fooling yourself

Plenty of people have called me "dumb" or "stupid" or "foolish" in my life. I am the first one to admit when that is applicable. Unfortunately, it is more often than I'd like. Let me warn you. This post might have you calling me some names. 

For years now, since I was diagnosed with hypertension, I have been starting my day with a bowl of cereal. My doctor believed that it would be beneficial to my health if I ate breakfast every morning and, for the most part, I listen to my doctor... except when I don't. So — on doctor's orders — I eat breakfast. And my cereal of choice is something sensible, unlike my selections when I was a kid. No loops comprised of "froot" or "smacks" glazed with "honey" (or "sugar" if you are as old as I am). Nothing with mini marshmallows or indeterminate shapes that rip apart the roof of my mouth. No, my cereal choices are limited and I have opted for Cheerios.

In 1941, General Mills introduced "Cheerioats," later shortening the name to "Cheerios." They were an extruded circle of tasteless grain that weren't the least bit enhanced by the addition of milk. Touted by the likes of "Cheeri O'Leery," a cute little cartoon character that interacted with the top stars of the day, and later "The Cheerio Kid," an All-American boy who got his muscles from Cheerios, the cereal was a top seller for years. In 1976, over 35 years after its initial introduction, Cheerios offered an alternative flavor - Cinnamon Cheerios. Three years later, they premiered Honey Nut Cheerios. By the time I started to eat breakfast on a daily basis, Honey Nut Cheerios was the top selling brand of cereal in the United States.

I like Honey Nut Cheerios. I like them a lot. I go through a box approximately every ten days. To be honest, I don't require a lot of variety in what I eat. I have been eating a bowl of cereal every day for the past seven years and the overwhelming majority of those bowls have been filled with Honey Nut Cheerios. Every once in a while, I decide to switch to another kind of cereal, but I always find myself coming back to Honey Nut Cheerios. As a matter of fact, while I am eating a different kind of cereal, I try to  calculate how much longer the contents of the box will last until I can return to my old stand-by. I don't want to be wasteful. I will dutifully eat a bowl of cereal that I do not like just to finish it off. It won't be the last thing I ever eat (until it actually is), so I eat and grin and bear it. 

My usual choice — when I stray from Honey Nut Cheerios — is Quaker Corn Chex. These are awful. They are thin, sharp-edged squares that are reminiscent of eating milk-soaked throwing stars. "Corn" is actually the most appealing flavor of the available "Chex" line of cereal that includes wheat, rice and their own version of a honey nut flavor. I have not tried their take on honey nut, but based on the blandness of the ones I have tried, I will pass for now. Chex has produced and discontinued a number of flavors over the years. I imagine they all lacked any sort of taste and decided to stick with the unpalatable originals. I have tried various versions of fruit-infused cereal including several varieties of raisin bran, blueberry and strawberry Cheerios and a limited edition box of frosted flakes labeled "banana creme" with a smiling Tony the Tiger offering up a brimming bowl of the stuff. The freshly-opened box emitted a fake, chemically, laboratory-conceived aroma of bananas. The flakes themselves appeared to be standard Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, but the overpowering smell made them difficult to consume. But consume them I did and, after ten days, I happily tossed the flattened yellow-hued box into the recycling bin. 

I have tried to introduce regular Frosted Flakes into my cereal rotation, but they are coated with a ridiculous amount of sugar. I don't remember them being so sweet when I was a kid, or, perhaps I'm just more sensitive to sugar since I stopped eating candy bars and ice cream and stopped drinking soda. So, I always seem to gravitate back to Honey Nut Cheerios. I don't know why I keep straying. All of the cereal I eat that isn't Honey Nut Cheerios, I do not like! As a matter of fact, when we are compiling our weekly shopping list, I have told my wife to add Honey Nut Cheerios on a regular basis. I have also said that if I ever ask for anything but Honey Nut Cheerios, just write "Honey Nut Cheerios" anyway — no matter what I ask for. It has become a running joke in the Pincus house. Mrs. P asks if I need cereal. I answer "yes, I do" and I mention that I'd like to try something different. She laughs and — not matter what I say — she adds "Honey Nut Cheerios" to the list. I have gone so far as to request Gerber's baby cereal, the likes of which have not seen the inside of my house in over thirty years and she writes "Honey Nut Cheerios" as she nods her head in agreement.

Today, however, I managed to convince her to purchase something called "Cheerios Cinnamon Oat Crunch." I don't know... it was late at night... we were tired... Mrs. Pincus was reviewing our shopping list for an early morning curb-side pick-up and I nonchalantly snuck the request in as though it was another head of lettuce. All I know is... as soon as I finish the box of Honey Nut Cheerios I am currently working on, I will crack open that box of Cheerios Cinnamon Oat Crunch, fill up a bowl, add milk and prepare myself for more disappointment.

Almost as disappointing as reading an entire blog post about me and my eating cereal habits.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's new pussycat?

I guess it's time for a little explanation. If you follow me on other social media outlets (and — face it — why wouldn't you?), you probably have seen pictures of a mature black and white cat keeping a watchful eye atop a set of cement steps and a white wooden doorway whose frame is in need of a fresh coat of paint. As far as I'm concerned, this stoic little fellow is named Ambrose.

Maybe.

Probably not.

I love Kung Fu

My wife and I became active walkers well over a year ago. And by "active," I mean "active for our age." We are not in training for a 5K or a 10K or any other K that may exist. (I thought "K" stood for "strikeout." I don't know what it means in relation to walking or running.) We like the exercise and, as we approach the twilight of our lives, a bit of leisurely exercise is a good thing. We're not trying to break any records. We just want to stay healthy. So, instead of purchasing some bulky piece of commercial exercise equipment that will only become an expensive clothes rack after the initial novelty wears off, Mrs. Pincus and I do a couple of rounds around to block as often as possible. Like David Carradine's "Kwai Chang Caine," we walk the earth — seeing what we can see and meeting who we can meet. Mrs. P sees people she knows and even waves to people she doesn't know. We find unusual things along the way, like discarded full meals still wrapped in the logo-emblazoned paper from McDonald's and, more recently, a trail of newly-discarded face masks as though Hansel and Gretel were blazing a path but still trying to keep COVID-19 at bay. 

Most days, we take the same route. Actually I follow my wife's lead, since she knows the neighborhood better than I do — even though I have lived here for thirty-five years. Some days we head to the right once we've exited the house and descended our porch steps. But, most days, we head south on our suburban Philadelphia street. It's on this route that we see Ambrose.

A mere four houses away, Ambrose surveys his feline kingdom from the top step of the stone and wood house of our unseen neighbors. Ambrose watches regally as I fumble in my pocket for my cell phone. He waits patiently as I awkwardly enter the passcode and scroll to the camera icon. He poses obligingly when I raise my phone to eye level and snap off a couple of quick pictures. Then, he watches as Mrs. Pincus and I continue on our little jaunt around the block — or sometimes even further. If we happen to double back on our return trip to our house, taking a portion of the same homebound route as we started out on, Ambrose is frequently in the same position as earlier. Sometimes, he has dozed off behind one of the large cement urns that flank our neighbor's front door. Sometimes, he has stretched himself out upon the welcome mat, experiencing a slightly different perspective of his domain. Rarer, though, Ambrose is gone, perhaps off to chase a bird or a mouse or to see what awaits him in the backyard.

In the winter, although we kept up our regular walking habits, Ambrose had vacated his usual spot, opting — no doubt — for a warmer place. Cats can always find a place to keep warm. But once spring returned and the warming sun was out, Ambrose was back, silently surveying the area. 

Ambrose has a tendency to disappear for days at a time. We've passed his familiar steps and, sadly.... no Ambrose. Day after day, we walked slowly by our neighbor's house, craning our necks to hopefully catch a glimpse of Ambrose lurking behind a bush. Then, one day, Ambrose would reappear at the top of the steps — staring at us with his confident look, letting us know that he would not be offering an explanation of his absense.

As you may have seen, I post a picture of Ambrose whenever I see him. Mrs. Pincus gets a little nervous when I stop to take a picture. "What will you say if someone comes out of the house and asks why you are taking a picture of their cat?," she asks.

"I'll just explain that Ambrose has a little following on my social media." I reply.

The problem is — if the owner hears my explanation, the first thing they'll say is: "Who the hell is 'Ambrose?'"

You see, we named him "Ambrose." We actually don't know this cat's name. There's a good chance it's "Fluffy" or "Whiskers" or "Misty." There's a better chance that it's not "Ambrose."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

metal health will drive you mad

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by those old guys who roamed the beach with metal detectors. On family trips to Atlantic City, I could always count on a few things. My parents would take my brother and me to the beach. My dad would gingerly wade into the ocean while wearing his sunglasses, indicating that he had no intention of putting his head anywhere near the water. Then he would invariably disappear from the beach, sneaking off to watch the slick-talking hucksters set up on the Boardwalk demonstrating those "handy-dandy" vegetable peelers/cutters that the likelihood of his purchasing one were about as good as his putting his head in the ocean water.

We could always rely on my mom buying an ice cream treat from one of those borderline-homeless guys who toted their frozen wares in a dented cooler, layered alternately with rock-hard dairy products on a stick and dangerous, but tempting, dry ice. We could also be sure that we'd see at least one old guy (but there were usually more) in torn shorts and a faded, threadbare t-shirt following his extended metal detector around like a handler displaying a prize-winning show dog. We would often see these mysterious figures in the early morning hours on the infrequent occasion that we were renting bicycles to ride on the Boardwalk. (Always with my mom. Never my dad). As the sun was slowly rising over the ocean, the silhouettes of these guys wandered intently in the freshly-combed sand, a pair of large headphones enveloping their heads under a ratty, but concealing straw hat. They'd listen closely for little "beeps" or "boops" indicating the presence of some hidden metallic treasure just below the sandy surface — or twenty feet below the sandy surface. It was a crap shoot.

Seeing these treasure seekers was a true sign that summer had arrived. Just like popping a salt water taffy in your mouth or flicking a wooden ball down a Skee-Ball alley, an unkept old guy on the beach with a metal detector let you know that school was out, surf was up and summer had begun. 

Did any of these determined fellows ever find anything of any real value? I'm not sure. Obviously, they did have the funds with which to purchase a metal detector. Perhaps they were just digging in a random spot on the beach and they discovered a long-forgotten pirate chest... or a wallet stuffed with twenties. Whatever the case, they were able to purchase a much-needed piece of equipment to assist in their quest for additional wealth. I surmise, however, that since they are still scouring the beaches, they are not yet financially sound and must continue their search in order to make ends meet. Or maybe greed is their motivation

The absurdity of their quest became even funnier to me as I got older. In 1991, children's network Nickelodeon broadcast a thirty-minute special that eventually became a series called The Adventures of Pete & Pete. It chronicled the quirky exploits of one Pete Wrigley and his little brother, also named Pete. This special focused on the Wrigley brothers encounter and subsequent search for their friend, Mr. Tastee, the local ice cream truck driver. Along the way, they visit a beach, where, with the aid of his trusty metal detector, the senior Mr. Wrigley finds a 1978 Cutlass Supreme buried in the sand. My son and I roared with laughter as the Petes helped Dad unearth the car and drive home in it. (That's right! It was buried with a full tank of gas!) I was immediately reminded of those optimistic old men on the Atlantic City Beach, wishing for a similar reward.

Just a few days ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were circling the block on our daily afternoon walk, when I spotted a familiar figure in nearby High School Park. Fifty or so feet into a large expanse of neatly-trimmed grass, in the shadow of some landscaped shade trees, there was an older man in ragged pants, faded t-shirt and straw hat methodically ambling about with a metal detector at arm's length. I suppose April is too soon for the beach, so perhaps he was keeping his finding skills sharp until that time when he could trade his sneakers for sandals and his ragged pants for ragged shorts.

There are coins or jewelry waiting to be found. Maybe even a Cutlass Supreme. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

peg o' my heart

I have written some pretty dumb blog posts over the past ten years, but I must say, this may be one of the dumbest. Yes, I have voiced my opinions about things that bug me, annoy me, irk me, rub me the wrong way... but this is a gripe I have with someone who has been dead for nearly a quarter of a century. Things don't get much dumber than that.

Please stand up.

If you follow me on Instagram or if you are lucky enough to be my friend on Facebook (oh stop it! that was a joke!), you know about my on-going feud with Peggy Cass, the perennial panelist on every single incarnation of the TV game show To Tell the Truth. You'd think that I wouldn't watch the show — which is broadcast every weekday morning on retro network BUZZR — if she annoys me so much. Well, if you think that, then it's obvious that you don't know me very well. I like the show. I remember watching it when I was kid on the offhand day that I was home from school with either a legitimate or exaggerated illness. Admittedly, the show was a small intellectual step above other game shows like The Price is Right or Let's Make a Deal (two other sick day must-sees!). Sometimes the subject matter involving a particular group of contestants was way above my elementary school education, but I watched (I think) because I liked the see which celebrity (and I use that term very loosely) guessed correctly. I also liked when the contestants hesitated, then stood and quickly sat in an effort to freak out the panel. Even if I didn't understand the topic of the contestant's new book about visiting Communist China or his invention of a ground-breaking device, I found the show fun.

Except for Peggy Cass. Yep... even back then. (I just had a conversation with my older brother about this very subject. He said he recalls — as a nine year-old — thinking that Peggy Cass was annoying.)

The unnecessarily 
glamorous Miss Kitty

The format of To Tell the Truth was fairly simple. After a brief, if somewhat coy, introduction from jovial host Garry Moore, the panelists are introduced. For the bulk of the entire run of To Tell the Truth, the panelists were familiar game show host Bill Cullen, the ostentatiously glamourous actress/socialite/personality Kitty Carlisle, the aforementioned Miss Cass and a fourth guest — usually Orson Bean or Bert Convy or Joe Garagiola (who, invariably injected some sort of baseball analogy into his line of questioning). Kitty Carlisle's status as a "celebrity" intrigued me. I had never heard of her, aside from this game show, and I wondered why she dressed in feather boas, sparkly gowns and giant examples of diamond-encrusted jewelry just to determine which of three pretty young ladies was a champion hog caller. It was only later in my life that I spotted her name in the credits of the 1935 Marx Brothers classic A Night at the Opera and I realized she was riding her career on the laurels earned from a single supporting role nearly four decades earlier. She was like To Tell the Truth's answer to Arlene Francis, the authoritatively smug panelist on What's My Line? who saw every Mystery Guest at "last night's cocktail party," except if the Mystery Guest was a member of a minority group. In an effort to try and nail down Arlene Francis's exact talent, I have seen her in two movies and she was very forgettable in both.

However, Miss Carlisle and Miss Francis weren't nearly as irritating as Peggy Cass.

As Agnes

Peggy Cass has a very interesting Wikipedia page and I have read it many times in hopes that it would shed some bit of light on her career and why the "celebrity" label has been applied to her. It states that, although she was a member of her high school drama club, she never had a speaking part in any school production. That honor would have to wait until an early 1940s production of Garson Kanin's Born Yesterday. From there she made her Broadway debut in 1949 in the musical Touch and Go. A few years later, she took home a Tony Award for her portrayal of the hapless "Agnes Gooch" in Auntie Mame, a role she reprised in the film and earned her an Academy Award nomination. (That's right! Peggy Cass was nominated for an Oscar! Not so prestigious anymore... huh?) From there, Peggy made a few TV appearances and another film (a not-so-great sequel to the popular Gidget). She landed her own series, The Hathaways, costarring Jack Warden about a typical suburban family — except their family was a family of chimpanzees. It was around the same time she began exercising her alleged intellect on the first version of To Tell the Truth. According to a questionable sentence in her Wikipedia biography, Peggy "often displayed near-encyclopedic knowledge of various topics, and would occasionally question the logic of some of the 'facts' presented on the program." I don't know who contributed to Peggy Cass's Wikipedia page, but I take fierce umbrage with this statement. After watching Peggy Cass, almost every morning, I have witnessed her regular modus operandi. She is not an intellectual. She does not possess a near-encyclopedic knowledge of various topics. She doesn't even have a firm grasp on the English language. She doesn't shut up long enough to gather her thoughts to form a coherent sentence and then she gets mad if her question is misunderstood.

Peggy and her subjects

I have seen Peggy Cass argue facts in a contestant's "signed affidavit." She askes irrelevant questions, then argues about the answers. In a recent episode, she questioned several young men claiming to be the country's youngest certified plumber. She asked "What's a 'Plumber's Companion'?" before correcting herself and changing her query to "Plumber's Helper." The young recipient of her question misunderstood and replied that a "plumber's helper" was an apprentice. Peggy frowned angrily, and later, when she was revealing her vote, she castigated the poor boy for his answer, explaining that she wanted him to say "plunger." She voted incorrectly in that round. In another segment with a woman claiming to be an expert on bald eagles, Peggy questioned why a live example brought on stage didn't have a lot of tail feathers, as though she was an expert in ornithology as well. She didn't appear too pleased with the contestant's explanation, either. Just today, she was quite dismissive of a contestant's reply when asked about a specific breed of an elephant — as though Peggy had information that the owner of the elephant didn't. Then, she argued with the first female guard at San Quentin prison over whether she thought there should even be female prison guards. She once berated a man who photographed an alleged Bigfoot on the morality of his investigations. Peggy routinely injects her personal opinion into questions, often citing her deep Catholic beliefs or her Boston upbringing — mostly regarding subjects that rarely apply to either of those categories or to the day's contestants. She gives the overall impression that she is too good for the show, the contestants, her fellow panelists, Garry Moore, the studio audience and — well — society in general. 

Peggy Cass didn't make it to the current, network revival of To Tell the Truth hosted by actor Anthony Anderson. She passed away in 1999. However, I will continue to watch To Tell the Truth and I will continue to get frustrated by Peggy Cass... because, I love — six decades later — when she votes incorrectly.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cabbage head

For the past 14 months, we have been ordering and picking up groceries curb-side at our local Walmart on an almost weekly basis.. My "love-hate" relationship with the retail giant is put to the test every single week. Walmart's service and selection are inconsistent — sometimes attentive and vast, other times, lackadaisical and limited. But, their ridiculously low prices are reason enough to continue to put up with the incessant "Walmartness" of the situation.

A few days prior to our scheduled pick-up time, my wife compiles an online shopping list using the handy Walmart phone app. Because we have been eating salads for dinner for the last two years, our weekly order doesn't change much. It includes a number of fresh vegetables and some jarred accouterments (like roasted red peppers and bread & butter pickles), as well as the occasional household item as needed (like lightbulbs or batteries). When our order is ready, my wife guides her car into a designated space in the Walmart parking lot. After identifying herself via the app, an attendant — sometimes masked, sometimes not — opens up the rear hatch of our SUV and loads in the pre-picked and already-bagged items from our order. Wanting to avoid any unnecessary social contact, we wait until we get home to check the accuracy of the order... and, invariably, something is wrong. At least Walmart is consistent in that respect. In various weeks gone by, they have given us four 15 ounce cans of Mandarin oranges to make up for a single 29 ounce can they did not have. (Math is not my forte, but... come on!) Another time, they substituted jalapeno peppers for out-of-stock radishes. Despite their mistakes, our receipts reflect the price of the original items, so we actually come out ahead. And, to a company the size of Walmart, I hardly think they care

Just this week, Walmart continued their streak of getting at least one item wrong, but this time.... well... things had a surprisingly pleasant outcome. 

I'm not sure if the person who brings the bags out to our car is the same person who actually roams the aisles and picks the stuff off the shelves. Whatever the case, this week's picker didn't know the difference between a head of lettuce and a head of cabbage. Apparently, anything large, round, green and leafy qualified as "lettuce." Lucky for us, watermelons or rubber playground balls don't have leaves. When we arrived home, I was confused when I extracted three huge, solid heads of cabbage from a bag... panicking when I discovered that our order did not include lettuce. Making a salad for our dinner would be difficult without lettuce. My wife made a quick phone call to her parents (who live around the corner from us). They were able to spare a slightly brown, slightly hacked-apart partial head of lettuce for our nightly salad until an emergency supermarket trip the next day could replenish our supply.

But, what were we supposed to do with all that cabbage?

Mrs. Pincus is a phenomenal (phenomenal, I tell you!) baker, as testimony from the numerous beneficiaries of our annual "Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party will affirm. But, cooking... well, she will be the first to admit that she does not enjoy actual cooking. Y'know... like meals. As the recipient of over 36 years of my wife's cooking, I will heartily disagree with her assessment of her cooking ability. She may not like cooking, but she is a pretty good cook. Recently, in an effort to inject a little variety into our daily "salad, baked potato and vegetable" dinners, Mrs. Pincus had introduced steamed broccoli, steamed cauliflower (awakening my heretofore unknown affinity for cauliflower) and grilled asparagus. With the recent purchase of an air fryer, experimentation had yielded crispy potatoes — both sweet and white — panko-encrusted mushrooms and eggplant (another previously sworn-off vegetable that I am just now enjoying) and even battered fish filets. But cabbage? What to do with all that cabbage?

After staring at those three giant heads of Brassica oleracea for a good long time, Mrs. P fetched a large pan from our kitchen cabinet. She requested the cooking oil from the pantry and I obliged. Suddenly, she sprang to animated life. With knife in hand and cutting board at the ready, Mrs. P sliced strip after strip of cabbage from one of the heads, her head down, carefully monitoring her precision  and uniformity. Without looking up, she asked for an onion. Assuming my role as the new sous chef, I grabbed a medium-sized onion from a previous order that Walmart had gotten right. Mrs. P moved the pile of shredded cabbage aside and cut up the onion, adding the pieces to the oil simmering in the pan on the stove. To the onion, she added chopped garlic — our newly-discovered flavor enhancer — followed by the cabbage. She topped it all off with some shredded carrots and a sprinkle or two of sesame seeds (previously reserved to line the crust of our homemade pizza). 

"What exactly are you making?," I cautiously asked.

"I'm not sure yet.," Mrs. P replied with a smile. She pulled out a package of DynaSea mock shrimp* that had been defrosting in our refrigerator and released its vacuum seal with a flick of her knife. She dumped the contents of the package — eight pink and plump little "shrimps" — into another pan, where they were now glistening in some sizzling oil and chopped garlic. Then, she switched on a third burner (I didn't even know you could light three at one time!) and got a small pot of quinoa going. Along with the simmering cabbage and the simmering "shrimp," Mrs. Pincus was on fire! "Doesn't enjoy cooking?" Yeah... right!

We began making our standard dinner salads, just like we've been doing every night forever. As I doused mine with dressing, Mrs. P began the "plating" process, as though she was winding down her second round of Chopped and was confidently about to dash the dreams some line cook from the most exclusive restaurant in Pierre, South Dakota. She layered two bowls — first with perfectly cooked quinoa, then the translucent cabbage-onion-carrot-garlic creation. She topped each steaming bowl with four braised "shrimp" and some of the little charred pieces of garlic.

You can't believe how good it was! Well, I'll tell you... it was so good, that two nights later we made some more. And the night after that, Mrs. P started making a variation on a theme. We skipped the fake shrimp and added green peppers. I spiced mine up with a couple of shots of sriracha and soy sauce. Oh my goodness! — I began to have visions of opening up a food truck or selling this stuff from our back porch. I was already devising the "bill of fare" in my head. We could sell this stir-fried cabbage dish and some delicious baked goods.... and maybe my mom's iced tea. I can make that. Depending on what Walmart mistakenly adds to our order next week, some new items could be popping up on our menu.

Hey! When did this become a cooking blog?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*a seafood product made from pollock, shaped and seasoned to resemble shrimp, specially made for those members of society who observe the laws of kashrut [keeping kosher]. I have not eaten actual shrimp in over 40 years, so I can't determine how close they got, but it is pretty tasty.

why's everybody always pickin' on me

People compose yourselves. This is a bris. We are performing a bris here, not a burlesque show. This is not a school play! This is not a baggy pants farce! This is a bris. An ancient, sacred ceremony, symbolizing the covenant between God and Abraham... or something.

— "The Bris" Seinfeld, 1993

Remember that episode of Seinfeld? It was just one of a number of storylines on the long running comedy that poked fun at Jewish tradition. Show creators Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David were not especially observant as Jews growing up in Brooklyn, but they were keenly aware of the many rituals and foibles that "their people" displayed. Anti-Semitism was addressed in the episode where Jerry was labeled an "anti-dentite" based on his attitude towards his dentist. Hitler was hilariously mocked by Elaine's boss Mr. Pitt (as played to deadpan perfection by the late Ian Abercrombie) when he delivered a speech about Poland Springs water. The whole setting of Del Boca Vista, the fictitious, but all-too-real, Florida retirement community where Jerry's parents resided, could only have been imagined by someone with intimate insight into the real thing.

The episode "The Bris," first broadcast in October 1993, was unusual in its subject matter. The self-proclaimed "show about nothing" was actually about something. While Seinfeld sporadically included a smattering of Jewish references throughout its nine-season run, "The Bris" presented a scenario that most non-Jews would never get the opportunity to witness. The segment was replete with terms unfamiliar to most gentiles, like "mohel" and the word "bris" itself. Of course, its main goal was to be funny, but it managed to weave some of the actual parts of the ceremony into the narrative. Series co-star Jason Alexander later lamented that he didn't care for the child-hating aspect of the mohel character, but you gotta do what you can to be funny.

Well, I am very familiar with the liturgy of brit milah (ritual circumcision), having witnessed many, including one that was performed right in my own dining room, (and by "witnessed," I mean "turned away at the crucial moment, along with every other male in the room," with the exception of the mohel... I assume.) Every bris is nearly identical — a lot of explanation to the uninitiated, a lot of chanting and recitation in Hebrew, a certain amount of screaming and crying (some of it even from the baby), followed by the ever-present bagels-and-such spread, which is prevalent at most Jewish home-based ceremonies. Now, in these days of social distancing, a gathering such as a bris is subject to a different set of protocol. Yesterday, my wife and I attended one such bris using the modern miracle of the Zoom meeting. And this one had all the makings of a Seinfeld episode, circa 2021... but not for the reasons you might think.

The rabbi's wife at my brother-in-law's shul (a Yiddish word meaning "synagogue" that Jews like to use to make them feel more like Jews) had a baby last week and, as per tradition, he was to have a circumcision on the eighth day after his birth. A link to join a Zoom bris was sent out to members of his congregation, as well as friends and relatives across the country and those who made a small contribution in honor of the blessed event (that's where we fit in). Mrs. Pincus and I huddled around my computer screen about fifteen minutes prior to the appointed time, just to make sure all systems were working properly. Several other folks had the same idea. Soon little blocks were slowly populating my computer monitor, some with silent faces adjusting camera positions or some just staring blankly at us, waiting for this thing to begin and be over. Everyone's audio was automatically muted, as predetermined by the admin, in this case — the rabbi and new proud father. Mrs. P and I watched in amusement as folks got up from their desks and wandered out of the room. Others squinted, waiting for something to happen, as they ate from a plate placed just out of view of the camera. One little window displayed two curious little girls — one wearing glittery cat ears perched atop her head — peering into the camera as though they were observing some poor fellow who had fallen down a well.

And then Gary appeared.

As proclaimed by his on-screen name, Gary chose to view the upcoming bris via the technology afforded him by his iPad. From the angle in which we saw Gary, his iPad must have been laying flat on a desk or table and he appeared to be hovering above it. Instead of a familiar backdrop of a bookcase or a shelving unit filled with Judaica-heavy knick-knacks, Gary had only a blank ceiling behind him. Every so often, when he would consciously move the unit or accidentally bump the table, and we would catch a glimpse of a clock hanging on the wall. This would appear in the bottom portion of the screen because of the unnatural angle at which the iPad was situated. In addition to a splendid view of Gary's ceiling, we were also treated to a medical examination-quality perspective of Gary's nasal cavity. 

As the time clicked closer to the beginning of the bris, the rabbi popped in to say that the baby's fussing will cause an unavoidable delay. He promised to be back as soon as the "guest of honor" had calmed down. As consolation, those who logged in early were subjected to a lengthy display of Gary picking his nose. Extensively. In full view of the camera and a virtual roomful of eager — now disgusted — "guests." Gary showed no sign of slowing down. He dug and prodded and scratched and drilled. He poked and jabbed and excavated and plowed. I could not overt my eyes. I was rivetted, as though I was driving slowly past a a multi-car pile-up on the Expressway, hoping not to see any carnage, but secretly wishing the opposite. Except I had zero desire to see anything that Gary extracted from his nostrils.

Finally, the actual ceremony began. The rabbi offered a heartfelt "welcome" to all who joined, mentioning select few by name. He introduced the tradition of "the bris" by saying "you all know the story" — then he proceeded to tell the story. His wife briefly entered the frame and waved, then a committee of bearded, tallis-swathed men hijacked the action, chanting quickly in Hebrew and rocking their bodies in complementary rhythm. It didn't matter that the actual act of circumcision was performed off-screen, Gary was otherwise preoccupied

I could not tear myself away from Gary. And Gary could tear himself away from his nose. Gary was diligent, not letting some little bris interrupt him from the task at hand. A few times, Gary's screen upended — probably from an errant bump. For a fleeting moment, his little allotted rectangle resembled a hand-held camera scene from a late-era Friday the 13th sequel with blurred body parts being tossed about in dim lighting. Almost as quick, Gary righted his device and was back to "cleaning house" with nary a breather. Gary stood out among the sea of smiling faces across my monitor. But I could only focus on Gary. Could I be the only one who could see this?

Somewhere along the line, while my attention was, unfortunately, elsewhere, the ceremony ended in a hail of "mazal tov"s. The rabbi and his wife were beaming in their little cube at the center of the screen. Guests were merely gesturing applause since everyone was still muted. The rabbi thanked everyone for their attendance and promptly clicked his "Exit Meeting" button. His square disappeared. Gary stuck around for some further probiscal maintenance. Mrs. Pincus and I did not.

This, too, was not a school play! This, too, was not a baggy pants farce! I'm just not sure it was indeed a bris.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cut the cake

My mother-in-law's birthday was a week or so ago and my wife thought it would be nice to buy her a little cake to celebrate the occasion. Mrs. Pincus happened to be out on a weekly grocery run to pick up staple items for our house as well as for her parents. She found herself a BJ's Wholesale Club, a sprawling nationwide operation that — in these strange times of social distancing — allows for such practice purely because of the vast size of the building. BJ's Wholesale Club is roughly the size of an airplane hangar and, like Costco and Sam's Club (its closest competitors), stocks its items on huge, multilevel shelves in wide aisles. Shoppers have no choice but to keep six feet apart... unless you encounter someone who just needs to grab something off the shelf at which you are standing. Then, they will practically climb into your shoes with you — pandemic or not.

In addition to the multi-aisle displays of flat-screen TVs, fleece pullovers and work pants piled to the ceiling and 10-pound packages of cloves, BJ's Wholesale Club features a bakery right on the premises. Mrs. P scanned the shelves of the open refrigerated case where a variety of birthday cakes were on display, all ready for an on-the-spot celebratory inscription of well-wishes. My wife selected a small blue & white frosted cake, protected from the elements by a small clear plastic dome. She slowly approached an opening in the service counter where she spotted a young man in a paper hat busily squeezing a colorful rope of frosting from an overstuffed piping bag. She held the cake at eyelevel as she walked, carefully turning it in her hands and checking for imperfections in the way the frosting was applied. Satisfied, she was about to hand it over the to the young man at the bakery to inquire about an inscription... when her plans were interrupted.

Or hijacked, as it were.

A man approached the service counter of the bakery, beating Mrs. Pincus by about three steps. Mrs. P instinctively stepped back. The man bellowed in the direction of the young man at the bakery.

MAN: Hey! HEY! You got cakes? Birthday cakes?

BAKERY MAN: Yes sir. Right over here. (He gestures towards the ten-foot long bakery case over which an enormous sign reading BIRTHDAY CAKES hangs.)

MAN: Oh. Right. (He makes no attempt to move towards the bakery case.) Can you write on a cake? Can you do that? Write on a cake? I need a cake with Happy Birthday written on it.

BAKERY MAN: Yes. Would you like to get a cake from the ones over here? (Again, he points to the shelves filled with cakes.)

MAN: Can you write... like... Happy Birthday on it? It's for my son. For his birthday. For his tenth birthday. Can you write something like that on it? Happy Birthday or something?

BAKERY MAN: Sure. Once you pick out a cake, I can write anything you like.

MAN: (Still ignoring the entire display of pre-made birthday cakes): I want Happy Birthday... y'know... for his tenth birthday. Can you do something like that?

(The BAKERY MAN picks up a pen and paper and hands it in the direction of the MAN. He does not accept it.)

BAKERY MAN: Just write down what you'd like it to say on the cake and I will write it... once you pick out a cake.

MAN: Just... y'know... like Happy Birthday.... um... Happy Tenth Birthday. Y'know, something like that. Can you do that? Y'know... like Happy Birthday, like I said?

BAKERY MAN: If you can write down exactly what you want on this paper... and pick out a cake... I can do whatever you'd like.

MAN: Just... um, Happy Birthday... you know. Oh wait.... let me call my wife. She'll tell me what she wants on the cake. She always takes care of this stuff.

The man pulls a cellphone from his pocket and lumbers off in the direction of the grocery section — which is opposite where the birthday cakes are on display.

At this point, a very patient Mrs. Pincus takes the pen and paper and writes out the inscription she would like on her cake. She noticed the young man at the bakery shaking his head.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com