Crappuccino

That's right, crappuccino. The other day I had a crappuccino. (I won't say where.) That's the "cappuccino" you get 99.9 per cent of the time in the United States. It has 2 inches of "foam" thick enough to hold up your spoon like a soldier at attention. I heard someone actually order extra foam. The makers of crappuccino think foam is good. They think it's authentic.They think that's Italian. They think that's the way it's supposed to be.

That's not the way it's supposed to be. That's not Italian.

Okay. So does crappuccino qualify as cosmic relief? No. But cappuccino does.

I've been to Italy enough times not to know how many times I've been to Italy. And every time I return to the States I cannot order a cappuccino (read: crappuccino) for at least six months. The memory of the real thing is too strong. Too wonderful. The taste of the perfect balance between steamed milk and excellent espresso lingers on long enough to launch me into Italian reveries for several minutes of every day. The cobblestone streets, the way-too-bright sun, the Italian voices chattering, the crusty brown buildings, the surprise splash of fountain 'round a corner.

Why is it so hard to get right here? They have the equipment. Those large hunks of machinery sparkle behind the counters here like they do behind the bars over there. Is it the American bigger and better syndrome? More cream, thicker foam, bigger drink? Filling a 16 ounce paper cup! Oiy! Italians would probably spit before it to get the evil eye out of their way.

When you get handed a cup of cappuccino you should be able to see the coffee color within the foam or rather let's call it cream...as in "crema." 

In Rome, they tell you to go to Sant'Eustachio near the Pantheon for coffee. And yes, you should go there. Coffee extraordinaire. But a typical non-celebrated bar in Rome will give you the authentic product, too. When they hand you your cappuccino (which you know should be a breakfast drink, not an after-dinner coffee) you can see the coffee delicately mixed with the cream on top. 

There is a bar in NYC called Macchiato near Grand Central Station. I almost fell down when the barista handed me a cappuccino. It was exactly -- I mean exactly -- like the best of Italy. The top had that beautiful pattern like a coffee and milk feather. I asked him where he learned his barista skills. He said Israel.

So you see, all you crappuccino makers. You don't even have to go to Italy to get it right. It may be learnable anywhere.

And when you do figure it out, you'll give the world outside of Italy some very necessary cosmic relief. Especially me.

Poor Pluto

Today's the anniversary of the discovery of Pluto. As in the planet. As in-- these days -- the planet NOT. The Un-Planet. But back in 1930 Clyde Tombaugh found Pluto in the skies just past Neptune. And suddenly we had Nine Planets in the Solar System.

I remember in the latter days of the 20th century (like the 90's) our great leader explaining in great detail why Pluto is no longer a planet. He didn't mind bursting our bubble. In fact, he seemed to kinda enjoy it. Like saying there's no Tooth Fairy, no Easter Bunny, no Santa Claus (not a Sanity Clause either). 

Before we go into the whys and wherefores you may be wondering just who is our leader? Why it's Neil DeGrasse Tyson, the head of the Hayden Planetarium at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Not only is he a topnotch top-gun astrophysicist he knows how to tell you about what's up there, too. I took two classes from him. One: Space Science: An Introduction. The other: Astrophysics Roundtable. He'd get up on the auditorium stage and pace about as he spoke, writing things on the board, making diagrams, answering questions, all with such happy passion, it made you think that wallowing in the cosmos all day and night was a lot better than grocery shopping and worrying about the latest crimes and scandals on the news. Imagine always looking at the BIG picture.

I actually understood things like kelvins and energy production formulas and nucleons and inverse time and cosmological constants and equations for thermonuclear fusion. I'm not even a science person. But he made it all clear. Until I left the auditorium. Then it became a jumble in my head and rapidly dissolved into anti-matter. But the time in the class was precious. The whole universe sparkled with clarity.

Why is Neil our leader? (All of his students are supposed to call him simply Neil.) Because when the aliens land and inevitably say: "Take me to your leader," this is the guy we should take them to.

So Neil said there ain't no planet called Pluto. He says Pluto has peculiar written all over it. He says it's a leftover comet. It's too small to be a planet. It's made of a lot of ice. Its orbit isn't planetary like the rest of our planetary planets. Its tipped and not really following our solar system rules. Now it's called a Kuiper belt object (talk about a demotion!).

But, it's cute. And it's terribly hard to give up on an old friend. Especially one named for a cartoon character.

I suppose if we accept the rule-players and stick with the nice neat number of 8 planets, we'll have our solar system all tied up prettily in a bow. But for those of you (I'm not necessarily saying me. Remember I was in Our Leader's class) who are more comfortable with letting the marginalized IN, you can call Pluto to dinner when Jup, Sat, Merc, Mars, Ear, Ura, Nep, and Venus come over. You can let Pluto sit by the fire to warm up. Tell him he's not really an object at all. Except an object of your affection.

Secret Code

Did you ever drive down the street and for a second, or a moment, see with your other non-driving attention how wild it is that all these individually driven vehicles are actually not bumping into each other?

Oh, they do. Bump into each other. But for the most part, they don't. Each person behind the wheel has a different, unique personality. Each one has a head filled with different thoughts. Some want to go fast, some want to go slow, some are barely watching the road, others are gripping the wheel with vigilance. Twirling the radio dial, balancing CD changes, fussing with a telephone, spacing out. And yet all the challenges of staying within the "lines," turning corners, accelerating onto highways, passing giant trucks, maneuvering through packed parking lots, parallel parking, we somehow stay out of each other's way.

How do we do it?

It's almost as if underneath the buzz of traffic on the road, we've all made a secret pact to keep our distance, to behave, to slow down when the guy in front of us slows down, to stop when he does, to move over when someone is trying to speed behind us.

Okay. There is road rage. There are accidents. There are people intent on letting their brights glare in your eyes, or try to hook onto your back bumper, and, of course, we're protecting ourselves. But from a bird's eye view we're all a part of that big traffic pattern. We're like those coordinated dancer/marchers that take over a football field at halftime and make designs in the grass. Or like an Esther Williams-like swim team plunging and surfacing in and out of pool water in lovely synchronization.

We should congratulate ourselves.

We didn't even rehearse.

We kinda make up the dance as we go along.

And if we're lucky, we won't find ourselves on the wrong side of the routine. Hopelessly out of rhythm. Discarded by the side of the road for not obeying the time signature. Or even worse. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time when someone else jumps the code.

Driving: a demonstration of free will...on a leash.