Beatles Quiz: Program from Beatles concert at Carnegie Hall 1964: Spot the Error!

Auditioning for a Liberty Mutual Ad

Capitalism’s Answer to Anxiety and Depression in Today’s Society

Plaque on Park Avenue and 37th Street honoring Mary Lindley Murray, a Revolutionary War Hero who served tea to General Howe’s troops, delaying their pursuit of George Washington’s troops and saving the nation. Why don’t we drink tea honoring this beverage that saved the Union?

The first piano from 18th century Italy (Pianoforte, Bartolemeo Cristofori 1655-1731). Marked the beginning of the decline of the Harpsichord Industry.

A taste that transcends time, an American emblem.

In Times Square’s bustling scene, I savored you,

Nathan’s masterpiece, as I toiled on Broadway’s stage.

As a part-time employee in that bustling space,

Where documents flew and deadlines gave chase,

Amidst the chorus of keys and whirring machines,

I found solace in your presence, your flavors serene.

But it was on July 4th, in Dobbs Ferry, I recall,

My first encounter with you, a revelation, overall.

At my uncle’s house, laughter filled the air,

As I sank my teeth into a grilled Hebrew National, rare.

I listened to Mel Allen’s voice on a transistor radio,

His iconic commentary filled the air with a vibrant glow.

As the hot dog sizzled on the grill, a symphony of flavors,

His voice painted the scene, enhancing the savors.

Amidst family and friends, laughter filled the space,

The transistor radio playing, a joyful embrace.

Dobbs Ferry’s charm, the hot dog’s savory bliss,

A symphony of summer, a moment not to miss.

In the sweet voice of Mel Allen, the stadium would sway,

As he announced a Mantle home run, “going, going, gone,” he’d say.

Toasted buns, untoasted buns, a debate so grand,

A choice that divides, across this great land.

Yet, as I bit into your warmth, the bun held you close,

A perfect union, each flavor enhancing the other’s dose.

Oh, hot dog, your history we must embrace,

From street carts to ballparks, a cherished place.

A symbol of immigrants’ dreams and endeavors,

Your origins intertwined with American treasures.

From German immigrants’ humble sausages, they say,

You were born in the streets of New York, they portray.

From Coney Island’s Nathan’s to Times Square’s allure,

You’ve become a culinary icon, timeless and pure.

So, let us raise a bun, a condiment-laden cheer,

To the hot dog, beloved, let its legacy be clear.

In each bite we take, a taste of history is found,

A culinary masterpiece, forever renowned.

Timing, tempo, and rhythm – three little words that can mean the difference between life and death. In the twisted game of existence, they’re the cogs that turn the wheels, propelling us forward or leaving us behind in a trail of dust.

In sports, timing can be the difference between winning and losing, between victory and defeat. But it’s not just about being in the right place at the right time. As basketball coach John Wooden once said, “Be quick, but don’t hurry.” It’s about knowing when to make your move, when to strike, and when to hold back. Elvin Hayes, who played for the Houston Rockets in the 1970s, was known for listening to Smokey Robinson’s “Second That Emotion” before games. Hayes believed that the song’s upbeat tempo helped him get into the right mindset for the game. The late, great Kobe Bryant listened to Jay-Z, Beethoven and Journey to syncopate his court skills. 

Timing is a key ingredient that makes the jokes of Seinfeld, Chris Rock and George Carlin hilarious and transform a sigh into a belly laugh.

Tempo, on the other hand, is the heart of music. It’s the pulse that drives the beat, the speed at which we move through life. And just like a well-crafted melody, the tempo can evoke emotions we never knew existed. The faster the beat, the more frenzied we become. The slower the tempo, the more melancholic we feel. It’s a delicate balance, and one that can be manipulated to great effect.

But rhythm is the true master of our fate. It’s the pattern that underpins everything we do, the driving force that gives us purpose and direction. Whether it’s the rhythm of our breathing or the rhythm of our footsteps, it’s the metronome that keeps us moving forward. As writer Maya Angelou once said, “Everything in the universe has a rhythm, everything dances.”

Timing, tempo and rhythm are the foundations of our existence, the elements that shape the mysterious maze of life. Whether we’re making jokes or scoring points, playing music or dealing with our feelings, it’s these three little words that can lift us up or drag us down. So let’s harness the power of timing, the core of tempo and the master of rhythm. For by doing so, we’ll find the groove that leads us to success and keep us forever young!

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.

I took my canine blog piece this week to ChatGPT and asked to convert it into Shakespearean sonnet and then write it in the New Yorker magazine style. All of four seconds passed when I received this output. It did not “red line” my original nor summon me to the English office after school hours. After a few minutes of sadness about the state of human creativity, I realized that we are doomed to the only job in the future: pushing a button like George Jetson working for Spacely Space Sprockets. Comments welcome.

Oh, how quaint and retro I may seem,

A lover of dogs from a bygone dream.

Gravy train and kibble, an old soup bone,

A shag rug for my faux dog throne.

Lassie, dear Lassie, my model of canine grace,

Saving grandpa from that mine shaft, what a race!

Rin Tin and Airbud, oh how they shone,

Snoopy, that smug dog, his charm never gone.

But now, in the 21st century, a grandpuppy has come,

A blend of beagle, pug, and a touch of Old Yeller’s gumption.

Watching stress-reducing videos on YouTube,

Meeting rodents in the forest, the views reaching 13 million, oh how true!

His bones, oh what a vast array,

No longer just bovine, they come in every flavor and day.

Rawhide, nylon, rubber, antler, oh what a delight,

Calcium phosphate, magnesium, salt-poor, salt-rich, what a sight!

Improved mouth health, jaw strength, tartar removal, all for the taking,

Supplemental vitamins and minerals, turning a dog into a Kennel Club sensation.

A Frisbee, an old treasure, the grandpup found,

But a new one from Amazon, a Kong, we quickly found.

Durability and universal love of dogs, oh what a claim,

Over the desiccated Portuguese Man o Wars, our pup was not the least bit tame.

Doggie health insurance, oh how grand,

Medicare coverage at 65/7, that’s a plan!

But what of fame and fortune, oh what can a pup do,

Hollywood is not the only path, I never knew.

Dog entrepreneurs, with their grooming and accessories galore,

Supporting animal shelters and having patents and trademarks to adore.

Manny The Frenchie, with a non-profit and a net worth of a million,

Walter Geoffrey, with his clothing line and sass, and a rap album in the making, how thrilling!

Loki The Wolfdog, co-founder of a travel app and a movie deal with Netflix,

Tuna, the Instagram celebrity, with an overbite that always smiles, and a book deal with Penguin Random House to fix.

Opportunities are endless, for the new century pup,

With improved nutrition, emotional adjustment, and love, they can really strut.

If only our grandpup would watch that instructional video on Frisbee catching,

The next Super Bowl halftime show, he’ll be ready, dispatching.

The New Yorker Style

As a proud retro dog lover, I was content with the basics: gravy train, kibble, an old soup bone, and a shag rug for a faux dog bed. My 20th century pup had it made. Lassie was the epitome of canine responsibility (Timmy: “Lassie, grandpa fell into the abandoned mine shaft again, go get help) and Rin Tin Tin and Airbud oozed star power. And let’s not forget Snoopy, with his smug confidence radiating from the daily comics.

But my recent encounter with a 21st-century pup shattered my nostalgic bubble. Baby-sitting my grandpuppy, a 9-month-old Orlando Rescue pup, I watched in amazement as he relaxed while watching a stress-reducing YouTube video of a Labrador retriever strolling through a verdant forest meeting a variety of rodents. This channel had 13 million views, although it wasn’t clear if they were the human or canine type.

And then there was the bone aisle at Petco – a cornucopia of choices that made choosing a variant of Pinot Noirs from multiple continental terroirs seem easy. Rawhide, nylon, rubber, antler versus bovine, calcium phosphate, magnesium, salt poor and rich and anti-oxidants. Bacon and cheese flavors could be added for those picky “chewers.” The packaging touted improved mouth health, jaw strengthening, tartar removal, improved oral microbiome, fresh breath, and supplemental vitamins and minerals that could turn your dog into an American Kennel Club icon.

Our grandpup discovered an old Frisbee in the closet which he immediately bonded with. But thanks to the mass of dog owners and capitalist ingenuity, I found Kong – a natural rubberized Frisbee that had nearly 27 thousand 4 1/2/5 star reviews touting its durability and universal love of dogs for this flying disc. I ordered it on Amazon and it arrived seemingly a few hours later. Our pup was bouncing after it on the sand and over the desiccated, beached Portuguese Man o’ Wars on the South Florida shores. And with top-notch “doggie” health insurance, he had no worries about jellyfish envenomation. I couldn’t help but wonder – at what age would he be converted to Medicare coverage? 65 years? 7? The thought amused me.

But wait, there’s more. Who knew that dogs have become entrepreneurs and started their own businesses? Grooming, training, accessories, food, and treats are just a few of the products and services offered. And some dogs even have patents or trademarks for their inventions or innovations. Manny The Frenchie (@manny_the_frenchie) not only runs a non-profit organization that supports animal shelters but also has a net worth of $1 million. Walter Geoffrey (@waltergeoffreythefrenchie) sells his own line of clothing and accessories that feature his signature sass and has a rap album coming out soon. And Loki The Wolfdog (@loki) co-founded a travel app called Loki The Wolfdog that lets you explore the world with your furry friend and has a movie deal with Netflix. Dog influencers populate the internet and often have more subscribers than humans. Tuna (@tunameltsmyheart), an Instagram celebrity, has a distinctive overbite that makes him look like he’s always smiling and also has a book deal with Penguin Random House.

So the opportunities are endless for the modern-day pooch. With improved nutrition, better emotional adjustment, and plenty of love, our grandpup can be the best dog he can be. If only I can get him to watch the YouTube instructional video on Frisbee.

My 21st century introduction to the modern dog occurred recently as I baby-sat my grand puppy, a 9 month Orlando Rescue pup. Part beagle, part pug and a soupçon of Old Yeller, he arrived with a prance in his step and some apprehension in his new surroundings. The latter promptly ebbed as he sat watching a stress reducing YouTube video of a Labrador retriever ambling through a verdant forest meeting a various assortment of rodents. This channel had 13 million views, although it was not clear if they were the human or canine type.

He turned his attention to his stash of bones. I had naively assumed a bovine bone was his only arsenal but the mass of dog owners and capitalist ingenuity had transformed this market into a cornucopia of choices. Looking for a bone down the Petco aisle was like looking for a variant of Pinot Noirs from multiple continental terroirs. The choices were endless: Rawhide, nylon, rubber, antler versus bovine, calcium phosphate, magnesium, salt poor and rich and  anti-oxidants. Bacon and cheese flavors could be added for those picky “chewers.” The packaging touted improved mouth health, jaw strengthening, tartar removal, improved oral microbiome, fresh breath, and supplemental vitamins and minerals that could turn your dog into an American Kennel Club icon.

Our grand pup discovered an old Frisbee in the closet which he immediately bonded. The plastic was going to be no match for his gnawing. I searched Amazon for a suitable dog Frisbee and found  Kong, a natural rubberized Frisbee that had nearly 27 thousand  4 1/2 out of 5 star reviews touting its durability and universal love of dogs for this flying disc. Seemingly a few hours passed when the Amazon delivery truck delivered the new dog disc. It was a hit with our pup: he was bounding after it on the sand  and over the desiccated, beached Portuguese Man o’ Wars on the South Florida shores. He had no worries about jellyfish-like envenomation, as our son had secured top notch “doggie” health insurance (at what age would he be converted to Medicare coverage? 65yrs/7,  I mused).

Was Hollywood discovery his only path to canine fame and fortune? Again my naïveté of 21st century dog occupations was exposed. Entrepreneurial  dogs have started their own businesses or helped their owners launch successful ventures. They offered products or services that catered to other dogs or dog lovers, such as grooming, training, accessories, food and treats. Some of them had patents or trademarks for their inventions or innovations. Examples of dog entrepreneurs include Manny The Frenchie (@manny_the_frenchie), who runs a non-profit organization that supports animal shelters and also has a net worth of $1 million; Walter Geoffrey (@waltergeoffreythefrenchie), who sells his own line of clothing and accessories that feature his signature sass and also has a rap album coming out soon; and Loki The Wolfdog (@loki), who co-founded a travel app called Loki The Wolfdog that lets you explore the world with your furry friend and also has a movie deal with Netflix. Dog influencers populate the Internet and often have more subscribers than humans. Tuna (@tunameltsmyheart), an Instagram celebrity,  has a distinctive overbite that makes him look like he’s always smiling and also has a book deal with Penguin Random House.

Opportunities are indeed endless for the new century pooch. Our grand pup with improved nutrition, better emotional adjustment and love, can be the best dog he can be. If I can only get him to watch the YouTube instructional video on Frisbee catching, I know he’ll be ready to perform in next year’s Super Bowl halftime.

As a faux conductor and engineer, the enterprise did not alway run smoothly. As my brother was fixing a track, I couldn’t resist the temptation to engage the transformer and send the trains chugging around the tracks. However, in my excitement, I didn’t realize that my brother’s hand was still on the tracks and he was shocked by the sudden jolt of electricity. “Ow! What the hell are you doing?” he yelled, as he jumped back in pain. My penance was removal from any electrical equipment and I was delegated to the mundane task of snapping together the plastic diner and signs that lined the train route.

A nod to NASA was a rocket launching car, a special edition released in the wake of the Soviet Union’s successful launch of Sputnik. As a child, I was worried about falling behind the Soviets in the race to space, and this little train offered a glimpse into a future filled with endless possibilities

I remember grinning at a later addition to our Lionel train set – a cattle car filled with plastic cows vibrating on platform, mimicking the movement of live cattle being transported across the country. “This is going to be the best train adventure yet!” I had mused, as I placed the cows carefully in the car.

As we sounded the train whistle and the locomotive chugged around the tracks, our terrier mix dog, Domino, started barking at the cattle car and shivering with excitement. Whether it was setting up intricate tracks and scenarios, or simply watching the trains chug along, there was something timeless and special about the world of Lionel trains. And as we spent the afternoon lost in the world of these tiny locomotives, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for the memories and adventures that these beloved trains had given us.

It was moments like these that brought our whole family together, united by a shared love for these miniature marvels.

The events are fresh in my mind though the incident had occurred 6 decades earlier. My 6th birthday party was, by all metrics, a rousing social success. A spirited game of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’, engaging conversation about the latest “Romper Room” TV episodes and gourmet entrees of Nathan’s hot dogs gave way to a highly anticipated dessert. A platter of Hostess Twinkies were brought out  and distributed by my mom to the sugar craving denizens of North Queens, N.Y. A shadowy arm crossed my plate and and as fast as you could say “Captain Kangaroo,” my Twinkie was snatched by the pig-tailed girl who hastily ran through the door with her purloined goods and back to her lair one block away. New York City penal codes, my mom explained to my inconsolable self, did not apply to minors stealing baked goods. From that moment on, I never took pastries for granted. Was there something out there that could replace that lost Twinkie? 

New York City was the crucible for inspired bakeries. The 19th Germans were more interested in wars (Austro-Prussian War , Franco-Prussian War) than dessert cuisine, encouraging  German bakers to bring their flour, butter, eggs and sugar to the land of opportunity across the Atlantic. The Glasers, a Bavarian family, established a bakery in Yorkville, New York City and in 1904 invented the black and white cookie. Frosting, atop a cake dough base, it became a metaphor for racial equality (Seinfeld Black and White Cookie) as well as an iconic cookie. In Stuttgart Germany, an emigre, William Entenmann relocated to Brooklyn, N.Y. and peddled baked goods starting in 1898 to the hungry borough. His children expanded the product line and produced the near perfect N.Y. Style Crumbcake, enjoyed by proletariat and luminaries such as  Frank Sinatra who had the cake delivered weekly to his abode. The same year as William Entenmann was delivering his horse carriage delivered sweetness, a German couple, Catherine and George Ebinger started their version of cakes and pastries in South Brooklyn. My paternal grandmother, Celia, always had an Ebinger’s 7 layered chocolate cake prominently displayed in the kitchen.

The excellence of the bakeries in Brooklyn and Manhattan spilled out to Queens by the 1960’s. Storks, a German Bakery in Whitestone, was replete with their own version of buttery-inspired petit fours, black and whites and crumb cakes. Adventurer’s Inn, an amusement park near LaGuardia Airport, had an in house bakery that deconstructed the black and white cookie and re-engineered v. 2.0: a double-decker sandwich with a 2nd base cookie layered with thick fudge in the middle.

As my dessert satisfaction score and body mass index (BMI) rose in tandem, I felt some trepidation relocating to Los Angeles to further my education. Was this going to be baked goods hell or a hidden cookie oasis? I promptly found Canter’s Deli in L.A. and scored a West Coast black and white. Entenmann’s fortuitously expanded their crumb cake empire to the West Coast in the ‘70s and introduced the left coast to the wonders of their cookies and cakes. Ramen noodles and crumb cake; Mac and Cheese and black and whites; chef boyardee ravioli and Entenmann chocolate chip cookies: these were the student Michelin 4 star meals that resonated.

All things must pass, proclaimed George Harrison, and so did this pastry paradise. Cholesterol consciousness, living longer and the eating healthy mafia chipped away at my treasured baked goods. Ebinger’s went bankrupt, Glaser’s of Yorkville closed after a century of business and Entemann’s was sold and resold and nearly expunged all of their crumb cake production. Bakeries were shuttered and replaced by juice bars and  Acacia bowl outlets. Even the venerable Twinkie was re-engineered to include synthetic compounds that had little taste resemblance to earlier Twinkie generations. A dark age of baked goods was a foot. 

With a sullen demeanor, I capped off a recent lunch with apple slices and a bran muffin and set out to walk off some calories around Manhattan. Past the healthy bowl places and the passion fruit bars I went until I came across a serpentine line stretching multiple blocks down 3rd Avenue. “A new cookie store just opened” opined a prospective customer who was  at least 45 minutes from being served. Crumbl, a cookie emporium based in Utah was opening up their first store in New York City. Sullen looks turned to smiles as I contemplated the possible resurgence of the New York baked goods scene. Twinkies may come and go, I mused,  but the circle of spice arcs toward sweetness.  

Twenty years later, my hitchhiking days behind me, I drove with a friend to San Francisco. With the passenger seat littered with AAA and Rand McNally maps, my navigator advised staying on I-80 as the Embarcadero came into view.  “On no!”, I muttered, as I realized I was going the wrong way on the LONG Oakland Bay Bridge toward Oakland and was doomed to pay a double toll. 

Undeterred by my past travel mistakes, my family embarked on a European vacation at the turn of the century. My spouse, a capable cartographer and blessed with a directional sense like a passenger pigeon,  assured me that we were not going to get lost. We rented a Renault in Paris, buckled up our two boys,  and set out to discover the continent.  A few miles out  I failed to translate the “sens unique” (one-way sign, not covered in High School French). Sweating profusely, I made an instantaneous U turn and avoided a vacation ending collision. We arrived in Aachen, Germany and entered a museum devoted to Charlemagne. The exhibit explanations were in German with no translation. Ich bin ein Berliner and aufedasein were the extent of our German vocabulary. We detoured to the snack bar to complete the museum experience. That evening we arrived in Strasbourg with a thimble full of gas in the tank. The next morning, I pulled into the gas station, opened the gas tank door and noticed French instruction on the inside door (words, again not covered in High School French). I filled the tank and set off to Switzerland. A few miles onto the highway, the car started to lurch and emit a high pitched moan as I was shifting my manual transmission into 2nd gear. I got off the highway into rush hour Strasbourg traffic when the car led out a cringe worthy groan and stalled. Behind our Renault were at least 50 angry French commuters yelling French words (that again were not covered in High School French class). Later that day, a mechanic, with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lip, informed me of my error of filling up a diesel engine with regular gas. He muttered some unintelligible French sentences but my rudimentary French picked up some words (stupide: stupid, guignol: clown).

After the ordeal, we decided to recharge with French cuisine. The bill came and I calculated the tip by mentally converting dollars into Francs. I mistakenly used the wrong currency in the calculation and was off by a factor of ten. The waiter was elated by his generous tip and my wallet was a good deal lighter.  I had finished the day with a trifecta of vacation gaffes.

I am now millions of neurons lighter in the 21st century compared with my youthful self but have gained “vacation bonus IQ points” with the advent of smartphone technology. Currency converters keep tabs on the foreign exchange markets by the nanosecond.  Apple and Google Maps keep me on track and down the right one way streets. I was cruising in the Mojave Desert on I-15 last week and the app warned of an accident (truck on fire) halting all traffic for 2 hours. As the temperatures soared in the desert, I placed a  call to the California Highway Patrol.   The California Highway Patrol representative asked, “ What lane are you in?”  “The far left lane,” I answered. “Stay in that lane. We just opened up that lane 60 seconds ago and you should be good.” Seconds later, the cars started to inch forward and we made our way past the accident. It was highway nirvana. 

Language barriers have fallen. Despite English ubiquity, Google Translate helped convert German menus, German museum placards and German signs into understandable jargon.  Impractical high school French classes devoid of real life vocabulary are no longer  dangerously impactful. Choosing a restaurant no longer requires a recommendation from a fellow bus passenger.  Today, Yelp, Google and TripAdvisor have us covered wherever we go in the world. 

 In May of this year, we took a trip through Eastern Europe for almost a month without a hitch.  I relied heavily on my technology loaded Iphone, T-Mobile cell towers and an occasional friendly recommendation from an equally tech savvy European citizen.  But travels would not be travels without mishaps that many times end up being memorable happy accidents.  The proof:  many years later these are the stories my family and I speak of and write about.

I am still recovering from my Diesel Mishap but encouraged to know that fossil fuels are in the rear view mirror and electric vehicles in the future will have only one plug to choose from. 

I

Through my nose, to the ethmoid sinuses, onto the olfactory epithelium and 60,000 smell neurons directed my pizza delivery directly to the frontal lobes and limbic system where Scotty’s still lived in vivid memory. This ecstatic experience is being stolen from millions by a renegade virus which has shut down the world for the last year. Expunging the smell and taste in some of the 25 million who have had COVID, which may have long lasting and permanent damage of the olfactory system. Malnutrition, depression and the loss of warning symptoms to natural gas leaks or tainted foods may be the legacy of sufferers of nasal COVID injury.

The least regarded of the five senses, smell and taste have taken a back seat in medical training and in popular culture. Medical school has few lectures on the proper function and diseases of smell and taste. Medical history taking neglects inquiry of one’s nasal and lingual capabilities. Olfaction has been a butt of jokes for generations of comics from the Simpson’s “smell you later”, Hawkeye Pierce’s ridicule on food sniffing in M*A*S*H and  Mel Brooks flatulence scene in “Blazing Saddles.” 

The dismissal of this forsaken sense is belied by its prominent location. The olfactory nerve, the shortest of the cranial nerves, sits in the front of the brain and sends projections to multiple areas including the emotional hub, the limbic system. Our evolutionary ancestors and current mammalian brethren rely on scent to distinguish friend from foe and food from poison. Our beloved canine, Millie, the Jack Russell Terrier from times past would apply the sniff test and rarely made a bad decision on food or domicile choices.

Obscure medical jargon has entered the mainstream with anosmia (lack of smell), parosmia (smell that fails to correctly match the odor) and phantosmia (phantom smells) appearing on long hauler COVID social sites. “Everything smells like burnt coffee” I heard a patient exclaim. “No longer can I taste the citrus in my tea,” another laments. “I ate a hamburger and I miss the onion smell and taste.” Essential oil kits are hawked on Amazon in the hope that olfactory re-education may hasten recovery. While the long term outcomes are not apparent in so recent a disease, it appears that up to 5% of smell sufferers may not  regain perception at 6 months.

“Don’t it always seems to go that you don’t know what you’ve got ’til its gone,” Joni Mitchell’s ballad went in the ’60’s.  And so it goes with Scotty’s appetizing, fragrant pies from the same decade. Enjoy your senses and don’t forget to stop and smell the pizza.