Out of the Blue

Out of the Blue

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The Nose Knows

Sniffing down memory lane

By Deborah Salomon

Mmmmm — something sure does smell good.

That’s because the holidays extending from late January to late February maintain food links: Chinese New Year, Jan. 22; Valentine’s Day, Feb. 14; President’s Day, Feb. 20; Mardi Gras, Feb. 21. Black History Month is celebrated throughout February, often with soul food dinners, proof that food carves out a place in the brain’s memory centers.

The aroma of meatloaf or apple pie baking, coffee brewing or chicken frying might do the trick. Lacking the aroma, I have seen a grown man cry at the mention of his mother’s strawberry jam simmering on the back burner.

Olfactory memories die hard, or not at all. Who knows, maybe cavemen wept recalling wild beasts on the spit.

Of all the ethnic cooking in January and February, Chinese revs my engine the most. The memory is as clear as what happened yesterday — maybe clearer.

I grew up in New York City in the 1940s. My parents weren’t much for restaurants. However, since my mother was not an enthusiastic cook, I practically grew up at the Automat. PBS recently aired a two-hour documentary about these landmark cafeterias that, I’m sure, left a great many grown men crying.

Once a year, on my birthday, my parents took me to the original Ruby Foo’s, in the Theater District, not Chinatown. We had soup, rice and pressed duck. The French call these succulent ovals quenelles. To me, they were pure heaven, but what did a 7-, 8- and 9-year-old know about Asian cuisine?

I clearly remember wearing my dress-up coat and leggings (January is cold in Yankeeland), the dark restaurant interior with leather banquettes, how the waiters presented each dish with a flourish, especially to the birthday girl. I didn’t mind that I never once had a birthday party with friends. Nor did I figure out that going to Ruby Foo’s was so much easier for my mother.

She liked pressed duck, too.

For lunch at the Automat, it had to be a liverwurst sandwich and baked beans in a small brown crock. Weep, Boston, weep. This crock contained beans baked in a sweet, tomatoey sauce which formed a crunchy crust. Decades later, I spotted a similar crock in an antique shop. Everything came rushing back as the dealer ran for the Kleenex. 

My husband grew up in Brooklyn. We met at Duke. What fun, recalling our favorite Automat dishes, except his were hamburger steak and mashed potatoes, mine fried scallops and creamed spinach, not an encouraging sign.

I doubt subsequent generations display such emotional attachments to food. How could they, with such a variety? Where is the purism, the authenticity? The old aunties with specialties are dying out. The local Chinese buffet is an international smorgasbord of spring rolls, French fries, mac and cheese, corn on the cob, sesame chicken, apple cobbler and chocolate pudding. Pizza concocted from a cauliflower crust topped with kale has lost its Italian accent. Valentine’s Day may still suggest filet mignon and cheesecake, but fading fast are happy memories of chitlins.

Yet Groundhog Day felt the need to field a commemorative dish called Groundhog Pie, which, thank goodness, contains beef, not ground groundhog.

I almost threw up, learning that Turducken (chicken stuffed inside duck stuffed inside turkey) gets a boost at Thanksgiving.

What must that smell like, roasting?

No . . . I want my turkey stuffed with homemade cornbread laced with celery, onions and fresh sage. Ah, the aroma, the memories that smell triggers, both sad and happy. Make some this February; it’s never too late.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

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Kittyspeak 101

When a look says it all

By Deborah Salomon

Welcome, once again, to the annual January kitty column — the ninth, I believe.

I am a lifelong animal lover/advocate. All are welcome except foxes and coyotes. Once I kept a caged snake in the garage for my son’s friend while he was at summer camp. I cannot count how many forlorn, destitute kitties have come to my door, instinctively knowing they would be fed, adopted, cared for, loved.

The all-black ones with kind, intelligent eyes are my weakness.

Like Lucky, who showed up in 2011. He had been neutered, declawed and abandoned when his family moved. After feeding him outside for weeks I opened the door. He strolled into my house, my heart. A year later a pudgy half-tabby with a clipped ear signaling a spayed feral began hanging around for handouts. She rewarded me with hisses. I couldn’t ignore her limp so I opened the door. Lucky — who doesn’t have an aggressive bone in his panther-esque body — just stared, stoically. The half-tabby hissed at us both for about a week, then turned on the charm. Now Hissy Missy anchors my lap as I write, leans against my leg when I sleep, and treats Lucky like Meghan Markle does Prince Harry.

In public, at least.

Though intelligence-wise, she’s a dozen Rorschach ink blots beneath him — I should have named him Mensa — they each communicate, ask, answer, demand, complain in subtle, non-verbal, kittyspeak.

I remember seeing an interview of Academy Award actress Kate Winslet, who spoke of a director who criticized how she delivered a line. “Don’t worry, I can say it with my eyes,” Winslet snapped. My Lucky’s huge yellow eyes speak reams, convey a range of emotions: contentment, questioning, fear, acquiescence, warning and, rarely, displeasure. He lacks a loud purr, but stretched out across my lap, his dreamy eyes convey love. If I’m gone for too long I sense reprimand. As feeding time approaches his stare becomes an urgent frown. When the doorbell rings, his eyes warn.

But sometimes eye-talk isn’t enough.

A paw reinforces his query. I feel black velvet stroke my foot as I work on the computer. Pause. Repeat. If no response, a slight mew. I rise, he turns and leads me to his bowl, the back or front doors. Impossible to ignore the polite but insistent paw at 3 a.m. Lucky knows I keep treats in the bedside table.

So does Missy, but she wouldn’t dare.

Lucky also displays a heightened awareness of his surroundings. I broke my wrist recently. When I appeared wearing a cast Lucky was all over it, licking. Did he feel my pain? Was he expressing sympathy or just curiosity?

Missy is more self-absorbed. In fine weather (her definition of temp/humidity) she likes to sit on the back porch table and watch the birds and squirrels nibble peanut butter sandwiches. While Lucky dozes on a chair she remains alert for danger. Like blue jays.

Missy’s maddening method of getting my attention is circling my feet, often resulting in a stepped-on tail. She never learns.

The best is watching them communicate with each other via long, penetrating stares. At least once a day she washes his face. Play may be beneath Lucky’s solemn countenance, but she occasionally shadowboxes — tabby vs. the sphinx. Other than that, Missy defers to him in all matters.

A glass ceiling-smashing bra-burner this gal is not.

I need an animal relationship. Through the years this has been fulfilled by dogs, cats and my children’s pets who knew my home as their own. As for folks who brand kitties cold, aloof and mean, let me remind you that an animal companion often reflects its master’s personality/behavior.

True, I’m neither dignified nor stoic like Lucky. Not a Missy flibbertigibbet either. But at least, day in, day out, through thick and thin, rain or shine, we speak the same language.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Holiday Healing

A season in need of warm and fuzzy

By Deborah Salomon

No surprise that “the holiday season” descended on stores before the first Halloween pumpkin went under the knife. Merchants know that inflation will quickly gobble up dollars earmarked for gifts, parties, travel. Charities may suffer. Good causes will falter. Santa’s bag may be lighter, and New Year’s Eve won’t feature prime rib and Champagne.

Still, people crave this annual reprieve, especially after two holiday seasons dampened by COVID and its spin-offs.

We deserve some warm and fuzzy.

To be fair, holidays that comprise the “season” are unrelated, save for proximity. Christmas, of course, has deep and abiding religious significance, which no slapstick flick can trivialize. Yet it has been commercialized beyond belief — not all bad, many non-believers believe, since events bring people together, create memories.

Secular Christmas, it’s called — a perfect oxymoron.

Hanukkah, also falling in December, joined the trio big-time during the ’70s, swept in by diversity awareness, gobbled up by Jewish families like mine, with children who felt left out. Its symbols — candles, coins, food fried in oil — appeared for eight days, often culminating in a sizable gift on the last night.

Hanukkah commemorates a military victory, freedom of religion and a miracle whereby oil sufficient to illuminate the altar lamp for one day lasted eight.

Inspiring, significant, hardly warm and fuzzy.

Kwanzaa, which falls after Christmas, celebrates African American history and culture. The observance, initiated in 1966 after the Watts rebellion, is based on African harvest festivals. Candles are lit, special foods served, small gifts exchanged but, according to website definitions, Kwanzaa is non-religious and non-political.

My gut says this year we really, really need a holiday season. The world is in terrible shape. Cruel winter descends on a Ukraine with uncertain power, heat, water, food. A drought in Somalia forces mothers to trek hundreds of miles, often burying their infants by the dusty road. In Nigeria, catastrophic floods sweep away crops and farm animals. This year, we can’t dismiss these unthinkables as “over there.” Over here antisemitism has come roaring back, along with gun massacres in churches, supermarkets and, most horrific, schools. Run-up to midterm elections brought out the worst in politicians and their often rabid followers. Truth has been mocked. The nuclear threat changes everything, everywhere.

Of course other holiday seasons have weathered hard times. The Battle of the Bulge was fought at Christmas time. Bob Hope entertained U.S. troops in Vietnam. On Thanksgiving good souls feed and warm the ever-increasing homeless population. But I feel something ominous looming, a shift affecting lives and customs heretofore immune. I feel almost like Ebenezer Scrooge upon viewing a Christmas without Tiny Tim.

Or, maybe this downer will awaken gratitude for whatever remains.

So light the candles, trim the tree, fry the latkes, sip the eggnog, wrap the gifts, hug the kids, hum the carols and bring on the warm-and-fuzzy because this holiday season, however defined, we desperately need it.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Picture This

A voyage into the past

By Deborah Salomon

What follows is about pictures.

As a reporter for 40 years I learned to call them photos. Sounds more professional, like “film” instead of “movie.” But lately, watching families sift through the contents of burned out or flooded homes, I’ve reverted to pictures, which better describes amateur snapshots memorializing . . . everything — the first baby’s first bath, toddler birthday parties, a basset puppy named Duffy, skiing, football, school plays, beach vacations, graduations. I have a picture of my mother, born in 1902, with her parents and baby brother, taken in 1906. My father brought back reams of sepia-toned pictures from World War I, in France, including one of the ambulance he drove. I went wild with my own grandchildren; every week the drugstore got a roll or two. Doubles, please, so I could mail some off.

Must be thousands, crammed into plastic under-the-bed boxes. Sometimes I pull one out, like slipping through a door overgrown with ivy into a secret garden. Remember Bert who drew a better world in sidewalk chalk, for Mary Poppins to jump in?

If only we could jump back into our pictures.

Often a picture will prompt a memory not altogether pleasant. That’s me, in Rome, feeding the famous Forum cats, who live on handouts. Sad.

Recently I wrote two features about couples in their 90s who had lived noteworthy lives. In preparation for the interview, each had spread scrapbooks and photo albums on a table. True, the pictures only depicted good times although, inevitably, happy turns sad as the generations pass.

At least nobody handed me a cellphone to flip through.

A picture/photo is tangible, printed on sturdy paper. It can be framed, tucked into a wallet, affixed to a refrigerator or, as non-agenarians do, mounted with caption in an album. I’m amazed the black and white photos I took with the first Polaroid camera (early ’60s) have not faded. Otherwise, I endured the wait, whittled down to an hour, until the film had been developed. Then I would re-live the event, perhaps from a different perspective. Like the hilarious pictures of my grandson on his first birthday. He dug into a piece of chocolate cake with both chubby hands, smearing it all over himself, the high chair and whoever came near. Now, I can smile. Then, I had to clean it — and him — up.

Digital cameras, and cellphones, have changed everything. I know, I know. Phones are omnipresent, meaning you never miss a shot. Photos can be sent by text, emailed. Cellphones and cameras can be plugged into other devices that print, albeit on flimsy copy paper. I’m sure there’s a way to back them up into some cloud or facility located in Never Never Land, but do you actually do it? Furthermore, cellphones are slippery little things that slide out of pockets and purses. But I don’t know anyone who routinely prints out the day’s catch to store under the bed in a long plastic box.

Not that plastic would protect against fire and floods. If climate change continues to destroy homes and lives somebody will hawk a secure metal container on late-night TV. As for albums/scrapbooks, I’m not that organized. Instead, to select pictures for this page I pulled out two dusty boxes, sat on the floor and went through hundreds of pictures, helter-skelter, taken over a 120-year span, from a grandmother I never knew to high school friends I had forgotten. I saw my first prom dress (scratchy net), all the apartments and houses I’ve lived in, cats and dogs I’ve loved, a ferryboat-sized Buick station wagon and a spiffy Olds convertible. I relived college graduation — mine and my daughters’ — and my son’s wedding. Yes, that’s me interviewing (Princess) Grace Kelly, during the filming of her last movie, in Asheville, in 1955.

Two boxes down, one to go, maybe another day when a storm has paused all electronic activities. Because getting lost in the past cuts both ways. I found pictures of gravestones, of healthy classmates who have withered with age. Of styles that now look silly: Mondrian-inspired mini-dresses, go-go boots and extreme bell-bottoms.

Kinship with homeowners poking through the ashes for a wedding picture, a son in Army uniform or a 50th anniversary cake runs strong, as does recalling the anticipation of picking up developed film. Digital isn’t the same, at least for me. Because, after all these years, one picture is still worth a thousand pixels.  PS 

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Meds on Parade

Art for the heart — and everything else

By Deborah Salomon

Illustration By Miranda Glyder

We call PineStraw magazine “The Art and Soul of the Sandhills.” There it is, written on the cover. Soul is amorphous. Art, however, wears many guises. It’s called the “art” of politics — at least in part — because if candidates can’t put on a good show they ain’t goin’ nowhere. They deliver artfully crafted scripts often, per Macbeth, “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” They choose well-tailored costumes in (except Nancy Pelosi) conservative colors. I almost fainted when she deplaned at midnight in Taiwan wearing a bubblegum-pink pantsuit.

But this art commentary doesn’t concern MAGA caps or power ties. Rather, the drama rampant in TV ads for prescription and OTC medications.

Now Pelosi’s pantsuit appears Pepto Bismol pink.

This dates from 1997 when the FDA relaxed rules governing direct advertising to consumers, as long as side effects receive prominent billing, along with “Consult a physician.” The U.S. and New Zealand are the only countries that allow direct ads.

Sounds like a win-win-win for patients, docs, ad agencies, drug manufacturers and “everyman” actors. Because, with a few exceptions, glamour-pusses don’t have eczema or hemorrhoids.

Truth be told, drug and health-related ads have taken over prime time TV once dominated by Tony the Tiger. To document this I sat down with pencil, paper and stopwatch. My findings indicate that a typical 2-minute ad break will have four or five commercials, at least three of them drug-related. No more white-coated “physician” or “pharmacist” dispensing advice. These are on-location productions with multiple actors, cartooning, music, special effects. Some are melancholy, offering cancer patients “more time” without suggesting a cure. Others push prevention or detection, hence the now familiar Cologuard logo. The toughest to watch are anti-smoking, where the spokesperson is missing a jawbone or larynx, followed by a black screen announcing “Joe Smith died in 2020.”

Pets help. A drug that renders HIV-AIDS “undetectable” avoids the click-off by showing a couple bathing a white dog. Most drug ads, however, feature healthy-looking folks at weddings and graduations, none experiencing the dire side effects listed by the voice-over.

Manipulative? Who cares? Big pharma’s goal is to have you clamoring for the drug by name — if you can pronounce and pay for it. Trade names lean on consonants, particularly X, Y, Z and Q minus the U. Pronounce Cibinqo for me, please. At least the trade name Rinvoq is easier than generic upadacitinib.

I finally found an MD willing to comment, albeit anonymously. Slick, unrealistic, exaggerated, providing false hope by innuendo was his verdict, although he chuckled at the one for a bone strengthener, where grannies narrowly avert accidents like tripping on a pine cone or falling off a ladder.

OK, so almost all’s fair in war and medications. I still draw a line below the belt.

Remember diving for the remote when Viagra burst onto the market? Now, usually around suppertime, the menu includes bent carrots, misshapen zucchini, wacky bananas and cukes simulating Peyronie’s Disease. Look it up. After that, a “stool softener” which compares the ailment to “passing a pineapple,” unpeeled, of course, seems tame. But I do laugh at the one where a woman opens the car door only to find a toilet replacing the driver’s seat, followed by the same substitution for her office chair.

At this rate, it’s only a matter of time until Mona Lisa’s smile will be co-opted to confirm a satisfactory, uh, outcome.

As the evening wears on, hucksters hawk a battery-operated ear wax cleaner called Wush and a dainty ladies’ shaver for “down there.” The men’s version for “groin grooming” is called Lawn Mower. Ugh.

But is this ad art? Or are we creating culture icons? Will the Charmin bears join Pooh and Paddington?

Possibly, considering Christie’s sold Andy Warhol’s painting of a Campbell’s condensed soup can, painted in 1961, for $11 million. Today’s artist might immortalize a fancy organic brand.

Literature has its Pulitzers, Broadway its Tonys, films their Oscars. Ads earn statuettes at the annual Clios, which recognize creativity/excellence in advertising. Health care has its own category.

Clio usually takes the high road, honoring foundations conducting medical research. My vote still supports the nerdy Preparation H spokesguy who insists, coyly, that my derriere “deserves expert care.”  PS

Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Lumpy, Frumpy, Beloved

It’s the little duffle that could

By Deborah Salomon

Carpet bags were actually made of carpet. Remember Mary Poppins’ arrival toting a magic one? Steamer trunks were once a necessity on long voyages, per Titanic. Suitcases accommodate everything but suits, which travel in hanging bags.

Collectively, call it luggage. Fancy-schmancy, call one smallish piece a valise.

For the past 15 years I have flown to Canada to see my grandsons five or six times a year. More when they were younger, less now that they are grown men. I don’t stay long — two or three nights. But I bring a lot, including food (cheese, frozen shrimp, deli roast beef, homemade cookies), gifts (car magazines, T-shirts), seasonal candy, dog toys and funny stuff they might like — as well as my own bulky cold weather clothes.

Checking baggage isn’t an option since missed connections and re-routing happen regularly, not to mention the cost. So I bought a roller carry-on, first with hard sides, then semi-soft. They slid easily into the overhead compartment but held a finite amount. Surely none of the passengers scooting from gate to gate pulling aluminum siding on ball bearings had hungry grandchildren.

So I added a small duffle to hold the overflow plus my purse, since only two carry-ons were allowed. Except the duffle didn’t attach to the roller bag and kept falling off, a real pain. 

I looked again, this time for something uber-expandible that could still be stuffed into the overhead compartment. Appearance didn’t matter. I’d pull one adorned with Betty Boop if it worked.

About five years ago I spotted the perfect bag at Stein Mart. Tacky, verging on ugly, its loose canvas body was as suitable for stuffing as a Butterball. The white canvas printed with black stars made it immediately recognizable in a row of sleek, monochromatic, ball-bearing, aluminum-sided roller bags —  an ugly duckling in a pond of svelte swans. Nobody ever grabbed my bag by mistake.

So what if people snickered. At least it had a zipper pocket on the outside to separate my lunch and my socks.

Because anybody who pays $12 for a tuna sandwich en route is just plain nuts.

Unlike airport tuna, my valise was cheap, maybe $20. I soon discovered why. The wheels rattled. The handle required a yank. Once stuffed, the valise wobbled, even toppled. Despite malfunctions I still loved its capacity, which amazed security personnel.

“I’ll remove the food,” according to regulations, I told the officer. He watched, wide-eyed. Out came the cookies, the candy, the cheese, the frozen shrimp, Reese’s Peanut Butter Halloween pumpkins, taco rice and salsa, leaving my sweaters, shoes, nightgown, hair dryer.

Remember the old circus gag where a dozen clowns emerge from a VW Beetle?

“What else ya got in there?” the officer grinned suspiciously.

I grinned back and offered him a chocolate chip cookie.

Once inside the aircraft, however, my bag-o-tricks faced another challenge. This valise was heavier than it looked. Much heavier. Could I lift it into the compartment? When no Lancelot appeared, darned if it didn’t squeeze underneath the seat in front.

On the return trip, grandkids’ goodies were replaced by three dozen of the world’s best bagels. This, the inspectors understood.

All these years and only one accident. My daughter loves Stouffer frozen spinach soufflé, not available in Canada. I always bring a single-serving box secured in a resealable plastic bag. On a recent trip it thawed, then seeped through the box and bag, tinting my jeans “Exorcist” vomit green.

Alas, this ugly saddlebag/rucksack/duffle/carry-on hybrid is showing her age. Canvas corners are threadbare. The zipper sticks. The main compartment is lined with cat hair, since Lucky stows away in it between trips. Perhaps he detected a faint tuna odor. My grandsons may have outgrown silly socks and peanut butter pumpkins. But, unless a wheel falls off or the zipper derails, this trusty travel companion will chug along behind me, clickety-clack, on every flight until the last.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Frozen in Time

The hottest month of all

By Deborah Salomon

August means hot. Serious hot.

Not that hot means much. We’re such weather wimps — dash from AC car to AC house, or store, or office. As the joke goes, were there still phone booths, they would be air-conditioned. A system failure rates emergency status, right up there with a blocked toilet or a computer meltdown.

Meltdown, a good August word when applied to an orange Popsicle that tints the tongue and stains the T-shirt.

In August, you can do without lights but not that icy AC blast.

Global warming will only exacerbate this annual woe.

I am the wimp described above. ’Twas not always so. I remember when the very heat we flee heightened our senses, prescribed our activities.

I spent every childhood summer in Greensboro, with my grandparents, in the house shaded by pin oaks, where my mother was born.

Talk about hot.

This isn’t the first time, or the second or third I’ve dredged up those summers not out of laziness but regret, since icons have drifted away like August afternoon clouds, once their rain has caused steam to rise from the asphalt.

In the North, at least, summer started with spring and the wearing of “spring coats.” Lordy, I haven’t heard that word pairing in years. By late spring, kids were allowed to shed undershirts . . . ah, the freedom, the unbinding. The last day of school meant a trip to the shoe store for sturdy leather sandals or breathable canvas “sneakers.” Both would be in tatters by Labor Day.

Where have all the children’s shoe stores gone?

How delicious, the wiggling of bare toes, unknown to kids shod year-round in “running shoes.”

Polio overshadowed those summers. No large gatherings, no swimming pools or amusement parks. Splash pads had not been invented but oh, what we could accomplish with a garden hose and a variable nozzle. Squeals of horror followed a strong, pulsating stream. “Mmmm . . . ” after a total-body misting. I remember feeling the heat rising up and escaping from my skin, whether bare or covered with shorts and a T-shirt.

Nobody bothered with bathing suits.

Then, somebody told us that holding an ice cube in back of a bended knee would cool the whole body. What giggles, as the melt trickled down our legs. Another granny advised soaking feet in cold water worked the same magic. I can still see the oval tin wash basin we used for soaking.

But nothing — and I mean nothing — cooled better than a nickel Coca-Cola from the big red cooler (with built-in bottle opener) at the corner store.

My mother didn’t allow soft drinks. Granddaddy slipped me nickels when she wasn’t looking.

Those power-guzzling coolers, now prized retro décor, fetch big bucks at antique stores.

Supper on hot nights would be cold: cold fried chicken, potato salad, huge tomatoes from the garden, sprinkled with salt. Maybe biscuits left over from breakfast. I don’t remember the house being unbearable at night, perhaps because of oscillating fans, more likely because children sleep better, especially happy children exhausted from squealing through the sprinkler, catching fireflies in Mason jars, guzzling Kool-Aid, wiggling toes around leather sandal straps, reading comic books on the porch swing, playing stick-ball, dressing paper dolls.

AC? Only at the movie theater where the blast merited a sweater.

We survived August, then returned to the North, where autumn appeared in chilly early mornings and earlier sunsets, when children bought notebooks and pencil-sharpeners, rulers, protractors, lunch boxes, knee socks and saddle shoes for school. Before cellphones and laptops and face masks and lockdowns.

Before schools became dangerous.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Swinging on the Vine

Did I hear what I think I heard? Probably not.

By Deborah Salomon

Before email, before text and Facebook, before Twitter, before even Instagram there was the grapevine. Who could forget the late, great Marvin Gaye belting out, in 1968, “I heard it through the grapevine . . . ?” The term became synonymous with salacious news.

Lately, my antennae twitched over the following entries, all in good fun, of course:

Putin: OK, OK. So I bit off more than I can chew. I’ll take a week at the Black Sea billion-ruble dacha with one of my children’s mothers.

Rudy Giuliani: Those dopes say my rants prove that I’m senile. Hogwash! Look (drip-drip), my hair isn’t even gray.

Coach K: One-and-done? How about 1,202 (wins) and done. And look, my hair isn’t even gray.

Mayim Bialeck: “Sure, I’m a TV spokesgal for Neuriva (brain supplement). If I didn’t take it, I’d be hosting The Price Is Right instead of Jeopardy!”

Ivanka Trump: “Of course we need 10 bathrooms in our new Florida estate. We have five people in this family.” 

President Joe Biden: “Jill, honey, . . . where did I leave my walker?”

First Lady Jill Biden: “Who said blondes have more fun?” Probably L’Oréal heiress Francoise Bettencourt Meyers, the richest woman in the world.

Downton Abbey: A New Era: Lights! Camera! Costumes!

Secretary of State Antony Blinken: “Where are Winken and Nod when you really need them?”

Prince Harry: “Of course she married me for my personality. And look, my hair isn’t even . . . there.”

Prince William, channeling Richard III: “Hair plugs, hair plugs! My kingdom for some hair plugs.”

Crown Prince Charles: “Who needs hair? I’m the heir.”

Vice President Kamala Harris: “Today is Tuesday, which means the baby blue pantsuit. Wednesday is maroon, with matching stilettos.” Good choice, ma’am. Harder to put foot in mouth while wearing stilettos.

Martha Stewart: “Inflation? What inflation? Let ’em eat cheesecake!”

Elon Musk at the karaoke bar, channeling Sinatra; “Fly me to the moon . . . ”

Melinda Gates, on ex-hubby Bill: “He’s just a big ol’ Microsoftie.”

Donald Trump, on Jan. 6: “No big deal. Just celebrating Elvis’ birthday two days early.”

Melania Trump, channeling Greta Garbo: “I vant to be left alone.”

Barron Trump: Denies relationship to Larry Bird. Yet, at 6’7” the resemblance is unmistakable. Except The Birdman smiles.

Patriotism: July 4th, dude. Gotta do something patriotic. Like pay a hundred bucks to see Hamilton or wear some stars-and-stripes flip-flops which now, like everything else, cost $1.25 at the Dollar Tree.

Truth or rumor? Fact or fiction? Stick with Marvin Gaye: “I heard it through the grapevine . . . ” PS 

Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

You Can’t Eat Just One

Never underestimate the power of cookies

By Deborah Salomon

Today I will explore a subject rarely attempted by essayists, columnists, commentators. They are too busy solving (or fomenting) world problems to bother with cookies.

Pity. We’d be better off if Freud had spent more time on cookies, less on phantasmagorical dreams.

My only memory of kindergarten is the tiny choco-chip cookies shaped by a cookie press, served at snacktime with a paper cup of milk. They weren’t even good but they were cookies, and I loved them.

Obviously, I suffered a cookie-deprived childhood. My mother (high school math teacher) never baked a cookie in her life. The only ones she bought were mushy with dried fruit. How I loved playing at my BFF’s house. Not only was her mother a retired Broadway chorus girl, she kept a stash of store-boughts (fancy, gooey, buttery, frosted) in the pantry. And you needn’t finish your spinach to get one.

No surprise, then, that I learned early on to bake cookies — just chocolate chip and oatmeal — usually on Friday when my kids’ pals hung around for handouts. Holidays meant shaped butter cookies: turkeys for Thanksgiving, hearts for Valentine’s Day. In the mid-’90s I arrived in Switzerland to write about the former Vermont governor, Madeleine Kunin, then U.S. Ambassador, carrying a tin box of state-shaped cookies frosted green. Even her Swiss pastry chef was impressed.

By then I realized that cookies are an acceptable carryover from childhood. Zabaglione and tiramisu for dessert, cookies at bedtime. Where a Supreme Court justice wouldn’t be caught dead drinking espresso from a sippy cup, nibbling a cookie is OK. In fact, this penchant affirms the jurist’s status as a smart cookie.

Long live Cookie Monster! Don’t get me started on the misnomer.

I know one man and three women who have been called Cookie for so long nobody remembers their real names. I also befriended a cat named Oreo (black on top, white tummy) and a figgy-hued poodle called Newton.

Another crumb on the cookie path: It was once my honor to attend a weekend house party hosted by a New York Times food writer/cookbook author. Everybody brought something for a potluck beyond lucky. I brought chocolate chip cookies which, although made from my usual recipe, spread out flat rather than rising. Even worse, they were chewy, not crisp.

The foodie’s husband went gaga over my disaster. She was miffed. The culprit, I assumed, was old baking soda. Imagine my horror when she swallowed her pride and requested my “secret.”

People wax emotional, even irrational over their choices. Duels have been fought over Whippets vs. Mallomars. A gentleman I know well, who grew up in the Northeast, insists Hydrox are far superior to Oreos, even before this bestseller went wack-o with seasonally flavored/colored fillings.

To me, Hydrox still sounds like a controlled substance.

Would it impress you to know that Lorna Doone shortbreads were named for the heroine of an inconsequential British romance novel published in 1869, in which Lorna is shot at her wedding . . . but survives?

It bothers me that spicy Biscoff monopolize in-flight airline refreshments. I don’t care if they are vegan and made in Belgium. They leave fingers greasy.

I save mine for the squirrels.

It also riles me that faced with worldwide cookie popularity (fortune cookies, Italian wedding cookies) the Brits insist on dipping “biscuits” in their tea, while calling real biscuits “scones.”

Alas, commercial cookies have deteriorated, except maybe Pepperidge Farm. Smaller packages, questionable quality, higher prices. I miss real vanilla in vanilla wafers. Most chocolate is diluted or outright fake.

Therefore, over the years I have committed several simple, foolproof cookie recipes to memory. The latest — a super-easy but divine almond mini-chocolate chip biscotti.

Because you never know when an ambassador or Supreme Court justice might ring the doorbell on a Friday afternoon.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

Out of the Blue

Angel at the Gate

When the paper trail goes cold

By Deborah Salomon

Let me relate an experience — every detail accurate — that touches on COVID, technology, luck and the basic goodness of mankind. Or, as it happens, womankind. After months, if not years, of tribulations we must treasure every crumb.

My grandsons live in Montreal, where I lived for 26 years. They are now 23 and 25. The older one is an attorney, the younger, a certified auto mechanic/service department manager. They are tall, wickedly handsome, happy, affectionate and self-supporting.

Their father, my son Danny, died when they were 6 and 7. I was a presence in their lives from birth until I moved to North Carolina in 2007. Until recently I flew back to see them every six weeks. Now, I go three or four times a year, a joyous reunion with many hugs.

Due to COVID I’ve only seen them twice in the past two years. Flying, especially internationally, is a hassle; fewer and more expensive flights, lots of paperwork.

I prefer to depart from Greensboro — PTI is a fantastic airport, not crowded, with convenient parking and plenty of flight options.

My most recent trip began March 15, the infamous Ides.

I knew the ropes from a trip in November: passport, vaccine card, results from a specific COVID test within a specific time period. Other information (like quarantine location at destination, if required) was loaded onto an Arrive/CAN QR code.

I’m good at details. Everything was in order.

I presented the vaccine card and paperwork to the American Airlines agent in Greensboro. He separated the pages, took a quick look and handed them back. I put the bundle in my purse.

The flight to Charlotte was quick, followed by a long layover before connecting to Montreal. At the departure gate I was asked for passport and vaccination card. Without them I could not board. My vaccination card was not among the papers the agent had handed back. I emptied my purse, pockets, wallet. No luck. I felt panic rising. Not only would I be denied boarding, I’d be stuck in the airport overnight before returning home.

An off-duty AA agent in the gate area observed the developing catastrophe. She was a larger-than-life, friendly woman with a loud, happy voice. She was about to become my angel.

“Don’t you have (the card) on your phone, hon?” she asked,      in disbelief.

No, I’m not cell-centric. Hard copies remain my style.

“How about on your laptop?”

Don’t own one, but there’s an image on my desktop, at home.

Problem: Nobody at home.

However, I did have my IT guy’s phone number. And I had hidden a key outside in case the cat sitter forgot hers. But would Bill, my trusty techie for 13 years, even be home?

He was — a miracle. He heard my desperation, dropped everything and drove to my apartment, found the key, booted up my computer, accessed the file with the vaccination card.

Now what? I was afraid to have him send it to my phone. “Email it to mine,” angel lady suggested. He did. It came through. Sigh of relief. She photographed the image on her phone with my phone so I would have it for the return trip. Passengers witnessing this drama (including my mini-meltdown) applauded.

When I returned to Greensboro three days later I told the American Airlines manager what had happened. He was borderline rude, said it was my responsibility to keep tabs on documents, snapped, “Check the lost and found.”

Remember the 1990s TV series Touched by an Angel, where an angel in disguise played by the late Della Reese helps someone out of a crisis? Once home I Googled the show. My jaw dropped at the resemblance between Della and my American Airlines guardian.

I don’t believe in spooky stuff. My favorite angels were painted by Renaissance master Sandro Botticelli. However, this was the third event in my lifetime with paranormal implications. One happened at the dedication of Danny’s gravestone, in 2005. This one enabled me to hug his little boys, now grown men, and prepare their favorites for dinner. They laughed at my story, teased Nanny for not being more tech-savvy and hugged me back.

In a world plagued by death and destruction, once in a while an angel flaps her wings over a disbeliever.

My turn came at Charlotte Douglas International Airport on the Ides of March.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.