Raise your hand if you still eat cereal. Hold it. I’m not talking about muesli or oatmeal or the granola on top of your yogurt.
Hah. Those are gateway drugs.
I’m talking about the hard stuff- the junk- Sugar Pops, Honey Smacks, Honey Crisp and the biggest thrill ride of them all- and hardest to kick-
Frosted Flakes.
They’re grrrrrreat, all right. And they must be the crack cocaine of the breakfast world. If I eat one small bowl of them, I am instantly taken over by the irresistible impulse to eat the whole box.
High Ho, Sugar!
I have fond memories of cereal. I picture Guy Madiso- tv’s Wild Bill Hickok- gracing a box of Sugar Pops.
And then there was the Olympic pole vault champ Bob Richards on the front of the very first athlete-adorned Wheaties box.***
*** Did any kid actually eat Wheaties? I remember that chewing them was like trying to ingest small bales of hay. Yuck.
And then of course, there were all my favorite childhood morning pals like Rice Crispies, Trix, Cheerios, Kix and even Grandma’s favorite- Raisin Bran.
When I was a kid I never missed Gabby Hayes and his westerns on television. I would sit in a rapt trance until the ending of each episode. Gabby’s kids’ show was brought to you by Quaker Oats and they were “shot from guns.”
I hated loud noises.
I’d always race to shut off the tv set as Gabby whirled the cannon around to face his home audience.
Moving on to the next generation, I fondly remember Nick and Natasha’s favorites: Apple Jacks, Captain Crunch, Cocoa Puffs, Lucky Charms and Fruit Loops.
These days I pass the cereal aisle in Mariano’s without a backward glance. I have whipped my Frosted Flake jones and Tony the Tiger is no longer on my back.
But I have to be honest.
As a card-carrying member of CCA (Cold Cereal Anonymous) I know that I can’t even sample one teaspoon of Rice Crispies. It would lead me straight to the Corn Pops and then on to the Honey Smacks and then soon, I’d been main-lining the Frosted Flakes right there in the store. I don’t need no stinkin’ milk.
The day after Thanksgiving I watched the Barbra Streisand special- “The Music…The Mem’Ries…The Magic!” on Netflix. I am not a big Barbra fan anymore but I was fascinated just the same.
NO SPOILER ALERT: If you haven’t seen it yet, this is a documentary of the concert in Miami on her last tour. It was filled with singing- and eating. I especially liked the part that showed her calling Joe’s personally and asking them to add fried chicken to her après-concert standing stone crab order. Somehow it’s gratifying to know that La Streisand and I share the same passion for their cole slaw.
Back to the show…
Her set list was comprised of the usual suspects: “The Way We Were,” “People,” “Windmills Of My Mind,” “Evergreen.” All the old chestnuts were done and duly received standing ovations. This concert was such a love fest- as I suspect all of her concerts are.
There was an odd, cringe-worthy mutual admiration society with Jamie Foxx an a corny duet of “Climb Every Mountain.” There were some pleas to pay attention to climate change and a tribute to past POTUSes JFK, LBJ, and WJC with her wonderful anthem “Happy Days Are Here Again.”
Her voice isn’t what it used to be but that said, she is still a canny song stylist, a sensitive interpreter of lyrics and a mesmerizing entertainer. She effortlessly holds the audience in the palm of her trademark long-nailed hand.
BS is a legend- and she knows it. And she enjoys it and it’s a gas for us to be able to tag along and enjoy the road show.
SIDEBAR: The guy who enjoys it the most is her husband, James Brolin. To use a Yiddishism, boy did he fall into the schmaltz barrel! You should see him living it up in his role of consort to Barbra’s Jewish Princess.
Okay, we always knew she went for Gentile guys on screen- Robert Redford, Nick Nolte, Kris Kristofferson, Ryan O’Neal. But I’m pretty sure that in this case, Art Imitates Life.
After she became a superstar and ditched hapless Elliot Gould, Barbra must have figured that she deserved some serious eye candy. (I’m not counting that bad boy hair dresser turned Hollywood producer, Jon Peters. He had her under his Svengali spell for a while but she snapped out of it, thank goodness. Who liked the frizz?)
Enter James Brolin. Meh tv star- See Marcus Welby, Md.- and distinguished now, if not by his acting, but his gray hair.
His role on the tour – if not in his marital life- seems to be pretty straight forward. Kiss the dog, shut up, smile pretty and enjoy the key lime pie. And I bet he always know the correct answer to “Honey, does this make me look fat?”
I’m sorry this reads like a pan. I used to be so in love in with her. From the day in 1963 when my mother brought home The Second Barbra Streisand Album, I was a goner.
And then in 1968 the album of Funny Girl came out and it rocked my world.
“I’m the Greatest Star,” “Don’t Rain On My Parade,” “Funny Girl,” – Barbra’s haunting voice spoke to me personally.
And she spoke to me as a role model, as well- Jewish Girl Makes (Very) Good. She was a force of entertainment Nature and she set the bar winning the EGOT and The Peabody Award.
Even though I’m not in love anymore, I’ve got to admit my hat is off to the lady.
She’s one of a very rare kind.
Now take a look at her when we were both just starting out.
Hi, Dear Readers. Hope you all had a very happy Thanksgiving holiday.
And now…
How many of you know what this item is used for?
Do the names “Revell” and “Monogram” mean anything to you?
If these brands bring back smiles, chances are you have fond memories of these:
I never made model cars or airplanes myself as a kid but I have vivid memories of my brother Kenny doing tons of them.
He was crazy about them when he was about this age.
(That’s Kenny and my dad, Ben Roffe, at Camp Ojibwa, circa 1967.)
The date stamp on this picture is no fluke. Model car kits hit the zenith of their popularity in the early ’60’s. Kids were just plain car-crazy back then and if you couldn’t afford a snappy convertible, an awesome monster truck or a cool dragster, you could always build one.
Kenny would wheedle and cajole my dad or mom into a trip to E.J. Korvette’s to feed his habit.
Remember that place?
It was on Dempster- right down the street from where Par King Miniature Golf used to be.
As a teen, I use to patronize Korvette’s myself. It was a really keen place to buy record albums. Remember those?
…Anyway, when he wasn’t at camp or playing baseball, Kenny loved buying those model kits. He’d chose one carefully and then guard it zealously until he could get it back home safely.
STEPFOUR: Hastily break off model pieces from that plastic tree-like thing to which they were attached.
STEP FIVE: Open glue.
STEPSIX: Just go for it! Glue everything in sight on the model where they look as if they might belong
STEP SEVEN: Euphoria! A finished model car or airplane. No feeling like it! (Or was it the glue?…)
STEPEIGHT: Pause for a moment of quizzical despondency because there are three or four left-over parts still on the kitchen table. Where do they go? Are they important?
STEPNINE: Nah. Euphoria again!
STEPTEN: Scheme to get Mom or Dad to drive back to Korvette’s next Saturday.
Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Readers. In honor of the holiday, won’t you join me for a chat? Hope you have a marvelous day and I’ll see you next on Sunday, December 10.
Do you like Yelp? I LOVE Yelp. And I use it for everything.
Sure, I’ve used it to check out restaurants. But I’ve also used it to vet everything from movie theaters to funeral homes.
I really rely on the Yelpers’ unbiased comments, telling photographs and good directions.
I would be lost without it.
Literally.
But sometimes I think that it would be cool if we could check people out on it. You know, like for dating?
Wouldn’t it save a lot of time, energy and heartbreak if we could read candid and accurate reviews of what people are really like so we could make up on minds in advance whether to date them- or marry them?
Well, in that spirit of transparency, I have decided to write a Yelp review of myself.
Explore the menu
Aging ex-brunette, brown eyes, fair sense of humor, good knowledge of trivia. BYOB. This site is alcohol free.
www.letterfromelba.com
Loud. Easy to hear over the roar of the crowd and ambient background noise. Senior-friendly.
Good for groups? No.
Not good for kids
… More Info
Open every day. Extended hours Friday and Saturday. Note these are the peak times. Be sure and get your reservation in at least two weeks in advance.
No Delivery. You will have to go to her.
Will do carry out under rare circumstances. Blizzards, late night cravings for Chinese, pizza and chocolate chip cookies. Check ahead.
Payments
Credit Cards
Apple Pay
Prefers outdoor seating in the summer. Palm Beach, Palm Springs, Scottsdale, St. Bart’s and Aspen in the winter.
Street Parking extremely limited. Get to know the garage guys across the street. $$ helps with the relationship-building.
SPECIALTIES
Following an eleven year hiatus, great news! Ellen Ross has come back on the market again. Well-known for her joie de vivre and brilliant intelligence, she’s a seasoned professional when it comes to dating, matrimony and so much more. She speaks French and Italian, loves music from Verdi to The Weekend and writes the oh-so-amusing blog www.letterfromelba.com
Photos and Videos
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REVIEW HIGHLIGHTS
X-1 5/13/70
I have to be honest here. I can’t write a rave. I’ve known Ellen since she was fourteen and she did NOT get better with age. She’s bossy, demanding and although she has a certain allure, the price tag is definitely not worth it. Very forgettable. Skip this.
PikesvillePrince 12/20/75
I have to give her one star because she was great with the dogs. Not that great with me, though. She hated beautiful Baltimore and complained all the time that she couldn’t get a good burger, pizza or hot dog. Pass this one by.
CEO one month ago
No stars
Who?
MountainMan 6/13/09
While I can’t go nuts here, I can’t complain. I always had a pretty good time with Ellen. Lousy skier, though.
KidRock 9/5/05
Come on! She was old enough to be my mother. I was on meth at the time. Way past her expiration date. Do yourself a favor. Find a hot young chick.
That’s my Scottie, Andy, and yours truly on an old chair lift in Snowmass, Colorado. This pic was my 1996 Christmas card. It was captioned “Every lassie has her laddie.”
I was also the proud owner of Scotties, Kayo Murdoch and Gillis.
(That’s Gillis on the left, Andy in the middle and Murdoch on the right.)
As many of you know, I am bananas about that breed.
I have already written about the joys of being owned by a Scottish Terrier. ICYMI here it is.
And I have a few knickknacks around the house with some Scottie stuff on them. An ashtray Nick got me in Mexico, (?) an old bar pitcher with the logo of Black and White Scotch on it, a tartan purse with some little Scotties on the front, a cool bakelite deco pin.
Fodor Travel Sidebar: Oddly, I never found ANY Scottie stuff in Scotland. Nothing. The best I could do was take photographs of the Greyfriar’s Bobby statue in Edinburgh. (And he was a Skye Terrier so it doesn’t count.)
But given the vast amount of Scottish Terrier stuff out there, I am pretty restrained.
I even know a Scottie-mad couple who have Scottish Terrier toilet paper.
(I do love this licorice, however. And if you want to send me some for Christmas, I would never say no.)
You get the idea.
When I see a Scottie on the street, I turn to mush. I have to pet it.
And I want a Scottie puppy in the worst way- until I recover my senses and realize that my life has no place for a dog at the moment. Put that on the “Things To Do In The Future” list.
A minor- and harmless- obsession I’d say.
So I was in Pittsburgh recently and visited the Carnegie Mellon campus. Pretty neat. All those smart kids working on biodegradable electronics, secret self-driving car projects for Uber and super futuristic robots that can operate on you.
Awesome.
As TBF and I strolled around the campus, my eye was drawn to this sign.
I simply had to go into the book store to see what was up.
And then I saw it.
OMG! A hoodie with a Scottie on it.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was an adorable Scottish Terrier on the front of that sweatshirt. Not a badger or wolverine or lion or a tiger or a bear.
Brrr. The weather has finally turned cold, rainy, windy and bone-chilling. A hint of ugly things to come.
And when it gets cold and wet outside, my thoughts always turn to….
Comfort food.
I find myself daydreaming about the warm, wonderful, soul-satisfying dishes that I enjoyed as a kid.
Sadly, most of these restaurants have taken their rightful place in Restaurant Valhalla but I can still remember and taste- and take solace in- their delicious delights.
Join me now as I take a calorie-free, no guilt trip down food Memory Lane.
Our Cold Comfort tour must start at Winnetka’s own Indian Trail.
Founded in 1933 by the Klingeman family, this was THE place for old-fashioned comfort food. Their rolls and desserts were legendary. Their salad dressings divine.
But for me, the star of the show was their simple, down home American cooking. Cooking that you just can’t find anymore.
Now let’s drive up Green Bay Road about two hours. We’ll turn at an old white house in Kenosha, Wisconsin.
Ray Radigan’s.
That “WONDERFUL FOOD” sign was just truth in advertising.
The relish tray always got you off to a great start and then, true to form, I would always order their terrific turkey dinner.
Author’s Note: Starting to see a pattern here? I could eat Thanksgiving dinner 365 days a year. To me, it’s the ultimate comfort food.
Sadly, Radigan’s too has closed its doors. Eating habits have changed over the years and I guess they didn’t serve enough kale.
Now back in the car and let’s head back to Chicago.
I sure could go for a big bowl of chili and a tamale at Bishop’s.
Bishop’s is still in business, I’m happy to report. Many a time I went there with my dad and we both dug in to steaming bowls of chili mac.
Nothing much has changed- including their prices.
Another place my dad would take me to is gone, however.
Mama Batt’s.
I loved their barbecued beef sandwich. There was nothing “pulled pork” about it but still it was finger-licking good. And Nate Batt- a friend of my Uncle Jack’s- was always there and always good for a kibbitz.
(He also had photographs of himself and hundreds of famous people plastered on the wall by the cash register. This impressed thirteen year old me who had never heard of a trophy wall before.)
Now I want some comfort alla italiana.
Our first stop- the old Armando’s on Rush and Superior. I always ordered this.
Chicken Tetrazzini – chunks of chicken with mushrooms in a cream sauce over fettuccine.
Gosh, it was great. I get all warm inside just thinking about it.
And now let’s head over to the dearly departed Como Inn.
Joe Marchetti’s pride and joy had a pasta bolognese that was dark and rich and huge. And hugely satisfying.
And finally there is an old, old standby favorite in the down-home cooking department.
Chicken pot pie.
I am thrilled to report that I can have a dee-licious one- creamy rich sauce loaded with crisp veggies and fabulously-flavorful chicken chunks- any time I want.
True, at $19.25 their take on my old favorite is pricey. It’s also enormous.
But great news, Dear Readers! They’ve just unveiled a mini version of their brioche-topped masterpiece and it’s only $12. Much easier on the wallet- and the waistline.
It’s my new favorite entree when I need some TLC.
That’s it for now. I’m going off in my mind to search for some really great onion soup.
Author’s Note: This post is about mayhem in the movies. But after the sickening events of last Sunday, I seriously thought about not publishing it now. But then I reconsidered. If not now, when? There will always be another tragic shooting somewhere in the United States as long as lunatics have access to assault rifles.
I like my crime where it belongs- up on the cinema screen. Not in a church, a school, a movie theater, a nightclub or an outdoor concert.
If you agree, please do something about it. And you can start by reading this.
Thank you.
…So a couple of weeks ago, TBF and I saw Wind River. It was ok. Some new-movie territory here- a young girl is found dead on a remote Native American reservation near remote Lander, Wyoming. And some not-so-new territory- an inexperienced young girl rookie (see Clarice Starling) is called in to help local authorities to solve the crime.
Jeremy Renner turns in a solid performance as the local hunter/tracker also determined to find the murderer. And Graham Greene- who I love and have missed since NorthernExposure– always adds wisdom and substance in his role as the local sheriff who needs all the help he can get.
(Sorry about the Weinstein logo, Dear Readers. Bad news. The good news is that I bet this is the last movie on which Harvey will ever have any “name above the title” cred.)
I give Wind River a B. You can wait and see it on Netflix.
But in the meantime, it got me thinking about a genre I love.
The whodunnit.
And today, I want to reminisce about great movie mysteries- and the detectives who try to solve them.
Let’s begin with the movie that began it all for me.
My father turned me on to this when I was a kid. Thanks, Dad. You started me at the top.
That’s Humphrey Bogart, Peter Lorre, Mary Astor and Sydney Greenstreet. And in case you can’t recognize that “stuff that dreams are made of,” Bogie is holding…
TheMalteseFalcon.
This is a perfect movie. Every line of dialogue is so quotable that they have become cliches. The characters are eccentric and the plot a doozy of double dealing and sexual manipulation.
A ton of fun and a film noir masterpiece by a very young John Huston at the same time.
One great Dashiell Hammett story deserves another.
My next pick is a romp in a martini glass. It involves a missing inventor, a very stylish married couple and one adorable fox terrier.
TheThinMan.
Besides the drinking, there is witty repartee, some good plot twists, suave William Powell (Sigh. That voice.) and Myrna Loy in some of the slinkiest evening gowns this side of Jean Harlow.
A triumph.
Bogie in the role of Raymond Chandler’s Los Angeles detective Phillip Marlow makes another appearance on my must-see list. This time he’s giving the third degree to beauteous Lauren Bacall. And brother, she can dish it right back to him.
It’s all in The Big Sleep.
Wow! That’s steamy stuff- even by today’s standards. You can see the sparks flying between these two.
The plot is a mess. (Even Chandler himself was supposed to been baffled by what happened to the chauffeur) but the movie is a great period piece and really worth another gander.
And now let’s leave the noir and come into the wonderful world of technicolor blood red.
But let’s stick with California. It makes such a scenic place for a murder.
Heading back to Sam Spades’s home town of San Francisco, let’s fire up the Mustang and watch Bullitt.
It’s got a cool plot involving the murder of a stashed witness. It also has maybe the sexiest modern day cop and girlfriend pair-ups EVER. Steve McQueen and Jacqueline Bisset.
But the only thing anyone ever remembers is the greatest car chase in cinema history. I would be remiss if I showed you anything else.
And now let’s return to Phillip Marlow’s old hunting ground- Los Angeles.
More specifically…
Chinatown.
For me- much more than L.A Confidential– this is the best homage to the classic detective movies of the 40’s. Screen writer Robert Towne did a brilliant job in his salute to Hollywood’s golden era. And I hate to say this but it was masterfully directed by (ugh) Roman Polanski.
Author’s Note: I know! Two awful predators mentioned in this post. But let’s face it, Dear Readers. From the moment Hollywood began and a starlet slipped into some producer’s office at lunch (think Joan Crawford and Harry Rapf or Sylvia Sydney and B. P. Schulberg) it would be impossible to write a piece about the movies without giving credit to some awful, power-mad asshole. That WAS the Hollywood System. Let’s hope that this is finally the dawn of a new day.
Oh, but here’s another breathe of smog-filled L.A. air. (And this time, the lead actor is one of the good guys.)
Gorgeous, philanthropic blue-eyed devil Paul Newman as Harper.
Here he is with a slightly-older Lauren Bacall. She still looks gorgeous and she still can throw away a line.
Not a nail-biter but it’s a blast to see Julie Harris, Janet Leigh, Robert Wagner and Arthur Hill hamming it up. And the 60’s clothes are groovy.
Talk about groovy. Let’s fly to New York and see a great detective movie that stars a great haircut.
Jane Fonda and Donald Sutherland in Klute.
I loved this movie so much I ran out and copied Bree Daniel’s famous shag. (I did not copy her call girl behavior, however.)
My secretary Effie is knocking at my office door saying something about a fat man. Got to go but before I do, be sure and check out the Pacino Detective Trilogy: Heat, Insomnia, and The Sea ofLove.
(Robert De Niro is no slouch here as Neil, the master criminal.)
Now let me leave you with perhaps the most haunting music from one of the best detective movies ever.
This is a photograph of Harriett G. Ostlund. (Sorry about the blurriness, Dear Readers.) She was born on July 24, 1924 and she died on October 10, 2017.
That made her ninety-three when she passed away. And I did the math required (how much is 2017 – 1924?) thanks to her.
Miss Ostlund was my third grade teacher and I can do a lot of things thanks to her.
Miss Ostlund had spent forty-seven years in the Avoca school district. First as a young teacher fresh out of Northwestern and then as the principal. Imagine that. Forty-seven years at one place.
My principal, Marie Murphy, had hired her. Mrs. Murphy always knew a good thing when she saw one and Miss O. was a good thing.
She was always smiling. She was one of those life-enhancing people who spread warmth and gladness where ever she went.
A very good trait in a teacher of young children- and a teacher of teachers.
My brother Kenny and I spotted her obituary in the Tribune. She had been Kenny’s principal and we both decided to attend her memorial service at the Glenview Community Church the following Sunday.
We were greeted by her family as we walked in. Never married, Miss Ostlund had been the devoted sister, aunt and great aunt to a wonderful group of people and they all turned out to honor her.
We then made our way to a back pew. Soon the church was SRO.
There was a welcome and a hymn.
Then the minister, the Reverend Dr. Pamela Keckler, asked for a show of hands.
“How many here are connected with the Avoca School district?”
Practically the entire church raised their hands.
Wow.
I thought some of the people looked familiar. A woman in the row in front of me turned around and whispered, “I was the school nurse. I remember your brother.”
Dr. Keckler had some wonderful anecdotes about our beloved friend. How she loved music and crosswords and travel. How she made thousands of yummy appetizers and hosted countless family holiday dinners. And how she knitted countless cunning outfits for nieces’ troll dolls.
Author’s SOS: (I think she made me an outfit for something but I can’t exactly remember. Help me out here, Ellen Kander.)
Then it was time for the Twenty-third Psalm, a few selected verses from John and Ephesians, a piano solo by one of Miss O’s fellow congregants and then the Lord’s Prayer.
The minister concluded with a quote from Isaiah.
“For you shall go out in joy, and be lead back in peace;
The mountains and the hills before you shall clap their hands.
Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress;
Instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle;
And it shall be to the Lord for a memorial,
For an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.”
A beautiful send-off for a beautiful spirit.
The woman sitting directly in front of me turned around.
“I know you. I had both your kids in third grade. I am Mrs. Eckstrand.”
So she did. I caught her up with her former pupils’ doings- Natasha became a first grade teacher herself- and together we marveled on how one person touched so many lives.
You’ll notice, Dear Readers, there is no photograph at the top of today’s blog post.
Well, thereby hangs a tale…
I am back from a trip west to to meet my new grandson, Hendrix Benjamin Roffe.
He was born in Seattle on September 9 to my son Nick and his wife Missy.
As his arrival was a last minute C section, I thought I’d wait a month until everyone was well on the road to post natal recovery.
So on October 15 I flew to Seattle to meet the new arrival.
Hendrix was awesome.
He has a wonderful disposition. He didn’t scream or howl and he cried only when necessary.
(Which is a very good thing because when he cried, I cried too.)
Thanks, Hendrix.
Hendrix has my nose and Nick’s perfectly beautiful rosebud mouth and slightly cleft chin. He also inherited Nick’s long hands and feet- courtesy of Bill- no slouch in the looks department, honesty compels me to say.
And Hendrix is going to be tall. (Another Ross trait.)
But from the cheeks up, he is Missy. Chubby cheeks and good cheekbones, charmingly-shaped eyes and eye brows and glory hallelujah…
Thick, dark HAIR!
(Something I’ve never seen on any of my children before.)
Thank you, Missy.
Many of you have already sent your congratulations. Thanks for all your good wishes. They mean a lot to me- and to the new family.
But some of you have actually requested that I post photographs and this I can not do.
My son Nick will not allow Hendrix to appear on Facebook, the blog or on the Internet in any fashion.
He has forbidden it.
Nick is in tech, and when I asked him for a good reason for the ban he replied, “I’m his father and I control his image. And besides, I don’t have to give any reason.”
Ok.
(I am allowed to privately email pix to people I know but I still don’t think it’s quite fair.)
Nick’s paranoia is driving me nuts.
I can only hope, that one day, I can throw myself on the mercy of the court and Hanging Judge Roy Bean will relent.
In the meantime, I take great satisfaction in the certain knowledge that Hendrix will someday- and soon…
