ABOUT JOE: Joe “Kirsch” Curcio, native and current resident of Greenpoint Brooklyn New York spent 45 years in broadcasting and entertainment for ABC Radio/TV and National Public Radio. Retired, Assistant Director of Engineering. He has been called the Garrison Keillor of the East River. The New York Daily News referred to him as the thumbs and fingers erecting the virtual borough of Kings...
....more here...

These are his stories unedited and as written by Joe. The published versions are available in links within each story. All graphics are "click to enlarge".

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FIT AS A FIDDLE:
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

BROOKLYN, NY - A disgruntled, anonymous patient from Brooklyn, New York, identifying himself only as “Firpo,” has issued a formal rebuttal challenging his primary care physician’s assessment of his health, fitness, and lifestyle choices.  

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Dear Dr. Coburn:

I’ve reviewed your comments from our recent office visit and, while I appreciate your concern, regarding my weight gain and its alleged “impact” on my lab results, I feel it is important to reframe these findings within their proper context.

First, I’d like to point out that the 27-pound addition to my body mass represents merely a nine-percent increase over my previous weight of 299 pounds. Percentage-wise, this remains firmly within the single digits and should therefore be considered negligible.

As for the impact of the increased weight on my lab work - specifically my 10.2 A1C level - need I remind you that glucose is the main source of energy for the body's cells. It is plant based derived from organic sources like sugarcane and sugar beets, and thus, technically speaking, sugar is a natural and necessary component of a healthy diet. Additionally, as you are undoubtedly aware, the A1C test reflects average blood glucose levels over the previous two to three months, rendering this data no longer current - therefore no longer pertinent!

Your office notes further describe my overall condition and recent fall as "a red flag for physiological changes, peripheral neuropathy, fragility, and underlying medical conditions exacerbated by a sedentary lifestyle".

To the contrary, with regard to lifestyle, at sixty-five years old, my post-retirement career in competitive eating and frequent travel keeps me both physically active and socially relevant. Case in point my recent participation in the "Twelve-egg-and-meat Omelet Challenge" at the renowned Moose McGillycuddy's pub in Honolulu, where in my honor - following a crushing victory - I was treated to a "shots and beer funnel," celebration. The commemoration was also attended by nearly twenty residents from a nearby convalescent home, further reinforcing my continued engagement in maintaining an active lifestyle and social relevance. As for your claim of peripheral neuropathy, I would argue that the dexterity, upper-body strength, and endurance required to hold a sixteen-ounce, liquid-filled funnel up above one's head strongly contradicts such a diagnosis.

As for the so-called “red flag” concerning my physical vulnerabilities, it is evident that you have jumped to conclusions without a full understanding of the circumstances surrounding my recent fall and broken rib incident. In reality this minor mishap was directly related to my use of the latest in cutting-edge medical technology - all prescribed by you.

While bending down to pull up my compression socks, I accidentally dropped my rescue inhaler. When I went to retrieve it, my carpal-tunnel hand brace became entangled with the CPAP hose, causing me to pitch forward into my oxygen cylinder rack. This was not a fall so much as an unfortunate convergence of modern medical accessories.

Furthermore, since I also struck my head against my mobility scooter - that resulted in neither a fracture nor a concussion - I believe this further serves as additional clinical evidence contradicting any claims of fragility. In fact, if I had not been so diligent about simultaneously managing my entirely routine multiple conditions - COPD, edema, carpal tunnel, diabetic neuropathy, etc.- the incident would never have occurred.

 Finally, I would like to note that aside from some intermittent bowel irregularity, dizziness, sporadic chest pain attributed to my active lifestyle, and increased overnight urination frequency - which I manage by reducing hydration - I believe that I’m as fit as a fiddle.

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AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT:
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

I’m still that young Brooklyn Italian kid, born in 1960 who, for as long as I can remember cherished everything about this night - Christmas Eve. The scent of the Seven fishes and garlic frying in my mama's Italian kitchen...

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Here I am once again on a cold winter's day, snuggled up to a small glass of brandy and a Dr. Seuss book preparing to follow in the footsteps of my uncles before me as the holiday traveler. Fortunately, the journey will take me all but a mile away to the home where I grew up in my small town of Greenpoint Brooklyn, New York, USA – to my mama and papa's house.

In spirit, I’m still that young Brooklyn Italian kid, born in 1960 who, for as long as I can remember cherished everything about this night - Christmas Eve. The scent of the Seven fishes and garlic frying in my mama's Italian kitchen. The fragrance of a new shower curtain hanging in the bathroom. The glimmering waxed linoleum floors throughout our railroad rooms - the same floors we'd sprinkle with baby powder and in our mother’s stockings, glide across as if skating on ice. And, of course, there’s the unmistakable aroma of freshly painted walls, also a tradition especially reserved by my mama for my papa as we neared the holidays.

The youngest son of three siblings who heard his Italian father say that you couldn't give him a “million bucks” for one bite of meat on Christmas Eve. I still believe if anyone ever approached him with a suitcase filled with money, and a dish of Brooklyn’s famous Peter Luger steak, that my father, in his own kind Italian way, would say “no thanka you”, on Christmas Eve.
 

Confusion and commotion were as much a part of this neighborhood Italian family’s Christmas Eve as the salted cod baccala salad chilling in the refrigerator.

The snipped edges of Christmas wrappings and the papery sheath of garlic cloves mingling together in a colorful scene of merry debris on our kitchen table as mama and papa prepared for our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. My sister sitting in the parlor tying the final bows on her gifts and making change for her money envelopes glancing nervously at the Christmas tree - saying "don't turn the television on - it's too close to the tree". Although this artificial bush was completely fireproof and probably tested with a blow torch by Underwriters Laboratory, “sis” still worried that the broadcast of the Yule log just might set it ablaze.

Then my aunt would arrive huffing and puffing from her long trip down the stairs from the second floor of our 2-family house. In 1967 families still lived together or at least nearby. The Italians were no different, but it did pose somewhat more of a challenge trying to figure out which Michael or Anthony was being called in from the top-floor window for dinner. But like clockwork, no sooner than she arrived, the annual debate would begin between her and my mother as to the precise date when Aunt Concetta passed away – although Aunt Concetta was long dead for more than 50 years. This was followed by the quibble over whether or not the seafood sauce was too spicy for her diverticulitis. All of this always ended with my father pointing out that there was plenty of Brioschi in the medicine cabinet and a reminder that in this house it’s gravy, not sauce!

Each year was a wonderful encore of food, family, festivities, and light quarrel - but always ending with a delightful reprise of heartfelt family tradition.

Now as I walk down my old street, a grown and married Brooklyn guy I am once again prepared to do what I have done for the past 60-odd years on this night - Christmas eve.

Bethlehem, and Scrooges’ old London flat may have been as far off from these Brooklyn streets as any other place in the world - yet pieces of each of their wonder came alive in our little town of Greenpoint.

Old lady Molly had a Christmas tree in front of her painted red brick house down the block. It was the centerpiece on Beadel Street standing two stories tall and in full Christmas bloom. It’s limbs yielding bags of glass balls, golden music staffs, and yards of garland and sparkling tinsel whose twinkle could be seen from as far off as the Brooklyn-Queens expressway. One past Christmas Eve Old Molly herself lifted the blinds to take a peek out of her window. Then as she wiped the frost from the pane her timeworn friendly face even appeared to look like an imported Italian holiday ornament as she emerged in the center of the cleared frost.

Across the street on Toms window ledge, speakers like sonic portals dressed in cotton balls filled the air with a silly, clumsy, merry sound of Christmas that only Good ole’ Tom or perhaps Homer Simpson could provide. Long before iPods and playlists he somehow always knew the perfect moment to switch to the Perry Como music.

Then with the expectation of the arrival of pudding on the Cratchits dinner table – actually more like a pageantry of neon in Las Vegas – Ray’s home comes into view. Consolidated Edison the regional power company, and probably Thomas Edison himself from the grave smiling at this perfect spectacle of illuminated excess.

His house was decorated with one hundred, or perhaps one thousand lights too many. A surplus of twinkles, and sparkles, fleeting reflections of light flashing like diamonds and glitter. The Star of Bethlehem and the lights of London there for all to see in Ray’s front gate in our little town of Greenpoint USA.

Right next store, up the 3 steps of the stoop was my mama and papa's house. I could already smell the garlic frying from outside! Through the front doors and into the kitchen where more preparations for the great Christmas Eve feast continued. Mama shelling the shrimp, cleaning the calamari, breading the fillet and praising the size of the scallops. The rest of the world may have called these delicacies crustaceans – but on this special night the scallops, shrimp, calamari, and clams magically transposed into the sumptuous participants in the feast of the Seven Fishes. It's one of the smaller miracles that occurred on this night, Christmas Eve.

Papa opening the anchovies; prepping the spaghetti aglio e oilo frying garlic slices in olive oil to a perfect golden brown. Grinding the hot peppers that had been stitched on string and hanging in the kitchen to dry since Thanksgiving. Saving them to make the crushed, spicy pepper flakes of his special version of peperoncino to sprinkle across the al dente pasta. He softened the hard friselle bread biscuits in water – soon to be covered with his seafood sauce, served along side the shrimp and calamari. Papa's white gravy-stained T-shirt displaying the labor of his day.

Soon it would be time to drain the macaroni’s in what most called a colander, but forever known in my house as a scolapasta (pasta strainer). Finally the table would be set, as always with one accidentally placed dish too many. And Mama would say "leave it there for the souls".

When the feast was over, and the table cleared, Papa would offer coffee by asking "who's having black, and who's having brown". The difference being a choice between black, espresso coffee made in a mog-uh-nett - a steam pressure moka pot (macchinetta) - with a little anisette and a twisted lemon peel or brown, American coffee brewed in an old-fashioned stovetop percolator.

Then after the gifts and the great Christmas Eve feast, families strolled through the streets of Greenpoint. All familiar names and faces. “Merry Christmas Sal." “Merry Christmas Lina." “Merry Christmas Sam." Bellies full, smiling their way past old Molly’s tree on their way to church for midnight mass.

Midnight Mass at St. Cecilia’s was a solemn gathering yet as festive as old Fezziwig's Ball. A place to see and to be seen sporting a new Christmas coat and hat. School Carolers making their intentions clear: It was Christmas Eve in Greenpoint, and they sang to summon its merry. The heavenly voices of a full Christmas choir. Christmas music - music that reminded us of those who would not be home for Christmas like my older brother in Vietnam, and those who used to be. But especially for those who are thankfully here to join hearts and hands to celebrate alongside us tonight.

I now place down my empty glass of brandy and smile at the picture of The Grinch as “he himself carved the roast beast” – obviously not Italian since he was eating meat on Christmas Eve. Myself "with ribbons, and tags, and packages, boxes and bags" in hand as I prepared for my short drive under the festive lights and holly hung high above the main roads of Greenpoint. Noticing that some things have changed as many things do. But I do believe that one thing does remain the same:

"Christmas is a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seen by one consent to open their shut up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys". (Charles Dickens)

“Merry Christmas Sal.” “Merry Christmas Lina.” – and Merry Christmas to you and all in our little town of Greenpoint Brooklyn New York USA."

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As published in Good Old Days Magazine


 

 

 

 

THE VALENTINE'S DAY VACCINATION:
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

She had thick glasses, freckles, and braces too. Not the prettiest girl in the class but her kooky, off-beat smile gave her a whimsical charm that was secretly irresistible - and 50-years later she saved my life.

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Most people can't imagine anywhere in New York City as being a small town. But I can tell you with heartfelt conviction that my little town of GreenpointWilliamsburg in the borough of Brooklyn New York was once a place where you were just minutes away from the spot where you had your very first kiss and just up the road from the church where one day you'd marry that very same gal.

Susan was almost a cliche of an Irish Catholic schoolgirl. She had thick glasses, freckles, and yes braces too. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in the class but her kooky, oƯ-beat smile gave her a whimsical charm that was secretly irresistible. I say secretly because as we’re all aware no neighborhood Italian boy worth his weight in Sunday meatballs and Pixy Stix powder could ever admit to being smitten by messy-haired Susan Farcley! After all, we were much too worldly by then.

By 1970 we had already seen a man walk on the moon; we witnessed as world leaders were assassinated and read our older brothers homesick letters sent from across the world in Viet Nam. As for matters of the heart we learned the anatomy of a crush from Greg and Marsha Brady, and pretty much everything else was covered by ABC's Love American Style. However, there was one thing that had yet to be explored – how to find your Valentine? – and Sister Margaret Miriam was about to remedy that with her version of a Valentines Day Kris Kringle. Before I knew it right after morning prayers and the pledge of allegiance my crisp white school shirt was elbow deep inside of a long red sock revealing my Valentine – Oh my goodness! It’s Susan Farcley! ... to coin a phrase of the time – Good grief!

The very next day my mom took me to the neighborhood variety store, Ben & Franks where we usually got everything from oak tag poster board for school projects to boxed costumes for Halloween, and mass cards for the neighborhood wakes. But this time it was for a red sequin heart, filled with Brach's Valentine candy and a gift set of Jean Nate' perfume. Hey, I would have been fine giving my Valentine a few strips of paper-backed candy buttons and maybe some of those Pixy Stix, but my mother insisted on the body splash and perfume gift set. Although I did draw the line at that stupid Scooby-Doo cupid greeting card.

That night at the Valentine's dance with my heart racing and thankful that there was no mistletoe type kissing ceremony associated with this exchange I approached Susan from behind. Then with a quick stealth tap to the shoulder and a muttered greeting I handed over the frilly red bag - and quickly got the hell outta there! But just short of my retreat I noticed something that I'd never seen before on the face of a girl. It was a kind of glow, a radiance, a warm slow-motion sort of a sparkling mirror-ball moment. She was suddenly stunning or maybe just stunned - Now I really hadda get the hell outta there!

Soon after being stricken by all of this unexplained luminescence and completely confused, I couldn't tell if I was unintentionally avoiding Susan or intentionally avoiding her in order to unintentionally walk past her to avoid her. Huh? Oh boy! Then, in a sudden moment of mercy, either for her or for myself, as she sat alone in the corner and as the band played on I walked over and asked her if she wanted to dance.

A few days later Sister Margaret decided to put up a slide show of the photos she had taken at the dance. Suddenly there I was in living color. Projected six feet across the blackboard in a full-blown boogie-on-down with Susan Farcley ! Our arms flaring, our upper teeth clamped like gophers in an overbite across our lower lip. Forever captured in a stop motion moment that would leave me wide open and vulnerable for every future taunt and tease and rank out session for the rest of the school year and most likely the rest of my life!

In the midst of all of the laughter I can recall regretting ever asking Susan to dance; ever handing her that stupid heart! Even disgusted by the scent of the perfume I had given her. This was pure and painful, adolescent humiliation - for both of us. I thought that the jeering of that day would never end -- but then like a glimpse, in a flash it did end. It was over—and it was suddenly fifty odd years later.

Decades past Watergate, Pac-Man, and AIDS and market crashes and Oklahoma City; beyond Monica, Microsoft and the falling of the towers and the walls. Suddenly it was shelter-in-place, quarantine, face masks, and social distancing. The world had plunged into the grips of the great pandemic of 2020.

I'll admit that those fifty odd years were somewhat hard and evident on my health, and I was the poster child and top of the heap of those prioritized to need the vaccination. But with over 100 million cases being reported around the world no matter how hard I tried and to wherever I turned from physicians to social media the vaccine shortage was prevalent, and I could not get an appointment anywhere. Then suddenly I got a message on Facebook:

                                    

"Dear Joe. I hope you're doing well. It's been a long time. I saw your post on Facebook about not being able to find a place to get vaccinated. I hope it's OK and you don't mind but I was able to go online and make an appointment for you for next week not far from your house in Brooklyn. Take care and good luck, Susan Farcley".

Oh my goodness! It’s Susan Farcley! – I recalled using that phrase before on the subject of Susan. It had been over fifty years since I said it as I pulled her name out of that long red sock. Fifty years since our dance together. I was overwhelmed and truly touched by her message.

I will admit now that handing that frilly red bag of candy to Susan that night did get my young heart pumping. I suppose if things had worked out diƯerently these many years later that sharing sweets with her would probably now send my A1C soaring as well. But we never did have that very first Brooklyn kiss or end up together up the road from the church where most of our old friends had long been married. Susan did tell me that I was the first boy to ever give her a valentine – of course I never did admit that she was my first valentine too. I did tell her how grateful I was to her for the way she had reached out to help me, and we did get at least to share a hug. We occasionally chatted online and exchanged holiday cards for a while, but gradually we lost touch again not long after.

As I reflect on those wonderfully confusing days of youth I now wonder if I had to come up with a clever title for a story that would follow suit with that network romance sitcom “Love American Style”, I think that I’d most definitely call my episode: "Love and the Valentine's Day vaccination"

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As published in Good Old Days Magazine

 

 

 

How I Know My Mother Went To Heaven:
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

People can’t imagine anywhere in New York City being a small town. But my little village of Greenpoint Brooklyn was once a place where you were minutes from your first kiss - and up the road from the church where you'd someday marry that same gal.

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Most people can't imagine anywhere in New York City as being a small town. But I can tell you with heartfelt conviction that my little town of GreenpointWilliamsburg in the borough of Brooklyn New York was once a place where you were just minutes away from the spot where you had your very first kiss and just up the road from the church where one day you'd marry that very same gal.

A quiet corner of the city, its modest skyline dotted with church towers - Lutheran, Russian Orthodox, Roman Catholic - all within walking distance of our homes.

My mother's parish was St. Francis of Paola, built by the Dutch and known as "the Church on the Hill." In 1923 the original structure was replaced. My mother was born the following year and baptized there in 1924. More than ninety years later, her loving spirit was welcomed back into heaven from that same church - her entire life within the footprint where she was born and raised.

I admired her devotion - her novenas from the couch; vigils to Saint Jude; treks from Brooklyn to the Bronx - Our Lady of Lourdes Grotto where she'd return with holy water to share with ailing neighbors. She even donated a statue of Padre Pio to a local parish. Her faith ran deep.That night at the Valentine's dance with my heart racing and thankful that there was no mistletoe type kissing ceremony associated with this exchange I approached Susan from behind. Then with a quick stealth tap to the shoulder and a muttered greeting I handed over the frilly red bag - and quickly got the hell outta there! But just short of my retreat I noticed something that I'd never seen before on the face of a girl. It was a kind of glow, a radiance, a warm slow-motion sort of a sparkling mirror-ball moment. She was suddenly stunning or maybe just stunned - Now I really hadda get the hell outta there!

In 2012 that faith was tested. My father - her soulmate over sixty years - was taken. Three months later, her firstborn son passed, my older brother, at sixty-four. Losing a husband is one heartbreak, but losing a child violates the natural order of life.

Her faith never wavered, and I can think of no better way to explain her devotion than one Sunday morning

After mass I picked up coffee and Italian pastry and headed to her house. She loved our Sunday visits and looked forward to the treats. Although her Dunkin’ decaf was never really a surprise, she always acted as if it were. When I handed her the red-and-white twine-tied cake box, her smile told me she already knew what was inside: her favorite sfogliatella - a flaky, sweet, ricotta-filled pastry known in the neighborhood as sfoo-yadell.

I could also smell the garlic frying in the kitchen. In our Italian family, it didn’t matter if it was a holiday or just another Sunday - there were always meatballs sizzling in the pan after mass. Then came her big smile and that hug that squeezed my shoulders and warmed my soul.

As I traded her embrace for a piece of Italian bread cradling a meatball straight from the pan, I noticed a glow about her. Her face radiant, the scent of Jean Naté and faint sweetness of her violet gum surrounded her. This woman who had endured such loss now seemed… at peace.

I held her hands and said, “Mamma, you look so nice. Your face is glowing.”

A whisper of a smile crossed her as she tilted her head and bashfully replied: “I went to confession last night.”

In that moment, I totally understood her peace, her faith, her relationship with God.

Without a doubt in her heart she knew why she was so vibrant that morning - because she went to church and made her confession. It wasn’t a ritual. It was renewal - a reminder that God’s unconditional love could restore whatever life had taken away and rekindle the light inside her.

I still walk these Brooklyn streets less than a mile from that "Church on the Hill." Some mornings I feel the glow of her faith shining through me - or catch a trace of her violet gum drifting in the air. In those moments - when I can feel her soul—I know without doubt that my mother went to heaven.

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EATIN' SEASON:
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

It starts in October with a few sticky finger secrets - and lasts well into March where you have the gall to put on a sweat suit...it's The Eatin' Season 

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As you may or may not have noticed, Halloween is the official kickoff of the eatin' season!

Usually, the opening ceremony has something to do with a large orange plastic Rite Aid pumpkin partially filled with previous year remnants of colorful sweet-tart smarties penny-candy treats. There’s also a few of those hermetically sealed packs of cheap Larry Taffy leftover from last Halloween.

Finding them quickly leads to the artful mastering, and indignity of the stealth unraveling of gooey wrappers from the remainder of those very same Laffy Taffy candies - where eventually sometime in November your sticky-fingered secret is discovered as your better half attempts to peel the dried sugar debris wrappings of Mary Janes from the inside of your DXL pocket T's.

The unrelenting eatin’ season then continues through the family-induced carb and pie days of Thanksgiving - and just as you notice that there are Christmas carolers gathering under your window singing the Wo-oh-oh-Ozempic song, along comes the assorted onion dip, empanadas, tapas and bad cheese platters of the office holiday parties.

By January, from the side you start to look like Alfred Hitchcock; and by February just after the Russell Stover creams, caramels, truffles, and molasses chews of Valentine's Day candy, people are making references to the classic television program F-Troop, pointing to you and saying "IT IS BAA-LOON"!

By March you're moving your belly out of the way to urinate. Then, finally in April you have the gall to put on a baby blue jogging outfit and a Just Do it T-shirt – oh yeah, you sure did it OK - JUST check the scale!

…and there my Willy Wonka friends I give you the eatin' season.

So, before we go and take one gulp of that early holiday supermarket eggnog or have a single bowl of those special General Mills boxes of Boo-Berry and Count Chocula, let’s keep in mind that today is a brand new day. It is possible, if we resist the temptation, we'll be able to actually see our lap by New Years eve -- a potentially monumental moment, especially since most of us haven't even HAD a lap since the Halloween days gone by of Freddy, Jason, Chucky, and Michael Myers.

Enjoy the holidays and remember they are the holi-days - not the holi-months.

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As published by Tops

 

 

 

HERZOGS FOR THE HUSKY:
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

I was hoping that this new place didn't carry any holiday suits in brown or dark blue,but once Izzy the tailor approached with his tape measure and marking soap I knew that it was just another kidware place for the husky boys who were destined for bench warming and triple-tied shoelaces. 

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Every year before the holidays my father would take me for a new suit to Herzog's clothing store on the south side of Williamsburg Brooklyn New York. They specialized in husky kid-wear for us unique boys and girls who were destined to a future of bench warming, untied shoelaces and perhaps someday who would even grace the cover of the Quest Diagnostics holiday calendar – “God fa-bit” as my Brooklyn-Italian mother would say as she made the sign of the cross if she was still around to read this.

It was the early 70's and even though all of the other kids were wearing red and yellow blazers and avocado-colored shirts with cool platform footwear, I'd inevitably end up with a turkey leg stain on the pants of a very – dark – blue – suit. Once again, I'd most likely be sporting an eventually food stained plain white shirt and wearing those shiny black casket shoes that you’d usually see on the deceased at a wake.

Apparently, us unique kids didn't wear bright rainbow colors and evidently were more likely than the skinny kids to topple over in 4" cork wedge soles - so casket shoes it was.

One year my father decided to take me on the subway from Brooklyn to “New York” - known by everyone else, other than my father, as the borough of Manhattan. But I guess to my father “Brook-uh-leen” was a city in itself and crossing the river using the BMT subway (the Brooklyn– Manhattan Transit Corporation) is what took us to the Robert Hall clothing store near 34th Street in New York.

“...when values go up this season, Robert Hall will show you the reason...50% off, including 2-pair of pants and an oxford shirt with every suit...”

Although I was hopeful and naive enough to think that maybe this new place didn't carry anything in dark blue, I was kind of bummed out about not going to Herzogs. You see, usually right before buying my suit my father and I would split a giant hot dog and a pastrami sandwich from the deli around the corner. Plus, there was Moe who sold pickles out of wooden barrels just down the street on Havermeyer. Mind you that none of this really helped very much with the upcoming fitting or the eventual required letting out of the trousers.

But there I stood on the creaky wooden platform with Izzy the tailor at Robert Hall in New York. Soap markings on the legs of my pinned pant cuffs. Enduring the polite terms of the trade: husky, burly, portly, stocky, heavyset. Yet somehow, knowing that the nice Jewish man with the tape measure was really thinking, “Oy vey, is this kid a fat bastard - I hope that the platform holds up”

But being the nice man that he was, Izzy did advise my father and I where we could get a “delicious knish and a nice cold Dr. Brown cream soda” after the fitting. Apparently, there was some sort of connection between the cured meats, kosher potato-based products and Jewish owned haberdasheries.

Well, at the end of the day, knish or pastrami it didn't really matter whether it was a nice Jewish man from Herzog's or Robert Hall - come Thanksgiving morning I still ended up with the same very – dark – blue – suit, a white shirt violated and soiled by a runaway stuffed mushroom and a brown turkey leg stain on at least one of the free pair of Robert Hall pants - oh and of course wearing those shiny black casket shoes.

I now sit here for the past few hours still in Brooklyn with only occasional trips to the city, on this park bench after taking my morning regimen of statins, blood thinners, and a Semaglutide - wearing a fairly conservative dark blue sport jacket and avoiding any toppling from dangling shoelaces - my feet resting comfortably inside my shiny black slip-on loafers and thanking God, as I cross myself, that the apple or possibly the knish really doesn't fall far from the tree – and being a Brooklyn guy just like my father and his father, I’ll gladly take that in whatever color suit that I’ll be wearing this Thanksgiving. 

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As published by Tops

 

 

 

DON'T BE A QUITTER: "prepping for a healthy en-counter"
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

 

So here we are - well past Auld Lang Syne and Guy Lombardo realizing that tank-top season is just around the corner - but so is that new Taco truck .

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So here we are - well past auld lang syne and vague reminiscence of Guy Lombardo & his Royal Canadian orchestra live from the Waldorf Astoria and Times Square in New York City. I now sit here in Brooklyn not far from there pondering the thought that the only ball drop that lingers now might just be the countdown to Quitters Day.

Yep, there’s actually Quitters Day on the national calendar. It’s ironically sandwiched somewhere between National Chocolate Covered Cherry Day and Strawberry Ice Cream Day both in January. It usually falls on the second Friday of the month and it's when more than half of us abandon our new year’s resolutions including our promise of weight loss and healthier living. And although we certainly do realize that tank top season is just around the corner - unfortunately so is that new taco truck – and statistically we’re destined to fail!

However, to paraphrase another fellow Italian guy - although not a band leader or from Brooklyn - Yogi Berra once said:

“…if ya know ware-ya-goin’, you won’t end up sum-place else…”

He was absolutely right! It’s all about being prepared and getting ready that truly is the secret of success. Having an action-oriented goal that requires activities such as organizing, and gathering resources, aka getting prepared is 60% more likely to result in success. So, please slowly back away from that quesadilla-combo, turn off the YouTube video of The Andy Williams Christmas Special from 1969 and let’s get ready because “…it ain’t over ‘till it’s over …”

For me my healthy path to ware-I'm-goin' includes plenty of selfishly reserved refrigerator and countertop space, and a very giving partner. Even after my weight loss of 70-pounds we still have a bending guideline in place in our house.

Thank goodness since my wife continues to move like a gazelle and can still do deep knee bends like Nadia Comaneci, anything located 3-feet or below is completely in her domain – that especially applies to the inside of the refrigerator. Having nothing to do with finance or status, it's only top-shelf for me...well at least when it comes to where my stuff goes in the fridge.

The more delicious contraband is banished to my unreachable zone way in the back of the bottom shelf. This isn’t just because of the house bending protocol - the truth is that having that stuff on the top shelf, with the way those new Chinese takeout container lids are so tight and noisy to open these days along with that new plastic film pull tab packaging on the Oreo’s, nobody was able to get any damn sleep in this house in the middle of the night anymore with all of that post-midnight ransacking and rummaging !

Not only do I keep a pre-cut and well stocked top shelf fully supplied in the refrigerator, but I also have a bit of a monopoly on the countertop.

In my ever-encroaching style I decided to take a few old plastic wonton soup containers (not the noisy kind) and decorate them with contact paper. I also printed nutritional information labels on the covers. Now everything from almonds to wasabi peas, and yep even leftover wonton strips are an easy reach on the kitchen counter.

Look! We've all had those overeating days - the kind where, after logging our meals into our tracking apps we were certain that it was going to auto-dial 911 to summon EMS. I even recall when I first set mine up. After entering my weight and other parameters I hit the "create my plan" button. The "loading now" spinner hung there for quite a long time until the app finally displayed:

"...Congratulations! The following health profile plan will allow you to achieve your target weight by August 16……. 2032...". WHAT?

Of course, I'm slightly exaggerating - BUT here I am in 2026 down by nearly 70 pounds!

Failure is simply an opportunity to begin again. There is no failure except in no longer trying. Sure, we're getting older – and now and then we even find ourselves nearly mistakenly saying good morning to some unfamiliar stranger in the bathroom mirror, only to realize that it’s just ourselves. Sometimes after that startling morning double-take, I even break into a parody of an old song for my wife and partner of 45 years, singing: “You make me feel brand new… in that refurbished, almost-out-of-warranty kind of way...”

But growing old is no reason for us to ever celebrate Quitters Day. As a matter of fact, that very same calendar includes National Start-Over Day. It’s all about starting anew, accepting past failures and making positive changes. As is true with our collective journey and challenges to stay healthy we have to recognize and grow through our temporary setbacks; prepare and refocus on moving forward, and embrace the fact that it truly “ain’t over ‘till it’s over”

LINK:

As published by Tops

 

 

 

Fake Flowers and Fireflies
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

Plastic flowers and mirrored pinwheels riling up everthing from mouring doves to fireflies to pain in the ass environmentally conscious neighbors - BUT, TOO BAD - IT'S MY BACKYARD.
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One of the best things about growing up in Brooklyn, New York, is getting older and being able to tell people that I grew up in Brooklyn -  aand being miles away from places where I'd rather never be.

I was born, raised, and still live in a pretty special place in Brooklyn known as Greenpoint. Once referred to as the garden spot of the "uni-voise," it got its name because of the lush grassy land that stuck out as adventurers traversed the shores of the East River between the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn. Greenpoint remained mostly farmland until the 19th century. Today, it's still a pretty cool place to grow "tamaytas" in the backyard and wallow in the flora and fauna of my very own garden spot and get in a little exercise, too.

I'm not a doctor, or a nutritionist, and definitely not a horticulturist. Other than the little bit of garden mud stuck under my fingernails, the only thing that may give me some nutritional street credentials is that I've lost 70 pounds, taken my A1C level down from nearly 12 to 5.4 and I'm a healthy and happy retired 64-year-old guy with a full head of hair and most of my original teeth.

Part of my success has been making better nutritional choices and finding my macro sweet spots like staying within the boundaries of 25% carbs, around 45% protein and limiting fat intake to 30% or less.

 

As we all eventually realize, it's not only about nutrition. Getting the body in motion is a key and necessary component to good health. How-ever, when I was at my heaviest at nearly 400 pounds, it was practically impossible to be much of a gym guy. So, I tried to find exercise in my everyday activities. In the winter I used resis-tance bands indoors and did low impact stretch-ing. At work, I started taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

 

At home, I even measured the distance be-tween my living room and bedroom. In Brook-lyn, where real estate is at a premium, the distance was only 200-feet round trip! This made for a 25-lap journey per mile for my in-door walking.

Getting Dirty

But then spring and summer came. The neighbor-hood streets became my sandbox, and the backyard my fitness playground. I learned that gardening was as robust as walking, or yoga, and could burn over 300 calories per hour! So, I donned my old gardening gloves, filled my watering can and headed outside. Digging, raking, bagging, planting-1 soon felt an amazing boost in my energy and well-being and was transformed in spirit and enjoyed feeling healthier - Not to mention, I had some great tamaytas on the vine-which leads to our story.

 

This renewed burst of energy prompted me to head straight out to my favorite garden center to load up on an array of brightly colored plastic flowers and blinged-up pinwheels. I was ready to fill my dollar store, fleurs-Jardin, aluminum-oval planters with a party pack of silk roses and faux bouquets all made of that fine family of polys like polyacrylic, polycarbon-ate, polyethylene, and, of course, bless the '70s for the gift of polyester.

 

Although I was very much into the nature of it all, I wanted my garden to pop like the lavender fields of France, so the luster of latex and nylon was definitely the way to go! Aside from inadvertently riling up a few of my environmentally conscious neighbors, I think that my display of Teflon and polymer may have confused the ecosystem of some of the Brooklyn wildlife residents.

 

Instead of hearing the soothing coo of the mourn-ing doves, I swear I witnessed one of them soaring past a squirrel and chirping out in a very Brooklyn accent, "Hey, outta the bird feeder ya shaggy tailed tree rat!"

All kidding aside, I did notice a bee-apparently not too perceptive in the pistil department-hover-ing over the plastic daisies as if he were on some DEET-induced pollination mission. Now, obviously there was no possibility of sucking any nectar from the plastic, so there was no redeemable return on this impromptu daytime soiree into my backyard bou-quets of acrylic.

 

Something was amiss. I also watched an ant go out of his way to leisurely walk from stem to stamen of an artificial petunia to do whatever it is that ants do to petunias, but the best garden moment of all was the firefly fiasco. I do realize that with only two months to live and procreate, there's already frenzy and confusion within this glowing bug community. I mean, they can't even figure out what they're called: firefly, lightning bug, beetle, glowworm-I even think that I heard that wise guy dove refer to them as a bunch of little Bic flickers.

 

Flashing & Flickering

 

Anyway, one summer night at about 3 a.m., I gazed out through the bedroom window in a sexa-genarian stupor, which incidentally is my new word for age 64 because it makes me sound healthy and vigorous, I mean with all the hair and almost all the original teeth thing. But I was startled by the site of a miniature Macy's Fourth of July-like display of flashing and flickering fireflies next to the blinged-out dollar store pinwheels.

I later learned that apparently when the guy firefly sends out a pattern of flashes to the girl firefly as a potential mate, if she's into a quick date she'll mimic the pattern back to him and bingo it's time to cue the theme song to "The Love Boat." Just imagine this poor guy firefly with the mirrors of the pinwheel bling reflecting his own flash pattern right back at him-with him under the notion that it's the gal firefly flickering back-thinking to himself, "OMG, I'm definitely going to need the keys to the bird house really soon!"

 

Well, I'm not sure how it all ended up, but by the end of the week the evening light show had ceased, and my little glow buddies had presumably set sail on their literal destiny to the isle of "Till death do us part."

And although I continued to get my daily garden cardio from weeding and whacking, I had apparently gained a few pounds during the growing season. You see, along with the abundance of Brooklyn tamaytas, my garden harvest also yielded a bounty of BLTs on white bread with a bit too much emphasis on the "B" and the mayo.

But as it is true for all of us on our collective jour-ney and challenges to feeling healthy and vigorous, we must recognize and grow through temporary set-backs, then refocus on moving forward. Tomorrow is indeed another day. As for me, who needs the coun-try life when Mother Nature-fake flowers, fireflies and all-is always in full bloom in my beloved Green-point, Brooklyn.

 

LINK:

As published by Tops

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ADAGIO FOR BROOKLYN
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

One morning while sitting in my office on the 25th floor of the Municipal building I was suddenly overcome with a wave of sadness so consuming I had to stop, take a breath, and gather myself.
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In 2018, after nearly forty years in broadcasting, I retired as Assistant Director of Engineering at NPR's WNYC-WQXR radio in New York City.

One morning in the 1990s while sitting in my office on the 25th floor of the Municipal building I felt my eyes begin to well up and my lower lip start to quiver. I was suddenly overcome with a wave of sadness so consuming I had to stop, take a breath, and gather myself.

When I finally settled down, I noticed that our FM station was playing a familiar piece of music. I recognized the melody but couldn't place it. It was a solemn, slow flowing piece with violins and cellos moving from dissonance to bright open resolves, then finally ending on what I thought sounded like a musical “amen.” It was a very moving piece and I wondered, for reasons not yet apparent, if it's what triggered my reaction.

I walked down to the studio where Steve Post was hosting his morning program. In the 1960s, Steve was a pioneer in freeform radio at WBAI-FM in New York. Then in the early 1980s he began his 20-year career here at WNYC-FM around the same time I did. He became legendary not only for raising millions of dollars for public radio, but also for his ability to tick people off with his wonderfully wry style of humor. He was also a great guy who I had the privilege of calling friend.

After entering the studio and explaining what had happened, I asked Steve what music he'd just played. I was somewhat surprised that he didn't answer right away - instead he looked at me curiously and asked, "When were you born?". I paused - "April 26, 1960", I replied.

He nodded and told me that the music was Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. It was played during President Kennedy’s funeral procession following his assassination in November 1963. Since I was less than four years old at the time, Steve was surprised that I even had any recollection of the event at all - let alone remember the music.

I explained that there were certain things I did remember - vividly. Even the rainy Friday that followed the assassination as well as recollections of the turbulent aftermath. I remembered Oswald's haunting gasp when he was shot during the live coverage of his transfer from Dallas city jail. I remembered the tolling of church bells in my Brooklyn neighborhood as my family and I walked to gather at my grandmother’s house. There, I remembered the grown-ups: my mother, my aunts, my cousins, all of them crying, although I didn't understand why. I remember stepping into the bathroom, wetting my finger in the sink, then standing in front of the mirror as I "painted" tears down my cheeks - maybe I didn't understand the sorrow, but somehow I just knew that I should be crying too. Those memories had always been the most unsettling ones of all to me - that is, up until that morning in the office.

Science says that the ability to store and recall sounds starts before birth. However, it's highly unlikely that a three-and-a-half-year-old "kid" could have held on to such detailed autobiographical memory - not in a way that lasted in my situation. They also tell us that a true “sense of self” - awareness of our place in the world - doesn’t develop until later in childhood. But that night after work, after climbing the steps to J&R Music on Park Row to buy a copy of Barber’s Adagio for Strings, I went home to Brooklyn and listened - and in spite of everything science says - I wept anyway.

LINK:

Audio clip, spoken word by Joe Kirsch Curcio

 

 

 

 

Cartoons and Illustrations
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

A Google Photo link to a sample library of illustrations and cartoons created by Joe. From holidays to to the absurd

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LINK:

A Google Phote link to a sample library of illustrations and cartoons created by Joe. From holidays to to the absurd

 

 

 

 

 

MY MOTHERS MEATBALLS...
...are better than your Mothers meatballs
by Joe ‘Kirsch’ Curcio

I really don't smell the garlic frying on Sunday morning anymore as I stroll past where my Grandma's house used to be  - but at least there's still seems to be the debate over gravy vs sauce and pasta vs macaroni and how my mother's meatballs are better than your mother's meatballs.

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There once was a TV commercial featuring an Italian woman hanging out of the window of an old tenement house in Boston’s Italian North End calling out "Ant-toe-Nee". It was a Wednesday - and it was Prince spaghetti day. Well today if there was any summoning to be done right here in Williamsburg’s East end of Brooklyn it would be from the window of a new condominium. It would be on a Sunday - and it would be the real local Italians Luigi Vitelli MACARONI day.

OK, so these days as I stroll past where my Grandma's house used to be on Withers street near old Woodpoint Road I really don't smell the garlic frying on Sunday morning anymore. The air on these few square blocks on a Sunday was once infused with the aroma of sausage, braciole, and meatballs simmering in a family size pot of gravy sitting on top of the white porcelain stove. Right next door was the site of our family-owned luncheonette called The Red Rose, named after Grandma Rosina Carlo.

Almost a cliche of an old Italian woman with a gray bun in her hair, and tissues stuffed up the end of the sleeve of her flowered smock. But under it still dressed in black, long after her husband had passed. Her dark stockings rolled down mid-shin as she walked into her kitchen wielding a wooden spoon in hand. Well past 90 she referred to me only as "eh boy" - my name probably escaping her since I was the last grandchild of the many others born to her nineteen children! Yep - nineteen!

But we're not here to reminisce about my grandmother's bloomers or to calculate how many years that she spent pregnant. We're here to present possibly the ultimate argumentative stalemates since pineapple on pizza: "My mother's meatballs are better than your mother's meatballs"

Sure, there's still the debate over gravy vs sauce and pasta vs macaroni but they're wearing thin as the new generation of young chefs begin to "take the range". However - there is still a very passionate, arms flaring and hand gesturing argument over what's in the meatballs: a combination of beef, veal, and pork - or a good roll in the oil with a few pounds of plain old Graham Avenue Ferandino brothers butcher shop ground beef or chuck-chop?

Now before we get to the actual handing down of my family multigenerational recipe which makes my mother's meatballs better than your mother’s meatballs, I do have some hard data for you (well, kind of).

In an informal Facebook survey taken in three different groups of neighborhood people - nearly 70% of the respondents said that they are straight up beef meatball making folks - although I will say that if some of them actually refer to themselves as "folks" then it's my guess that their meatballs suck. But hold on, there is a caveat here. Two of the groups who responded high in the 70% beef range, like myself are from Greenpoint/Williamsburg meaning that they are more likely, like myself to be of a southern Italian background.

The third group was from more of a mixed section of Brooklyn. They responded almost 50/50 down the middle between plain beef versus three-meat. Most likely because they're a mix of people from both northern and southern Italy. And by the way, I'm assuming that a few Irish "folks" got into the mix on this - but these are people who put fennel and raisins in everything - so their meatballs probably suck too.

Other than that, the survey does track with the actual culinary traditions of northern versus southern Italian meatballs.

Because of the regions climate and geography Northern Italians had an abundance of veal and pork. They often made their meatballs with a variety of meats and with greater emphasis on the actual meatball itself and not so much on the pasta or tomato sauce that may or may not have even been served with the meatballs.

Southern Italians focused more on a lighter fare such as seafood, beans and lentils and incorporated more vegetables, fresh herbs and olive oil in their dishes. The region's terrain and pasture quality were not as viable for the variety of livestock farming as they were in the north.

Poverty also played a significant role in their cuisine as well, but the difference in the climate and terrain between the northern and southern regions mostly dictated what quantity and variety of livestock was available in the South. These days Italian-American meatballs whether from the north or south are almost always served in sauce with pasta on the side. We just love our macaroni's! But this wasn't always the case in Italy

So, to sum it up you pretty much had these highfalutin Venetians from the north and a few windbags from Milan sporting around with their fancy 3-meat meatballs spreading butter and cream all over their panettone, and pandoro sweet breads - meanwhile the poor Calabrese and "burnt feet Sanzis" from Sanza and Teggiano in the south were shoveling down dishes of "pasta-va-zool" (macaroni's and beans in gravy) and sucking out capuzzelle brains (lambs head) probably while doing shots of olive oil! They even had a name for what they were eating - "cucina povera" (peasant food).

Is there any wonder why this meatball argument is so passionate? This may be worse than the metaphorical question asking whether or not Irish Spring soap irritates Italian asses. Ma-Don with those fennel people again -and admittedly I even married an Irish girl myself.

OK, so now for the big reveal. The recipe. But before I leave you to your own culinary indecision I do want to say that I am thankful when I see an occasional open window on one of those Xennial dweller condominiums - and people like my own niece, maybe not hanging out of the window calling down to her daughter, but still embracing her Italian roots and heritage - and although they're just turkey rolled meatballs steaming up in an air fryer in her kitchen next to her stainless steel stove I'm grateful that I can sometimes still smell the garlic in the air where Grandma's house used to be on old Woodpoint Road - and that I can now say that "my niece's meatballs are better than your niece's meatballs"

THE RECIPE (click to enlarge):

IMAGES (click to enlarge):