels to X-rayed Milky Ways — one man’s sweet evolution through the decades

Halloween has always been that magical time when ordinary citizens—young and old—put on masks, defy curfew, and demand sugary tribute from strangers. For me, the magic began in the 1950s, when the phrase “trick or treat” meant something pure, thrilling, and slightly unsanitary.

Back then, the concept of getting candy for free by merely showing up at someone’s door was revolutionary. Armed with a paper grocery bag from A&P—free of charge, mind you—I roamed the sidewalks of Queens like a miniature bandit. The rewards were astonishing: a few loose kernels of candy corn, an occasional Lincoln head penny, and from the more affluent homes, a full-sized Hershey bar—the Holy Grail of confectionery.

Packaging was optional, hygiene was theoretical, and nobody used words like “processed sugar intake.” The candy haul was superb thanks to the dense, row-house geography—door to door in seconds. Contrast that to when my own sons went trick-or-treating in the suburbs, where each house sat on half an acre. Their candy-per-step ratio was dismal. I considered handing out Fitbits.

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🍫 The Evolution of a Sweet Tooth

As my palate matured, my candy preferences evolved—from humble candy corn to Reese’s, and then to the sophisticated allure of Milky Way bars during my college days. That was my version of fine dining on a student budget: nougat, caramel, and chocolate—three food groups in one.

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👻 The Tricks of Yesteryear

“Tricks” in mid-20th-century Queens were mostly good-natured. We filled socks with chalk to “decorate” each other’s coats. (Why? Don’t ask. It was a simpler time.) The truly daring among us escalated to egg throwing—back when eggs were so cheap you could use them as projectiles. Imagine that today: “Sorry, officer, I assaulted a Buick with $6 worth of cage-free organics.”

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☠️ When Treats Got Tricky

By the late 20th century, the innocent fun had soured. News reports surfaced of razor blades and metal fragments hidden in candy. Pediatric radiology departments found themselves X-raying trick-or-treat bags. “No cavities,” the doctor would say, “but your Snickers has shrapnel.”

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🦇 Costumes Then and Now

In my childhood, costumes were simple: Batman, Superman, or a random Disney character. The masks were molded plastic that cut off oxygen but never enthusiasm. Today, the front yards are equipped with animatronic zombies, motion-activated ghosts, and sound effects that could raise the dead—or at least startle your Apple Watch into detecting atrial fibrillation.

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🍬 The Spirit Lives On

So, when kids ring my doorbell today, I smile. They’re carrying store-bought pumpkin buckets instead of crumpled A&P bags, and they’re dressed as everything from Spider-Man to Taylor Swift’s cat. But the gleam in their eyes is the same—the age-old thrill of getting something sweet for nothing, of prowling the neighborhood under cover of darkness with permission.

And when they hold out their hands, I drop in a mini-sized candy bar, silently lamenting the extinction of full-size generosity. But hey—at least it’s sterile, gluten-free, and X-ray safe.

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Rooting for the Underdog

When you’re young, you imagine yourself winning a Nobel Prize, writing a bestselling novel, or penning the next great American song. Then life happens—you wake up one day and find yourself flipping hamburgers at Burger King. Somewhere along the way, you pivot from being the dreamer to cheering for the dreamers. You become a fan, hitching your self-esteem to the fortunes of a sports team.

I was born into a family of winners. The Yankees had just finished winning five straight World Series, and the New York Giants were NFL champions. By birthright, I should have basked in dynasties forever. But as I got older, both franchises slipped back toward mediocrity.

Then came San Diego, 1979. I was an intern at the VA hospital when the Charger Girls made a visit to cheer up patients. Let’s just say the uniforms left an impression. Later that night, after a series of code blues (possibly fueled by a collective octogenarian cortisol surge), I found myself captivated by the Chargers.

They were led by head coach Don “Air” Coryell, a visionary who believed in the forward pass when everyone else was grinding out two yards and a cloud of dust. I was in Pacific Beach when Dan Fouts and Kellen Winslow battled the Dolphins in that double-overtime playoff classic. Even Howard Cosell’s toupee seemed altered by the drama. But then came the AFC Championship in Cincinnati. The temperature hovered near absolute zero, and Fouts’ throwing hand must have felt like gripping liquid nitrogen. Another dream frozen.

Years rolled by, and the Chargers remained football’s Sisyphus—preseason darlings, postseason heartbreakers. Raiders, Broncos, Chiefs: the tormentors never changed. My kids climbed aboard the same rollercoaster, caught between optimism and despair.

There were highs: LaDainian Tomlinson breaking the rushing record. And there were lows: LT injured in the playoffs, Phillip Rivers throwing for miles in the first three quarters only to sputter in the fourth (sleep deprivation courtesy of his nine children, no doubt). And then there was the day I took my kids and a good friend to a Chargers playoff game against the Jets. The Chargers were heavy favorites, the Jets were starting a rookie quarterback named Mark Sanchez—and yet San Diego managed to miss three field goals and hand the game away. Sanchez, who basically had the job description “don’t screw it up,” walked out the hero. The long drive home felt like we were leaving a wake, only quieter.

Fast forward to last Thursday night against the Chiefs. The Chargers had lost 11 of their last one-score games. My sons, now with 30 years of futility under his belt, turned to me. I told them mine was going on 50. Yet somehow, Justin Herbert scrambled for a last-second first down and the Chargers won. For one night, euphoria reigned.

Could this be the year? Could the Chargers finally shed their underdog skin?

And if so, maybe—just maybe—this will be the year I finally win that Nobel Prize and write a hit song.

Stay tuned.

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What Makes Us Human: Cooperation, Knowledge, and the Will to Survive

In the vast story of life on Earth, humans are primates—but not just any primates. We don’t outmatch our cousins in strength, speed, or sharp claws. What sets us apart is something subtler and far more powerful: the ability to learn from one another, to share knowledge, and to cooperate. That’s what has allowed us to inhabit virtually every environment on the planet—from sun-scorched deserts to icy tundra, from megacities to rainforests.

I was reminded of this truth in the most unexpected place: traveling to Southwestern Uganda and standing mere feet from a 400-pound silverback gorilla in Bwindi Impenetrable Forest. His species split from our evolutionary lineage roughly eight million years ago. The mountain gorillas have remained in the forest, perfectly suited to a single ecological niche. We, by contrast, left the trees behind—and never stopped moving.

But what enabled that journey wasn’t just intelligence. Intelligence without connection doesn’t scale. The secret to our success is shared wisdom.

History offers a cautionary tale. In 1861, the British explorers Burke and Wills attempted to cross the Australian continent from south to north. They dismissed the hard-won survival knowledge of Aboriginal Australians, particularly around the preparation of nardoo seeds. Eaten raw, nardoo contains thiaminase, an enzyme that destroys vitamin B1. The explorers suffered and died of beri-beri—not because survival knowledge was unavailable, but because they refused to accept it. Ignorance wasn’t fatal—arrogance was.

Now contrast that with our modern trek through East Africa—an exercise in cooperative survival:

• Medicine as shared defense: Vaccinations against yellow fever, permethrin-treated clothes, Malarone tablets, and a discreet cache of Imodium. All forged through centuries of global collaboration in labs and clinics.

• Engineering on four wheels: Our Toyota Land Cruisers tackled cratered dirt roads like lunar rovers. A tribute to mechanical ingenuity, tire durability, and suspension systems that earned their pay.

• Linguistic diplomacy: Our guide—part biologist, part gorilla whisperer—spoke in deep, rumbling grunts to soothe a nearby silverback. When you’re five feet from a primate that could turn you into a protein shake, fluency in Silverbackese is a highly valued skill.

• Microbial truce via refrigeration: Cold milk, safe cheese, and preserved fruit—unsung heroes in the war against gastrointestinal mutiny.

• Batwa porters, forest-born navigators: Descendants of Bwindi’s original inhabitants, the Batwa led us with quiet confidence. They knew every slippery root, every hidden turn, every slope disguised as flat ground. Without them, we might still be in the forest, tangled in vines and excuses.

• Security with edge: Kalashnikovs swung from the shoulders of armed guards like grim fashion statements. Their presence reminded us that peace, here, is maintained—not assumed. Just across the border lies Congo, and with it, a long shadow of past conflict. In Bwindi, tranquility often travels with a trigger finger.

The mountain gorillas remain tied to one patch of Earth, thriving in their ancient rhythm. We humans ventured far because we learned to listen—to guides, to science, to experience, and sometimes, finally, to each other.

We are primates. But we are the cooperative primates. The ones who teach, imitate, argue, share, and adapt.

And that—more than any tool or gene—has made us human.

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You’ve Got a Friend: A Night with James Taylor at The Rady Shell

There are concerts, and then there are moments in time that become stitched into the fabric of your memory—softly, indelibly. That’s what happened the other night at The Rady Shell in San Diego, where James Taylor performed under a perfect spring sky.Seagulls glided above the stage, effortlessly catching the breeze like backup dancers choreographed by nature. In the distance, boats floated lazily off Coronado, their sails catching the golden hour light as Taylor’s warm voice wove its way into the ocean air.

It’s true—his voice isn’t what it once was. The range has narrowed, some edges are softer now. But none of that mattered. Because when the first chords of Sweet Baby James rang out, something vivid and unstoppable happened: the floodgates opened. I was back in college, a freshman clutching the brand-new album like it was a sacred text. I could hear myself humming Mexico as we rattled down dusty roads in North Baja, lobsters and beans on our minds. The windows were open. The future was wide.

Time folded that night, like a concert program tucked into a jacket pocket. I looked around and saw my dearest friends and my spouse—people I’ve known for most of my life—illuminated by the soft light of the moon. Their faces glowed with familiarity and joy, made more poignant by the music weaving through the air.

And then, of course, James sang You’ve Got a Friend.

There it was: the reminder, gentle and true, that while our hair may have greyed and our voices quieted, the people who’ve walked with us through all of it are still here. In the same row. Still smiling. Still listening.

As the last note drifted out over the bay, past the gulls and the sailboats and the California light, I realized the music didn’t need to be perfect—it just needed to be shared.

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The Quest for the Perfect Black-and-White Cookie

Some people chase fame, fortune, or adventure. Me? I chase black-and-white cookies. Not just any black-and-white cookie, but the best black-and-white cookie. It’s a mission of love, nostalgia, and a deep appreciation for this perfect half-vanilla, half-chocolate confection. My journey has taken me from my childhood favorites to long-lost bakeries and, most recently, to a packed market in Florida where I came agonizingly close to my prize but left empty-handed.

A Love Letter to the Black-and-White Cookie

If you’ve ever bitten into a true black-and-white cookie, you know there’s something magical about it. It’s not really a cookie at all—it’s more of a cake, soft and slightly domed, with a smooth glaze of half-vanilla, half-chocolate icing. The beauty is in its simplicity and balance. There’s no need for fillings, sprinkles, or any unnecessary embellishments. It’s just pure harmony in dessert form.

For me, black-and-white cookies are more than just a treat. They are nostalgia. They are childhood. They are a connection to the past, to bakeries that no longer exist, to neighborhoods that have changed, and to a time when every bite felt like an event. Finding a truly great black-and-white cookie is like recapturing those moments, and that’s why I continue my quest.

A Bite of History: Where Did the Black-and-White Cookie Come From?

The black-and-white cookie has roots that stretch back over a century. While often associated with New York, its origins are debated. Some trace it back to Bavarian immigrants who brought over similar glazed cookies. Others attribute its rise to Glaser’s Bake Shop, a German bakery on the Upper East Side of Manhattan that opened in 1902 and sadly closed in 2018.

The cookie was popularized in Jewish bakeries throughout New York, and its fame only grew as delis and diners embraced it. The perfect black-and-white has a thin layer of fondant-like icing, not thick frosting. The vanilla side should be bright and smooth, while the chocolate side should have a rich cocoa depth—not just a sugary smear of brown. The cookie itself must be tender but sturdy enough to hold the glaze.

Seinfeld fans may remember the famous “Look to the cookie!” episode, where Jerry and Elaine discuss the black-and-white cookie as a symbol of racial harmony. And while I appreciate the cultural commentary, my love for black-and-whites isn’t political. It’s deeply personal.

The Double-Decker Black-and-White of Adventurers Inn

One of the greatest black-and-white cookies I ever encountered wasn’t a standard one at all. It was a double-decker black-and-white cookie from the bakery counter at Adventurers Inn in Queens.

Adventurers Inn was an amusement park, and like all great childhood memories, it felt larger-than-life at the time. They had games, rides, and, most importantly, an unbelievable black-and-white cookie. This wasn’t just any black-and-white. It was a two-layered marvel—double the cake, double the icing, double the joy.

The first time I saw it, I was in awe. It was as if someone had looked at a standard black-and-white and said, “This is great, but what if we made it even better?” The bottom layer had the classic glaze, and the top was a second cookie stacked on top, creating the ultimate black-and-white experience.

Sadly, Adventurers Inn closed long ago, and with it went my beloved double-decker black-and-white cookie. It remains a ghost of my childhood, an unattainable dream. But like any true black-and-white enthusiast, I refuse to believe that was the last of its kind. Maybe, just maybe, someone out there is still making them.

My Frustrating Visit to Boy’s Market in Delray Beach

Recently, my search for the best black-and-white cookie took me to Boy’s Market in Delray Beach, Florida. Word had spread that they had a truly excellent version—one worth the journey. And so, filled with anticipation, I made my way there, eager to see if it could compare to the legends of my past.

The moment I stepped into Boy’s Market, I knew I was in trouble. The bakery counter was five people thick—five people thick. It wasn’t just crowded; it was a full-on mob scene. People were jostling for position, shouting orders, and clutching their precious baked goods like they had just won the lottery.

I tried. I really did. I stood there, waiting for an opening, hoping for a moment where I could slip in, point at the black-and-white, and secure my prize. But it was hopeless. The counter was a battlefield, and I wasn’t willing to engage in open combat for a cookie.

So I left. Defeated. No black-and-white in hand. But I didn’t leave without hope. Because if a bakery counter is that crowded, it means the cookies must be that good. It means my journey is not over. It means that someday—maybe on a quieter day, in a less frenzied moment—I’ll make it back and finally get my hands on what might be one of the great black-and-white cookies of my time.

The Search Continues

My quest for the perfect black-and-white cookie is never-ending. It’s a pursuit of taste, texture, and nostalgia. I seek out bakeries, I listen to recommendations, and I remain ever hopeful that somewhere, out there, the best black-and-white cookie still awaits me.

Maybe it’s in a hidden gem of a bakery I have yet to discover. Maybe it’s tucked away in a deli where the owners have been making them the same way for 50 years. Or maybe, just maybe, someone out there is making a double-decker black-and-white, waiting to be found.

Until then, I’ll keep looking. Because some things in life are worth the chase. And for me, the black-and-white cookie is one of them.

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Stop, Smell the Roses and Read the Street Signs

In my youth, I didn’t pay much attention to street names. Francis Lewis Boulevard was just a street I crossed to get a slice of Scotty’s Pizza in Queens. The thought of Francis Lewis as a signer of the Declaration of Independence never crossed my mind. Street names were simply markers, not windows into history.

More recently, while visiting my son in Pinecrest, Florida, I passed Agent Jerry Dove Drive. Being near Miami, I assumed it must honor a talent agent—perhaps someone famous for landing the Kardashians a Netflix series. I got it wrong, and spectacularly so.

Street names like these are often more than just labels; they carry stories of heroism, history, or even humor. Let’s take a closer look at some streets with tales that deserve a second glance.

1. The Pinecrest Shootout Legacy: A Street Honoring Jerry Dove

In Pinecrest, Florida, Jerry Dove Drive honors FBI Special Agent Jerry Dove, who was killed in the infamous 1986 FBI Miami shootout. This tragic event unfolded when Dove and his partner, Benjamin Grogan, confronted two heavily armed bank robbers. Despite their bravery, both agents were fatally wounded in the intense gun battle. The incident revealed a critical flaw in FBI equipment: their .38 caliber revolvers and 9mm pistols were no match for the criminals’ firepower. This led to the adoption of more powerful firearms, including the .40 caliber handgun. The street name immortalizes Dove’s sacrifice and reminds us of the pivotal changes in law enforcement practices sparked by his bravery.

2. ZZyzx Road

Driving from Utah to San Diego along Interstate 15 is a journey through dramatic landscapes and shifting terrains. After leaving the red rock vistas of Utah and the towering mountains of Nevada, the road leads you into the stark, sun-soaked Mojave Desert in California. Passing landmarks like the desolate Ivanpah Valley and the striking silhouette of the Dumont Dunes, I found myself at a peculiar sign for Zzyzx Road, seemingly a random scramble of letters. I chuckled, imagining a San Bernardino County official’s toddler commandeering a keyboard to register the name. 

However, the real story of Zzyzx is even more outlandish. It was coined by Curtis Howe Springer in the 1940s as part of his attempt to brand a desert spa as “the last word in health,” both figuratively and alphabetically. The health claims were dubious, and Springer was eventually evicted for squatting on federal land. Today, Zzyzx Road leads to the Desert Studies Center, but it remains a quirky relic of America’s eccentric roadside history.

On my bucket list to visit

3. Chicken Dinner Road – Caldwell, Idaho

Yes, there’s really a Chicken Dinner Road in Idaho! The story goes that in the 1930s, a local woman named Laura Lamb served a delicious chicken dinner to Idaho Governor Ben Ross and used the opportunity to lobby for improvements to the dusty road near her home. Her charm and chicken evidently worked, as the road was soon paved—and the name stuck. It’s a quirky reminder of how good food can lead to progress.

4. Psycho Path – Traverse City, Michigan

Who says city planners don’t have a sense of humor? Psycho Path is a small, private road in Michigan that often makes lists of the funniest street names in the U.S. It’s not clear if it was intended as a joke, but its darkly comedic name has made it a local legend. Imagine telling someone that’s where you live!

5. Why Worry Lane – Rincon, Georgia

In a world filled with stress, Rincon, Georgia, offers a lighthearted reminder to take it easy with Why Worry Lane. This cheerful name brings a smile to locals and visitors alike, offering a small but meaningful encouragement to embrace life with a sense of humor.

6.  Ha-Ha Road (Columbus, Ohio)

• This name might seem like a joke, but “Ha-ha” refers to a design feature in 18th-century landscaping: a sunken fence meant to keep livestock out of gardens without obstructing the view. Its use here could relate to an old estate or a local in-joke.

7. This Ain’t It Road (Copperhill, Tennessee)

• This road was reportedly named after frustrated drivers searching for a destination who exclaimed, “This ain’t it!” Local legend has it that the road sign became a humorous way to confirm its misleading nature.

Concluding Thoughts

Whether it’s a heartfelt tribute to a hero, a name born out of culinary persuasion, or a pun that makes you laugh, street signs offer a surprising lens into our shared history and quirks. The next time you’re out for a walk or drive, take a moment to consider the story behind the street you’re on. Who knows? You might stumble across a tale as fascinating—or funny—as the street itself.

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Journey Through Time: Hiking Stevens Cascade Trail #056 in the Wasatch Range

In the grand tapestry of geologic time, the Wasatch Range is a relatively young creation, formed millions of years ago when the forces of plate tectonics lifted the mountains from the floor of the Cretaceous Seaway, a vast inland sea that once spanned much of North America. As the land shifted and rose, what was once a shallow marine environment became a towering range of mountains that now rise above the valleys of northern Utah. To walk through this range is to step back into time, touching the remnants of an era when dinosaurs roamed these lands, and primordial lakes shimmered in the sunlight.

Today, as humans, we are privileged to explore these mountain trails, witnessing the beauty of creation in its most elemental form. It’s not just rock and soil beneath our feet, but the accumulated artistry of nature over eons—crafted by forces far beyond our control, yet generously shared with us.

One of the most enchanting ways to experience this ancient landscape is through the Stevens Cascade Trail #056, a beautiful hike nestled in the heart of the Wasatch Range, near Sundance, Utah.

The Path Through a Living Tapestry

The Stevens Cascade Trail winds through the dense forests and open meadows of the Wasatch Range, showcasing an array of tree species that thrive in this alpine environment. Towering Douglas fir, blue spruce, and quaking aspen create a canopy of green, offering both shade and beauty to hikers. In the spring and summer months, wildflowers such as Indian paintbrush, lupine, and columbine bloom in vibrant colors, carpeting the meadows and contrasting with the rugged mountain backdrop.

As you walk the trail, you are surrounded by the hum of life. The melodic song of birds, the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, and the occasional sight of a deer or moose grazing quietly remind you that this is not just a place for humans, but a sanctuary for wildlife. The Wasatch Range is home to a variety making every hike a true wilderness experience.

The Waterfall: Stevens Cascade

One of the trail’s most captivating features is the Stevens Cascade, a waterfall that tumbles gracefully down a series of rocky ledges, creating a peaceful, almost meditative atmosphere. The sound of the rushing water, combined with the sight of it glistening in the sunlight, is enough to leave you mesmerized. This waterfall, fed by snowmelt from the peaks above, serves as a reminder of the vital role water plays in this ecosystem. It nourishes the trees, the flowers, and the wildlife, and refreshes the weary hiker who comes across it.

The trail to the waterfall is moderate in difficulty, with a few steep sections, but the reward of reaching Stevens Cascade is well worth the effort. As you stand before the waterfall, you can feel the cool mist on your face and hear the soothing sound of water cascading over rock—an invitation to pause, breathe, and appreciate the wonders of nature.

Sundance Resort: A Legacy of Preservation

The Stevens Cascade Trail is just one of many natural wonders surrounding Sundance Mountain Resort. Founded by actor and environmentalist Robert Redford in 1969, Sundance Resort has become a hub for outdoor enthusiasts and nature lovers. Redford’s vision was to create a place where people could connect with the environment while preserving the natural beauty of the area. His efforts have helped maintain the pristine conditions of the resort and its surrounding trails, ensuring that future generations can continue to enjoy the wilderness.

Redford’s commitment to conservation is evident in every aspect of the resort, from the sustainable building practices to the emphasis on environmental education and the arts. Sundance isn’t just a destination for skiing or hiking—it’s a place where people are encouraged to reflect on their relationship with the natural world and to become stewards of the land.

The Wild Symphony

Throughout the seasons, the landscape of Stevens Cascade Trail changes, offering hikers a new perspective each time they visit. In spring, the meadows are alive with the soft colors of blooming wildflowers, and the trees are flush with new leaves. By summer, the sun casts golden rays across the mountains, and the wildflowers are in full bloom. Fall brings a breathtaking display of color as the aspens turn golden yellow and orange, contrasting with the deep green of the conifers. Even in winter, the trail is transformed into a peaceful wonderland of snow and ice, with the waterfall partially frozen in time.

And amidst all of this natural beauty, there’s a deep sense of reverence that one cannot help but feel. We are, after all, just visitors here. The mountains, the trees, the animals—they have been here long before us and will remain long after we’re gone. But for a brief moment, we are given the privilege of walking among them, of witnessing the raw beauty of God’s creation.

A Hike for All Time

The Stevens Cascade Trail #056 is more than just a hike—it’s an invitation to reconnect with the earth, to appreciate the complex and delicate web of life that sustains us all. As you walk this trail, you’re reminded of the ancient forces that shaped the land and the living things that call it home. Whether you’re standing before the waterfall, watching the wind ripple through the aspens, or catching a glimpse of a wild animal in the distance, you can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude.

Here, in the Wasatch Range, where mountains rise from the floor of an ancient sea and life flourishes in abundance, we are offered a glimpse into the very heart of creation. And in that moment, we are reminded of the immense privilege it is to walk this earth, if only for a short while.