This Is My Favorite Chocolate Treat. What Is Yours?

Cora Lee Orange Peel fulfills childhood memories.

You can have your Raisinets. You can have your chocolate-covered strawberries, your chocolate-covered cherries, your chocolate-covered Oreos. For me, there is only one delicacy deserving a thorough coating of rich dark chocolate, the orange peel.

I am not sure how I first fell in love with these skinny strips of candied peel, but I know it was very, very early in life. Perhaps my parents first bought them for me as we walked home from lunch at Ashkenaz, the iconic Morse Avenue deli in East Rogers Park. The source was the Dutch Mill Candy Store just down the block. Sadly, once a thriving Chicago area chain of confectionery stores, Dutch Mill closed in 1988.

As I grew I kept seeking out my favorite treat. For many years, Marshall Field’s Department Stores were my go-to supplier. Although best known for Frango Mints, most Marshall Field’s stores had a fully stocked candy counter with a variety of fresh chocolates. I would make many Saturday afternoon visits to the lower level of the Field’s store in Old Orchard to pick up a quarter pound of my favorites. When Field’s became Macy’s, those visits came to an end.

Friends who know my proclivity for orange peels have tried to feed my flame. In that way, I have had the chance to try a variety of candy confectioners and chocolate styles. Some have been OK, none great. Either waxy chocolate or dried-out peels have doomed them. And one definite conclusion–bland milk chocolate is NOT the proper coating for the sugary peels.

Fortunately, several years ago Barb discovered a source that fulfills my fruity fantasy. The orange peels from Cora Lee Candies in Glenview duplicate the taste and texture of my Dutch Mill daydreams.

On my birthday or our anniversary, on Valentine’s or Father’s Day, I can usually expect a loving card and a pound of the Cora Lee sweets to be waiting for me on the kitchen island. I put the card on our buffet, pop the candy box in our freezer and then treat myself to an after-dinner chocolate crunch every night for a month to come.

A pound of Cora Lee Chocolate Coated Orange Peels isn’t cheap, but I guess I’m worth it!

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If All The World’s A Stage, What Are Your Theater Memories?

Taking a few days off from the lab the days before Thanksgiving gave us an extended period to work on our first puzzle of the season. From the three I had recently ordered, I chose “Broadway, The Musicals,” a tapestry of tens (hundreds?) of Broadway shows.

The puzzle wasn’t the most difficult we have tackled, and we were able to free up our kitchen table/puzzle space in plenty of time to have the whole family seated at the table Saturday night for 2nd Thanksgiving (akin to 2nd Seder but without the matzah.)

We ended up missing half a dozen pieces, a shortcoming we attribute to Cooper’s nasty habit of gobbling up any piece hanging over the table edge. Even so, we had a pretty good sense of what show or personality each rectangle was demonstrating.

There were lots of musicals we have seen and enjoyed: a handful on Broadway (Phantom, revivals of Hair and Oklahoma!), a few (Wicked, Les Miserables, A Chorus Line, Blue Man Group) downtown or in the city, too many to count at the Marriott Lincolnshire, and even one (42nd Street) at sea. And in the left lower quadrant I got a reminder to order tickets for The Music Man when it opens on Broadway with Hugh Jackman as Professor Harold Hill.

My favorite–the greatest of all American musicals, My Fair Lady— somehow didn’t make the cut, but maybe someday I will find a loverly puzzle of just Liza, ‘enry ‘iggins, and the rest of the gang. No Hamilton either, making our kitchen the only Lin-Manuel Miranda Free Zone in the Chicago metro area.

So do you see any of your favorites in the puzzle? Leave a comment–think of it as a tribute to Steven Sondheim. Are there some obscure shows highlighted that we might not have recognized? And what are your favorite theater memories? Shows you have seen, shows you have performed in your high school or later days, shows you can’t get enough of? Tell me all about it.

Looking forward to reading your comments on the blog or on Facebook. To quote the Bard:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.
~William Shakespeare

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There Ought to be Clowns. Goodbye Mr. Sondheim.

Stephen Sondheim–Photo courtesy of Chicago Tribune

….well maybe next year.

Stephen Sondheim, A Little Night Music

In memory of Stephen Sondheim the follow is a post from my original WordPress blog “Downsize, Maybe”, my series detailing building our new home. This was originally published in 2015.

With Barb and a friend in New York City this weekend, I had an opportunity to do some multi-tasking. So while watching the 4-0 NU Wildcats squeak out a victory over a very determined Ball Stat team I was was also noodling around with my new (thank you UroPartners) tablet. I downloaded the HBO Go Ap and looked for something to stream.

I scrolled through the HBO Documentary section and came across a 2013 film called “Six by Sondheim.” Those of you who know me well are aware that I am a Broadway Baby, with my list of favorite musicals, organized alphabetically and by decade. We have given spirited renditions of a few Broadway tunes on our baseball buddy trips. But I don’t think you will find much Sondheim on my Must See/Must Sing list. Sondheim doesn’t write many “typical” musicals. He tackles topics such as men who kill Presidents (Assassins, a big flop) and barbers who kill men (Sweeney Todd, a big hit.)

I like the way this doc was put together. It contained almost no new material. Instead, the film makers spliced together bits and pieces of 12 or 15 previous Sondheim television interviews spanning 50 years of his career, taking him from an up and comer to an honored veteran. This was interspersed with new performances of a six of his compositions. The best of these pieces started with a dozen YouTube clips of everyone from Collins (Judy) to Sinatra (Frank) to Streisand (Barbra) singing Send in the Clowns. This segued into an amazing rendition of the song by Audra McDonald. All I can say is that if you don’t know Audra McDonald, you should.

So does any of this have anything to do with our home building project? I guess what learned while watching was the degree of collaboration, the multitude of moving parts, that need to come together for a successful Broadway show. It will be the same for our new house. The architect can write the music, the builder can pen the words, the decorator can be the set designer, and Barb and I can play the leading roles. I can already see Neil Patrick Harris handing us our Tonys….

In closing, we are quickly approaching our 30th post. Don’t you all think it is time for Barb to write one? If you believe Barb should write a post, clap your hands. No wait, I can’t hear you. If you believe Barb should write a post, answer the poll below, or if you are on a site that doesn’t show the poll, send me an email at lesraff@comcast.net. I bet that if we get 50 or more positive responses, I will be able to convince Barb you really want to hear from her.

Thanks!

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All the Time in the World is Just Not Enough

It is the Saturday morning before the week of Thanksgiving. A pre-winter chill is in the air. We have taken the cushions in from the patio chairs, covered the outdoor tables, and stowed the big umbrellas.

The chore completed, we break out the first of a trio of 1000 piece jigsaw puzzles we have bought to work on. Puzzles were something we enjoyed during COVID isolation and putting them together will give us something to do together in the long, dark months ahead. So we will get started today, before Barb’s 11:45 hair salon appointment.

We make nice progress this first morning. We work together on the border, complete except for one edge piece we have not yet located. We then each work in our own styles, Barb putting together a large center area, while I work from the outside in.

At about 11:15, I take a break for lunch. At 11:35, Barb is still hard at work on the puzzle, and I remind her about her salon appointment. “Oh my God,” she says. “Time got away from me!”

“Time got away from me?” That is something I don’t think I have ever said. I don’t think I ever could. I am locked into time.

Time is kept (at least in experimental mice) in the medial entorhinal cortex. It has been about 45 years since I studied neuroanatomy, so I am not exactly sure where that is, but I am positive my medial entorhinal cortex is very well-developed. In fact, it might take up half of my brain.

I cannot get away from time. Without looking at my watch, I can tell you what time it is, pretty close to the exact minute. On any given day, I can sense how long each part of my daily commute is taking me–whether it has taken me ten minutes to get from home to Dempster Avenue milestone or a slacker’s twelve.

Unfortunately, that innate sense of time is not always a good thing. It can be a curse as well. The neurons from my medial entorhinal cortex, besides being my internal clock, also must fire off at my amygdala, the part of the brain that controls fear and anxiety.

It seems that I have allegrophobia, the fear of being late. I know exactly when each meeting, appointment, or interview is scheduled to begin. I time my activities so I will be there on time. On time, no matter what.

If I have had four flat tires on my drive, I still will get to the meeting on time. Of course, the corollary to that is that if I don’t have four flat tires, I will get there two hours early. I have never missed a flight because I was late, but I have wasted lots of time in departure lounges due to arriving at the airport well before any other person would consider rational.

What happens to me if by some strange adversity I am running behind schedule? My stomach clenches and my heart palpitates. Sweat streams down my forehead and my wrist aches from the countless times I have turned it so that I can stare at, and swear at, my watch. Being late just isn’t worth the physical agony.

My daughter shares this malady with me, so perhaps it is genetic. Maybe we just have extra lanes on the Medial Entorhinal Cortex to Amygdala Speedway, with neurotransmitters racing atop them like the Ferrari Hypercar returning to LeMans. There is no slowing down, no getting off.

I would tell your more about it, but I have to be at the neighbors across the street in an hour. It’s best if I start getting ready now…

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Am I A Prostate Guru? Someone Thinks I Am!

As a 12-year-old camper in the summer of 1968, I was my cabin’s nominee for the title of Guru of Camp Chi, 3rd Session. I ran a strong campaign, with a catchy jingle based on “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Sadly I lost in a heated battle with a candidate from another cabin. As was customary way back then, I graciously conceded the election to my opponent, without asking for a vote recount. However, I never returned to Camp Chi.

I haven’t thought about being a Guru in the 53 years since then. People who weren’t alive in the 1960s may ask “What is a guru?” Webster’s has several definitions for the word, including “a personal religious teacher and spiritual guide in Hinduism,” and “a person with knowledge or expertise.” Definitely an honorable thing to be. So I was quite surprised (and quite pleased) to have that appellation given to me the other morning.

Dr. M, one of our more senior urologists had stopped by to introduce his young new associate to the corporate and laboratory team at our facility. I gave the two physicians my standard lab tour, one that I have been giving to new employees of our group for years–a little lab history, a bit of explanation of our lab processes, and some back-patting of our staff. Fifteen minutes of time, and a chance to put a nice shine on the lab’s place in the corporate hierarchy.

As the tour moved from histology to chemistry, from cytology/FISH to our new molecular studies lab, Dr. M became more and more effusive about how excellent the lab was, and how we were the glue that held the group together. I was certainly smiling behind my mask.

And then came Dr. M’s final pronouncement. “Les is the Guru of Chicago prostate pathologists.”

OK, Chicago prostate pathologists are not the biggest set of which to be Guru. The network of Chicago area pathologists who do mostly urologic pathology isn’t enormous. But between all the university medical centers, the giant private hospital systems, and a few big commercial labs in the area, there are a lot of great pathologists and lots of prostate biopsies being analyzed. But yes, I probably see more prostate biopsies than anyone else in the metro areas — 18,000 prostate cases seen under my microscope over the last 15 years would be my best guess.

But I think Dr. M’s comment about “Guruness” was meant as more than just a comment on the number of cases I have seen through the years. I hope he was summing up that along with my associates, I have helped our large urology group provide sterling health care to our patients throughout Chicagoland. That is certainly our goal, and it’s good to know the lab is appreciated.

And after more than 50 years, I am proud to say I am finally a Guru. But I still don’t think I am ever going back to Camp Chi!

The opinions above are those of the author and not necessarily UroPartners LLC.

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My Baker’s Dozen Failed. Can you find my mistake?

Professional baker at work–photo courtesy Chicago Tribune

One of our neighbors has become a post-retirement breadman. His Facebook posts are a stream of luscious loaves and enticing Challahs he has baked. I have enjoyed his creations on several occasions and can attest to their tastiness.

The daughter of another neighbor is a talented pastry chef, soon to open her own bakery. Having sampled some of her desserts, I know it will be the type of place that sells out all its treats on a daily basis.

And there is a good friend who spent the summer developing a sourdough starter, nurturing it like she would a newborn. When we finally sampled her crusty, chewy bread it was like an instant trip to San Francisco. And oh, she makes her own bagels, too.

With those friends and neighbors in mind, I figured this baking thing couldn’t be too hard, right? As a total novice, I wouldn’t want to jump into breadmaking or restaurant-quality pastries but there are always simpler things in life.

The box of steel-cut oatmeal in our cupboard has a recipe for blueberry-oatmeal muffins. Barb has made them a few times and they have great taste and texture. I’ll scarf down a muffin with a cup of tea, and then chew on the paper muffin cup for an extra bit of flavor. I figured that muffins would be a good place to start my baking experience. And we just happened to have all the ingredients on hand.

So I preheated the oven and gathered up all the necessary supplies. Measuring spoons and measuring cups for the dry ingredients: baking soda and baking powder, cinnamon and flour. A big bowl for the single egg, for the milk, and for the vegetable oil. I got this!

And finally the blueberries. A cup worth from the batch we had just bought at Woodman’s Market. Enough for the dozen muffins that I was already drooling over.

It was while mixing it all together that I got the sense that something was a little off. The dry ingredients mixed well enough, and the aroma of cinnamon was appetizing. But adding the liquids produced a much stiffer batter than I had anticipated–clumps instead of a flowing liquid. But I persevered, assuming 18 minutes in a 400-degree oven would transform the cement-like mixture into the muffins I was craving.

I was very, very, wrong. The “muffins” I took out of the oven were the same unappetizing globs I had put into it. “Well,” I thought, “I bet they still taste good.” And then I bit into one…

“Why aren’t these sweet?” I cried. It was then that Barb piped up. “You DID put in sugar, didn’t you?”

Oops–I guess I missed one thing on the ingredient list. And I guess it was an important ingredient at that.

I’m sorry to say my first crack at baking ended up in the garbage. But I haven’t totally given up on the idea of a shimmering, golden loaf of bread someday leaving our oven.

I’m just going to ask a neighbor to be the baker!

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Was I Spreading Fake Addison’s News By Mistake? Possibly.

Cooper, exhausted from all the attention.

It’s right there in the middle of my last post: “As a pathologist, I know you can rarely make a diagnosis based on a single test result.” Yet there I was, writing a widely-read blog describing Cooper’s new diagnosis, a life-changing one of Addison’s disease. While I did mention that other tests were “in the pipeline,” I had already ignored my own advice and jumped to conclusions.

Well, the pipeline has spewed its contents and muddied the water. Our specialty veterinarian has reviewed the additional data and determined that Cooper probably does not have Addison’s, that Coop’s one low cortisol level was the result of normal variation. He is back to the belief that a holistic approach of finding the proper diet and improving Cooper’s intestinal bacteria environment will solve his GI issues.

Am I convinced? Not 100%–I can think of a few Addison’s related conditions that could explain both the original results and the newer ones. But I discussed this with the vet, and he contends that Cooper would be a much sicker pup if any of those situations were in place.

So for now, we will follow the professional vet advice. Instead of cortisol therapy, Cooper will get a prescription diet and probiotics. But we will be watching him closely, always on the alert should any other symptoms develop.

And even this late in my career, I have once more learned the lesson that one test may not say it all. An increased PSA doesn’t mean prostate cancer and a weird cell in urine cytology might not mean bladder cancer. Sometimes you just have to dig deeper. As we learn more about things, our perceptions may change.

I also want to thank all the friends, neighbors, and concerned strangers who offered their thoughts and insights. The world does contain many wonderful people, and so many of them are dog lovers as well. Here’s a big belly rub to all of you!

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Beauty and Disease. With Addison’s Disease, One Call Says It All

The following is a lightly edited transcript of a telephone conversation between Barb and me last week. Or maybe I just imagined it this way…

Barb: How are you?

Me: (huffing and puffing on an elliptical machine at the fitness center) I’m good. What’s up.

Barb: I just wanted to tell you, I picked Cooper up from the vet. And it happened again. The vet tech kept telling me how everyone in the place kept coming up to her and telling saying how handsome and gorgeous he is! I knew you would get a kick out of that!

Me: No surprises. Everyone tells us that. Anything else going on?

Barb: Oh, yeah, I almost forgot to tell you. They did a lab test and say he has no cortisol in his blood. They think he has Addison’s disease.

Me: (phone drop)

First–let’s talk about Beauty. It is a fact. Everyone we meet does let us know how handsome Cooper is, with his deep chocolate coat and the blond highlights around his muzzle And then most people mention his piercing, golden, almost human eyes that give a hint of his playful intelligence. He is a good-looking dude; we know it, he knows it, the whole neighborhood knows it. But Barb and I still are amused by all the confirmation Cooper gets.

Health has been a different matter. The Coop has been a bouncy, happy, pup, filled with energy and mischief. But his gastrointestinal system has never matured with the rest of him. Limited ingredient dog foods, prescription diets, and multiple courses of antibiotics have provided minimal improvement.

As a next step, we scheduled an appointment with a local veterinary specialty clinic. After a 10-week wait, Cooper was seen by the specialty internist. After reviewing the history, he too felt that it would probably be some combination of diet and probiotics that would eventually solve the digestive problems.

“But,” he said, “with your permission, I would like to run a few blood tests, just in case something else is going on here.”

And that brings us to where we are now, with no cortisol, the key steroid hormone from the adrenal gland. As a pathologist, I know you can rarely make a diagnosis based on a single test result and some additional tests are in the pipeline. But I am pretty confident Coop, with his marked cortisol deficiency, does have Addison’s, and now we just have to figure out why.

This is upsetting, but certainly not a tragedy; it should just be a small setback in Cooper’s life. When all the tests are completed we will know how best to treat the condition. With proper care, Cooper should have a long, happy life.

With our help, this Beauty will beat his disease.

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