Many years ago, in the middle of a conversation I was having with someone, she used the word “Doppelgänger.” I burst out laughing. She looked at me like I’d just kicked her puppy.
While I was sure she had made it up, she couldn’t believe I’d never heard the word before. I guess I just wasn’t that cool back then. Like I’m so much cooler now?
Mom, and all of your friends who read my blog (thank you,) if you don’t know what it means, and that’s not a crime, it’s a word used to describe someone who could be your twin.
I have a bad habit of not removing my makeup before going to bed. So, one morning, a few months ago, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and thought to myself, “Oh my God! I look just like Alice Cooper,” not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Photo Courtesy: zimbio.com
Today, before publishing this post, I decided to Google Alice Cooper one more time. I did a double-take when I saw the cover of his new double-album, “Paranormal,” which was just released on July 28th. How paranormal is it that on his double-album he’s his own Doppelgänger?
For nearly 30 years, my attempts to prepare succulent, harmless meals for my family has been a crap shoot. In fact, there have been many shooting craps as a result of my cooking.
I’ve seen the look of terror on the faces of my husband and kids after I’ve informed them I’ve made dinner. When I send a group text to let everyone know dinner will be waiting for them when they come home, the responses are always positive and full of smiley-face emojis. Liars.
No matter how many smiley faces I receive, each member of my family comes home with a bag from a local eatery, such as Chipotle, Real Urban Barbecue, or even McDonald’s, just to be on the safe side. Their standards are low; right where they should be.
I now have a short repertoire of fool-proof dinners I can make that my family likes, but I still hear, “Did you really make this? It’s so good!” Gee, thanks.
I lamented about my culinary ineptitude to my very dear friend, and the extraordinarily talented Cartoonist, Sharon Rosenzweig, who created the cartoon of my family for my website.
Sharon’s talent extends into many facets of her life, especially her cooking. She’s one of the best cooks around. I’m sure she’s never made caca in her kitchen. Well, you know what I mean.
I told Sharon that my first attempt to cook a brisket resulted in a slab of meat so tough, it smote the motor of my brand-new electric knife without leaving so much as a flesh-wound.
The only person who could play the part of “The Brisket” in the movie adaptation of “The Brisket” is Mr. T. “I pity the fool who tries to eat this brisket. He’ll lose more teeth than a hockey player during playoffs.”
I showed Sharon a picture I took which demonstrated the way I recently “cut” a watermelon.
The next picture I presented as evidence of my misadventures in the kitchen was of my “Lunar Cornbread.” I admitted I had used a mix from a box, as if that would magically ensure perfection.
It didn’t. The cornbread came out of the oven looking as though it had been clobbered by an asteroid. I added the green beans before taking a picture of it to illustrate the depth of the crater. (Green beans not included.) Sorry. Old Sears Catalog copywriting habits die hard.
The one thing I can bake that everyone loves is my Vanilla Bean Cheesecake Brûlée. After the cheesecake has cooled in the fridge, I spread a thin layer of sugar on top, and then use a kitchen torch to melt the sugar. Then, I put it back in the fridge for several hours to set, making slicing a breeze! I even purchased a cake-tote so I can bring a cheesecake to a friend’s house, when requested. Yes, it does get requested.
On one such occasion, I hadn’t properly calculated my time (Shocking!) and had to bring the cheesecake, in tote, knowing it wasn’t cold enough to have set. There was no room in the hostess’s refrigerator to let it cool a little longer, so I prayed for some luck at the pot-luck, and set it out amongst the other offerings.
We all chatted for an hour, and then sampled the buffet. I glanced at the plate of the woman standing next to me who was known for her loud voice, and even louder lipstick. What was that clump of slippery custard with shards of what looked like brown glass sticking out of it, encroaching upon her Caesar salad, and broccoli Étouffée?
No!
I slowly backed away from the pack, shoved the last bite of a lemon square in my mouth, and placed my plate in the garbage. As I quickly gathered my coat and purse, I found the hostess, properly thanked her, and told her I needed to go home to feed my dogs. I had to get out of there! I didn’t want to have to claim responsibility for The Pastry Formerly Known as my Vanilla Bean Cheesecake Brûlée! (Sorry. I don’t have a picture of that.)
Just as the screen door began to close behind me, I heard Big Old Lipstick Lips ask, “Who made the flan?”
I lost my last pinch of kitchen confidence after “The Great Exploding Potato Incident of 2013.”
I had forgotten to poke holes in a gaggle of potatoes before setting them in the oven to bake for 45 minutes at 400 degrees.
When the timer rang, I opened the door expecting to find perfect, evenly browned potatoes. Instead, I found potato shrapnel glued to every surface inside the oven.
Oh, the tuberosity!
After admitting every walk of shame I’ve taken from my kitchen, Sharon seemed particularly fascinated by the story of “The Great Exploding Potato Incident of 2013.” As she looked off into the distance, I could almost see the chickens scratching at her brain as she began concocting the cartoon she would draw that’s debuting on my website at the top of this blog post, and beneath the next paragraph, in case you don’t feel like scrolling back up.
Without even laying an eye on a picture of the exploded potatoes, Sharon perfectly captured my bewilderment after “TGEPI of 2013.” She just nailed it.
You would think I didn’t have a good cooking role model growing up, but that’s not the case. My mother has always been a great cook. She made dinners every night we all ate with relish; occasionally ketchup.*
Because my mother’s mother was not a very good cook at all, I could try to make the case that cooking, and other sports, skips a generation.
But, I can’t, because both of my kids are very good cooks.
I guess I’ll keep trying. Dignity is so overrated.
I’ve always loved to dance; just not in front of an audience. My parents were just the opposite. In fact, my father used to tell everyone, “Dancing is my life!
Mom and Dad’s Headshots. My father’s famous quote was, “Dancing is my life!”
My parents performed in as many PTA, ORT, and any other shows they could. They could both tap dance, sing, and act. My father also had the gift of knowing precisely when to ad lib a line in a song, causing the entire cast to crack up during live shows. He was like Tim Conway of “The Carol Burnett Show.”
In one particular show, the director wrote new lyrics to the tune of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Each person in the number would stand up to say their line. My father’s line was, “I’ve got a headache,” but each night, when he stood up to say his line, he’d change it. One night, he sang, “I’ve got cramps,” and another night, he sang, “I’ve got gas.” There was no way for the cast to recover, but it was okay, because the people in the audience were laughing so hard, they wouldn’t have been able to compose themselves to hear the rest of the song, anyway.
As much as my mother loved to perform, she would get extremely nervous before each show. It’s no secret…well, it might have been, but, it won’t be after I spill the beans: she almost always tossed her cookies before going onstage. In fact, before every show, the entire cast waited anxiously for her to run to the bathroom to, let’s just say, “purge her nerves.” If she was successful, the cast knew they’d put on a great show. If she didn’t “belt out a tune” in the bathroom, the cast feared the show might not be as good as it could have been, plus there’d be six more weeks of winter, even in the summer.
Paul Chase (or Carlos Santana?) with AADC members, c. 1975
Literally wanting to follow in my brother, Paul’s, footsteps, I auditioned for, and was invited to join, Indiana University’s African American Dance Company (AADC) in 1981, which was Founded and Directed by Professor Iris Rosa (ProR0) in 1974.
Photo of the AADC copied from the 38-page program when we performed at the Murat Theatre in Indianapolis in 1981.
I loved being a part of the AADC family, but I was never able to shake the sweaty-I’m-not-good-enough-I’m-going-to-faint-I’m-too-fat-feeling I’d always get before taking the stage, even though, for the first and only time in my life, I weighed exactly what my driver’s license said I did.
In the middle of the show at The Murat Theatre in Indianapolis, I decided I was just not going to go onstage during one particular piece. I was one of six dancers in a tap routine. No one would notice I was missing, would they? Normally, no matter how nervous I was, I’d go out, do my thing, and then exit, stage left, or stage right… whichever was closest.
But, this time, I was more nervous than usual because our “costumes” consisted of purple tights, a purple leotard, and tap shoes. Period. Nothing else. I was just one, thin, purple layer of spandex away from being completely naked onstage, except for my tap shoes.
It didn’t help that my boyfriend at the time saw me in all my purple glory, laughed, and said, “You look like a grape!” I dumped him shortly thereafter.
So, the other five dancers took their places onstage as the lights went up, and began tapping away as the music began. Where was I? Hiding in the wings, hoping no one would notice I wasn’t onstage.
Now, when there are only six people in a piece, it’s pretty obvious when one of them is missing; especially when she is the first person listed in the program for that particular dance because her last name begins with a “C.”
ProRo found me cowering in the wings and told me to get my purple butt onstage.
I rolled – – I mean, tapped – – into place onstage, making my entrance look as natural as possible.
Fast forward to 1986.
Besides performing, my mother taught tap at The Carol Walker Dance Studio. My father started as a beginner, and never advanced during Mom’s 25-year tenure, so she referred to him as her “best beginner.”
While Mom was sitting in the office of The Studio before one of her classes began, she received a phone call from the producer of an upcoming Famous Footwear commercial. He called the studio looking for tap dancers who would be willing to work a 12-hour day for next to nothing. Mom told him she would round up dancers, and that we’d be delighted to shoot the commercial.
“We” consisted of some of Mom’s students, Mom, Paul, and me.
Well, I wasn’t exactly “delighted,” but, I realized that if the three of us were in the commercial together, we’d have an opportunity to create a life-long memory.
On the “set” (because I’ve been in one commercial, I know the lingo,) Paul was given a top hat, cane, and tails, and told to “just improvise” some tap movements.
What none of us knew at the time was that the director was shooting, “Honey, I shrunk the Paul.” (See below)
Mom and I brought our own black leotards, tights, tap shoes, and those black wrap-around tunics with little skirts that were popular at the time because they were adorable, and covered up any excess adipose tissue in one’s midsection.When the director said it was time to film the tappers, I realized I hadn’t yet cased the joint for an escape route. That’s when I heard ProRo in my head, much like Yoda, saying, “When a grape life hands you, roll with it you must.*”
Thankfully, the director told us the camera would only be shooting our feet…or so I thought.
After we shot the tap dancing scene, and I thought we were finished, I was handed my wardrobe change for the next part of the commercial.
What? Hey, Mr. Director-man, Sir, Mom only signed me up to tap dance; and, against my will at that! Now you want to put my entire body on camera in just a leotard and tights? No one wants to see that – – especially me – – and, by the by, everyone knows the camera adds at least 10 pounds!
So, there I stood on the set in a very, very, very light gray leotard, an oh-so-flattering elastic band around my waist, a sweatband I had to wrangle around my very-1980’s asymmetrical fro, and a pair of gym shoes.
I was going to be filmed exercising with Paul, who was given an outfit worse than anything Richard Simmons ever wore, and another woman wearing exactly what I was wearing, only taller.
Did I mention that part of the wardrobe was a pair of purple tights? It was grape déjà vu all over again.
It turns out I had nothing to worry about. If you blink, you’ll miss me, so please blink. Also, because the real stars of the commercial were the Famous Footwear shoes, we were blurred out in the background.
As much as I love to dance, I’m very content being a humor writer, which, by the way, is an excellent career choice if you don’t like performing in front of an audience, or earning a living.
Enjoy watching my 30 seconds of fame, because, if I have my way, there will never be a second more.
#AADCLegacyLives
*A fruit salad attempt of an homage to one of the AADC’s most powerful works, “Lemonade Suite.”
I know. I know. If you’re a subscriber to my website, and you really should be, despite this notification, you have already received 5,000 email notifications about new blog posts which are, in reality, old posts. I should not be allowed to operate heavy machinery without supervision.
Thanks, Mom, for letting me know what a dork I am, and laughing about the fact that I said The Chicago Blackhawks Convention begins today and runs through July 17th OF LAST YEAR!
All I wanted to do was edit several blog posts, thinking I would “refresh” them. I did not expect the little Mail Chimp who lives inside my computer to spit a bunch of emails at you.
Surprise!
The good news is that the next post you’ll be notified about will be freshly written. The only problem is that it’s about the Chicago Blackhawks … AGAIN! So, I’m sorry for all the confusion. If you’re confused, imagine how I feel right now!
This is what happened when I cut my own hair the night before picture day.
Thank you for taking this journey with me, and allowing me to learn from my mistakes, knowing I’ll probably make the same ones again in the near future.
