It was easier than Barb and I thought

A neighbor posted on our subdivision’s Facebook page that she had found someone to help her cut the cable cord and become a streamer. His fee was three months of the savings she would experience once she left cable bills behind. It appeared to be an Even-Steven proposition.

I have been contemplating making the cable-to-streaming switch for quite a while. Our cable bill is enormous, with little black cable boxes hanging from TVs on all three floors of our house, even the ones we rarely watch. Calls to the provider to ask for a rate reduction have been fruitless. I have fretted and complained, but have done nothing about it.

Until now. I decided the time had come to make the change.

But before contacting my neighbor’s expert, I did my homework. I created a spreadsheet comparing streaming costs to our current cable plan. I peppered ChatGPT with questions. I grilled our kids and their spouses, cord-cutters all, and conducted site visits to inspect their equipment setups. I even used our visit to friends in San Diego to investigate the ease of use of a Roku remote control.

When my research was complete, I made a decision. Yes, I wanted to switch from cable to the YouTubeTV streaming service. And no, I wasn’t going to hire anyone to do it. I was committed to doing it myself!

Barb doubted I could pull it off, but she gave me the OK to give it a try. My first step was to enroll in a free trial subscription with YouTubeTV. I programmed our smart TVs to receive the streams and bought a Roku stick for a set too old to be updated. We also replaced the TV in our kitchen. The new set was barely more expensive than the cost of a Roku would have been for the old one.

For our trial period, I left the cable connected but moved the cable remote controls out of easy reach. We learned how to navigate the YouTubeTV interface and use the proper remote controls. We improved every day and eventually proved that even old dogs can learn new tricks.

After two weeks, I called the cable service and told them I was discontinuing their service immediately. Of course, they were suddenly ready to make us a deal. But I knew it wouldn’t be good enough and told them goodbye.

Today I collected all the cable boxes. I’ll turn them in this week.

Barb said she was proud of me.

And that’s the best deal there is.

My first Social Security deposit felt strange — until it didn’t.

A new electronic deposit appeared in my bank account last week. I knew exactly what it was.

I had waited until the last possible moment, until I crossed the threshold of 70 years of age, before I began collecting Social Security.

When I first saw the payment, I felt an unexpected twinge of guilt, as if I were accepting compensation for work I had not done, for a biopsy I had not read, for a lab test I had not performed.

That feeling quickly gave way to a simpler truth: I had, in fact, earned this money.

I have been paying into the Social Security system since I was 15 years old. I paid in while bagging groceries at the Jewel, while stuffing envelopes at a printing and letter service, while performing autopsies as a pathology resident, and while practicing my profession for more than four decades. With every paycheck, a small portion of my income quietly disappeared into the program.

I am neither an accountant nor an actuary. I have no idea whether I will ultimately come out ahead or behind compared with a world in which those contributions had been invested elsewhere.

Fortunately, Barb’s and my careers have been successful enough that we do not depend on the payments we now receive. They are simply additional resources to spend or save as we choose. Still, I find myself appreciating the shift in perspective. What once felt vaguely uncomfortable now feels entirely appropriate.

I can accept it, finally, with no guilt at all.

How a gluten-free cake transported me to my Austrian grandparents’ apartment.

Barb and I were enjoying a lovely evening at our good friends Lee and Debbie’s Evanston home. We were served delicious dish after dish, with Lee assuring me that each one was gluten-free. Dessert was a loaf cake, made exclusively with almond flour. Not a hint of wheat in sight.

I took one bite, and like Proust with his madeleines, I was immediately transported to my past. The cake had the taste, texture, and raisins of Gugelhupf, the Austrian bundt cake that was the specialty of Mama, my maternal grandmother.

Just like that, I felt myself sitting in my grandparents’ Sherwin Avenue apartment in Rogers Park, sandwiched between the lake and the El. I spent many afternoons there as a young boy in the early 1960s. Mama and Papa’s cat Bobby would lounge in the sun, while Papa sat quietly painting watercolors. Mama bustled about the kitchen preparing for Jause, the afternoon snack time embedded in Austrian culture.

And always there was a freshly baked Gugelhupf, perfectly unmolded from its bundt-shaped pan. A cup of tea followed by slices of the wonderful yellow cake with its golden brown crust and juicy raisins made the perfect 3 o’clock treat.

Mama’s baking days ended when my grandparents moved to an “old-age home” in 1963. My mother inherited the Gugelhupf pan, and though she was a good cook, she couldn’t quite replicate Mama’s technique. Her cakes were good, but not quite perfect. I believe my sister tried her hand at making the cake, too, but also fell short of our grandmother’s specialty. The same can be said for the occasional bakery-bought versions I have tried.

It’s been a long time since I thought about my grandparents. I’m glad Lee’s baking got me thinking about them again. I’ll be sure to reminisce about them every time I enjoy the leftover cake Lee sent home with me.

Maybe I’ll have a piece now. After all, it’s Jause time somewhere!

A Jeopardy memory—and the poet behind it

“In 1950, he won a Tony for best play, and 18 years after his 1965 death, he would go on to win 2 Tonys for a musical.”

That Final Jeopardy answer today brought a big, bright smile to my face. My grin grew even broader when none of the three contestants on this Jeopardy! Invitational episode provided the correct question. None of their guesses were even close.

Why did that particular Jeopardy! Q and A, and the contestants’ failure, bring me so much pleasure? My schadenfreude was well earned. You see, in the late 1980s, I was faced with virtually the same Final Jeopardy answer when I stood across the podium from Alex Trebek on my 1988 Jeopardy! appearance. And I got it right.

Despite that final success, I finished in second place in my Jeopardy! game.

So much has changed since then. Instead of being a young dad, just beginning to find my way in the world of pathology and family life, I am now a happily retired grandfather of four. Alex Trebek has passed away; his duties are now assumed by Jeopardy!’s G.O.A.T, Ken Jennings. We stream the show, rather than watch it live.

And in those long-ago days, Jeopardy! didn’t have Invitational Tournaments or second-chance games. Like the NCAA College Basketball Tournament, contestants were one-and-done. If you lost a game, you were banished from the Kingdom of Jeopardy, forever. That game was my only appearance on national television.

Oh, the right question to that Final Jeopardy answer? It was a lot easier in 1988 than it is in 2026 to remember that the biggest musical of the 1980s, the Hamilton of its era, was Cats. Andrew Lloyd Webber gets most of the accolades for the felonious show, but few people then, and even fewer now, know the lyrics are based on a book of poetry, Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, by T.S. Eliot.

And T.S. Eliot is who those two Tonys went to. Even Trebek was surprised I got it right. But that one came easily—Eliot has always been my favorite poet. I just never knew he would come in so handy.