Tag: family

Posted on

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.

Screenshot

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.

Posted on

Santa, ChatGPT and the end of the Naughty-Nice Era

t

Published Christmas Day

I watched Pluribus recently, and the idea has been quietly stalking me ever since. The show imagines a superhuman race endowed with infinite knowledge and perfect cooperation. No individuality. No hierarchy of skill. No one stands out, because no one can. There’s no schadenfreude—failure doesn’t exist. There’s no long educational climb, no apprenticeship, no grinding effort to elevate oneself above the rest. Everyone knows everything. Everyone performs equally well.

It’s an orderly world. Efficient. Bloodless.

What struck me wasn’t the absence of conflict—it was the absence of accomplishment. If distinction disappears, what does it mean to achieve anything at all?

That thought followed me straight into our own present moment.

The Great Leveling

We are already living through a quieter version of Pluribus. Recall—once a badge of intelligence—has been demoted to a parlor trick. Sports trivia, historical dates, obscure facts: once markers of expertise, now solvable in seconds by a glowing rectangle in your pocket. You don’t need to know anymore; you just need to search.

And writing—my particular arena—has become the most unsettling test case.

You write a rough draft. It’s honest. Thoughtful. Maybe even good. Then curiosity (or temptation) intervenes. You ask an AI to revise it.

What comes back is cleaner. Sharper. Better structured. The prose you meant to write.

You shrug—not because it failed, but because it succeeded.

So whose work is it now?

Confession Time

The version you are reading was edited—significantly—by ChatGPT. I wrote the draft. I shaped the ideas. But the clarity, the flow, the tightening of loose bolts? That was machine-assisted.

Is that cheating? Is it collaboration? Is it no different from spellcheck, or fundamentally different because the tool now competes with the craftsman?

I don’t have a clean answer. Only an honest one: pretending this isn’t happening feels more dishonest than acknowledging it outright.

Christmas, Santa, and the Algorithm

And since this is Christmas Day, it feels appropriate to bring Santa into the discussion.

For centuries, Santa Claus has run the most ambitious surveillance-based performance-evaluation system in history. Naughty. Nice. Binary. Efficient. Judgment rendered annually, with toys as incentives and coal as penalties.

But imagine Santa with AI.

No more vague moral assessments. No secondhand elf reports. Just a comprehensive dataset: search histories, impulse buys, tone of emails, patience in traffic, comment-section behavior. Naughty and Nice reduced to an algorithmic score.

Santa outsourced.

If that sounds unsettling, it should. Yet it mirrors our larger dilemma: when judgment itself becomes automated, where does human discretion fit? When assessment is perfect, what room remains for grace, growth, or redemption?

What’s Left That’s Ours

AI can recall better than we can. Write faster. Polish endlessly. It can outperform us in domains we once believed defined intelligence and creativity.

But it didn’t decide this question was worth asking.

It didn’t feel uneasy watching Pluribus.

It didn’t wonder whether accomplishment itself is being quietly deprecated.

What remains human—for now—is judgment, taste, values, and the discomfort that comes with change. The choice of what to pursue, why it matters, and when to stop optimizing.

In a world sliding toward Pluribus, individuality may no longer come from knowing more—but from caring differently.

A Christmas Thought

Christmas has always been about imperfect humans trying to be a little better than they were the year before. Not optimized. Not flawless. Just better.

If AI eventually knows everything, writes everything, and judges everything—including Santa’s lists—then perhaps the last true human accomplishment will be choosing imperfection when perfection is available at the click of a button.

This post was edited by ChatGPT.

The unease behind it was not.

Merry Christmas.

Posted on

Minnie Riperton: The Voice, The Song, and The Legacy

Minnie Riperton, a name synonymous with ethereal melodies and unparalleled vocal talent, left an indelible mark on the music world. Her iconic song “Lovin’ You”, her breathtaking five-octave range, and her heartbreaking battle with breast cancer combine to tell a story of artistry, love, and resilience.

The Story Behind “Lovin’ You”

Released in 1975 as part of her album Perfect Angel, “Lovin’ You” became Riperton’s signature song. It’s a dreamy ballad that radiates warmth and intimacy, often remembered for its gentle melody and the iconic birdsong in the background. What many may not know is that the song was deeply personal.

Riperton wrote “Lovin’ You” as a tribute to her family, particularly her young daughter, Maya Rudolph—yes, the same Maya Rudolph who would go on to become a beloved actress and comedian. Minnie herself revealed that Maya was in the studio during the recording, and the gentle spirit of the song was meant to embody the love and peace she felt for her daughter and husband, Richard Rudolph.

The famous line, “Maya, Maya, Maya”, sung softly at the end of the song, immortalized the bond between mother and daughter. This subtle inclusion made the song even more special, as it was a lullaby-like expression of maternal love.

A Voice Like No Other!

Riperton’s vocal prowess was unmatched. Trained in operatic techniques, she was renowned for her five-octave range, a rarity in popular music. Her ability to effortlessly glide into the whistle register—those impossibly high notes—set her apart. The purity and control of her voice were showcased in “Lovin’ You,” where she used her upper register to create a dreamy, almost celestial quality.

Her technical skill was complemented by her emotional depth, making her music both technically impressive and profoundly moving. Riperton was often compared to a songbird, a metaphor that became literal in the background sounds of “Lovin’ You.”

Her Battle with Breast Cancer

Tragically, Minnie Riperton’s life was cut short by breast cancer. Diagnosed in 1976, she was one of the first celebrities to publicly share her battle with the disease. She became a spokesperson for the American Cancer Society, using her platform to raise awareness about early detection and treatment.

Despite her diagnosis, Riperton continued to perform and record music, demonstrating incredible strength and resilience. Her song “Memory Lane” from her 1979 album Minnie reflects the depth of her emotions during her illness, capturing both her pain and hope.

Minnie Riperton passed away on July 12, 1979, at the age of 31, leaving behind her husband and two children, including Maya, who was only seven at the time. Her death was a devastating loss to her family, friends, and fans.

The Legacy of Minnie Riperton

Though her life was tragically short, Riperton’s influence endures. Her music continues to inspire countless artists, and her vocal abilities remain a benchmark of excellence. Maya Rudolph has often spoken about her mother’s legacy, carrying her memory into her own creative work.

Minnie Riperton’s story is one of immense talent, unwavering love, and profound courage. Whether you listen to “Lovin’ You” to marvel at her vocal brilliance or to feel the love she poured into it, you’re connecting with an artist who transcended the limits of time and space.

Her music, much like her spirit, remains timeless.

Posted on

A Father’s Legacy: Lessons in Life and Love

As time passes, memories fade, and the essence of who we are and how we came to be becomes increasingly obscure. Recently, thoughts of my father crystallized when my dear friend of many decades paid tribute to his own father at a museum dedication. His father had been a member of the Ghost Army during World War II, a secretive unit designed to deceive the Germans with decoys and sound recordings, diverting attention from combat Allied forces. Their contributions remained classified for half a century, but were recently recognized by Congress, awarding the unit the Congressional Medal of Honor for their role in saving over 30,000 lives.

My father also served during World War II, as a traffic controller in the Army Air Force during the North African Campaign, directing air traffic against Rommel’s Nazi forces. Like many veterans, he rarely spoke of his wartime experiences. 

His life was characterized by self-sacrifice. Losing his father at a young age, he supported his mother by working as a soda jerk, scooping so much chocolate ice cream that he developed a lifelong aversion to it. He left for the war as a newlywed, uncertain if he would return to his bride.

After the war, he moved our family to Queens, to a housing development for returning GIs. I grew up in an environment where friends and family were always present. My father was dedicated to us; he attended Little League games, took us on vacations in the Catskills, and celebrated our academic and sports achievements. He never resorted to physical punishment; a word or a look from him was enough to keep us in line. He spent every Friday night with his mother-in-law, content with the close-knit family gatherings.

He was a pillar of the community. When our neighbor couldn’t repay a Mafia loan, my father used his own limited funds to save him from retribution. He volunteered at the local Credit Union, and when it was on the brink of closure, he took over and saved it. Despite his limited formal education, having grown up during the Great Depression, he excelled in banking and aspired to improve his position. He treated my friends and acquaintances with fairness and shared his hard-earned wisdom on navigating life’s challenges.

For half a century, he worked at a multinational textile company. Lacking a degree, his career advancement was limited, but his work ethic, fairness, and sense of responsibility were recognized, and he managed a division separate from the main headquarters. He supervised a diverse office with respect and fairness, never uttering a disrespectful word or racial epithet.

My father was my moral compass, teaching me right from wrong through his actions. Beyond providing for us, he imparted lessons on family, duty, respecting others, and “doing the right thing.” Over three decades have passed since his death, but his lessons remain with me.

This tribute is long overdue: “Thank you, Dad. I love you.”

Posted on

Digital Monopoly and Family Bliss

Picture this:  a family vacation in Park City, Utah and ten feet of snow.The ski slopes were pristine, the views were breathtaking, the ski and snowboard turns were on point and on edge. The family was having a great time. But, what brought us even closer, was something unexpected:  a highly competitive digital Monopoly game.

Yes, you heard that right.  Monopoly! The game where players buy and sell properties, build houses and hotels, and bankrupt each other. It’s not exactly what you would call a family bonding activity, right? But it turns out capitalism can be a social glue too.

The idea of playing Monopoly came as we sat in the living room and watched the Rocky Mountain snow pile up against the silhouette of the ski lift. Siri suggested that we look into  the digital version, and four clicks later, we had the Monopoly board streaming on the big screen. At first, I was skeptical. I mean, I had played Monopoly before, and I knew how intense it could get. But the group was game, and soon enough, we were all huddled around the monitor reading how to electronically roll the dice.

The game started off pretty innocently. We all picked our favorite game pieces (I went with the top hat, of course) and started buying properties. I delegated management to my younger son,  a real-life mergers and acquisitions attorney, who parlayed our portfolio into a few monopolies. Adrianne, my older son’s girlfriend, snagged all the railroads and piled up big time currency as we repeatedly landed on her railroad holdings. 

But things really started to heat up when my older son and his girlfriend, Adrianne, started negotiating over St. James Place. He was willing to buy it from her for $200, but she wanted to sweeten the deal. She suggested he throw in a pedicure at a spa in Miami and only then she might consider the sale of St. James Place.  Introducing a real-life aspect to the game left us all in hysterics.

As the game progressed, we all became more and more invested. We started making alliances and deals in an effort to outsmart each other. The bankruptcies started to pile up and the monocled, rich Uncle Pennybags began ruthlessly deleting the accounts of the moneyless, propertyless contestants.

 As the evening turned into a late night event only two players were still solvent: Adrianne declared victory based on a Fort Knox wad of cash and hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place and her real-life pedicure appointment already secured.  My younger son and I were not ready to concede and we await the final report from our forensic accountant. 

We all had a great time playing the game. It brought us closer together and we laughed and joked the whole time. It was a reminder that sometimes, it’s the unexpected and simple activities from days gone by that bring us together.

So, next time you’re on vacation with your family, consider breaking out the virtual Monopoly board. An old-fashioned game night might just bring you closer together. And who knows, you might even get a pedicure out of it.  It worked for Adrianne.