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Jake couldn't remember if that plate in the back of his refrigerator was from Tuesday or Monday or October.

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Frank Sinatra expressed intense dislike for the cover mock-up of his 1958 album Come Fly with Me. He told his producer Voyle Gilmore that he thought it looked like an advertisement for TWA.

Well, Frank...

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For years, my wife has been in pursuit of the perfect hamburger. While a lot of carnivores share this quest, it should be noted that Mrs. Pincus has kept a strictly kosher diet for over forty years. Eating kosher meat within the privacy of one's home is a fairly easy task. At one time, a kosher butcher shop was the only outlet for certified kosher meat. As time went on and the number of families seeking kosher products increased, major supermarkets began stocking a variety of commercially-packaged meats along with other mashgiach- supervised groceries. Thus, the preparation of kosher meals at home is not difficult, however finding a decent kosher restaurant in the Philadelphia area is another story.

In New York, the city that never sleeps, you can swing a tallit over your head and hit six kosher restaurants with no effort. But Philadelphia, the fifth largest city in the country with the sixth largest population of Jews (206,000 of 'em), can't keep a kosher restaurant in business to save its life. In the thirty years since I began to observe the laws of kashrut, I have seen kosher eateries come and go as quickly and abruptly as the Rea Sea swallowed up Pharoah's army. The problem with the majority of these places is they are either run by people with no business or restaurant experience or they are filthy and unappetizing. One day, my in-laws told us of yet another new kosher restaurant that opened in Northeast Philadelphia and my wife and I decided to give it a try. Perhaps this will be the one that makes Mrs. Pincus' Hamburger Hall of Fame.

We drove out to the Northeast and pulled into the parking lot of one of the many cookie-cutter strip centers that line Castor Avenue. Squeezed between a credit union and a dry cleaner was a small storefront passing itself off as a restaurant. Once inside, we had our choice of tables, since we were the only customers. (That was not particularly encouraging considering it was the customary dinner hour.) We sat and were greeted and handed laminated menus by a young waitress. I perused the surprisingly numerous offerings. My wife, however, studies the "Hamburger" section of the menu, her eyes not straying to other areas — no matter how enticing. A few minutes later, the waitress returned and we placed our order. I'm sure I ordered something simple and sandwich-y. My wife ordered a hamburger with some cutesy name, but a hamburger no less. The restaurant's decor left a lot to be desired, so we chit-chatted while we waited for our meals.

Soon, the waitress approached our table with two plates laden with steaming food. My wife's burger looked delicious — decorated with green lettuce, red tomato and a variety of condiments — and judging by the way she savored every bite, it tasted delicious as well. All through dinner, Mrs. Pincus talked about how much she enjoyed her burger and when we finished and were presented with the check, she expressed her pleasure with the meal to the waitress before even being asked.

When I arrived home the next day and inquired about dinner plans, my wife excitedly suggested the restaurant from the previous evening. She said she had thought about the burger from the night before and really wanted another one. So, again, we trekked out to the Northeast for a repeat performance from the chef at the new kosher restaurant. We essentially mimicked our actions from the night before, right down to occupying the same table. On this evening, a different waitress took our order and we chuckled that a place with such sparse business needed more than one server. Of course, Mrs. Pincus ordered the same burger. A short time later, the waitress returned and placed a platter before my wife. It didn't look remotely like the b

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Ever since a visit to a California airfield, Douglas Corrigan became interested in flight. He began taking flying lessons at an airfield where aircraft manufacturers B.P. Mahoney and T.C. Ryan ran a small airline. He eventually took a job at their San Diego factory.

Just after Douglas was hired, a young aviator named Charles Lindbergh contacted Mahoney and Ryan with plans for a specialized craft. Douglas assembled The Spirit of St. Louis' wing and installed its gas tanks and instrument panel. When Lindbergh took off from San Diego to prepare for his famous flight from New York, Douglas personally pulled the chocks out from the wheels of the aircraft. When news of Lindbergh's success reached Douglas and his co-workers, they were excited, but Douglas vowed to someday make his own transatlantic flight.

In 1929, Douglas received his pilot's license and he purchased a used monoplane. He began to modify the craft, readying it for his own flight of glory. Unfortunately, the government repeatedly rejected Douglas' applications for transatlantic flight. He had flown from San Diego to New York on quite a few occasions and was certain that his modified plane could make the trip across the ocean. The US government believed otherwise.


On July 8, 1938, Douglas left San Diego for New York, a trip he had made many times. His official flight plan had him returning to California on July 17. Douglas took off from Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn in a thick fog. He flew east and claimed he had become disoriented. With the fog refusing to lift and visibility at its poorest, Douglas was only able to fly with aid from his compass. Twenty-six hours into the flight, he dropped below cloud level and noticed a large body of water beneath him. According to his account, Douglas realized that he had been following the wrong end of his compass's magnetic needle. After twenty-eight hours and thirteen minutes in the air, Douglas touched his plane down at Baldonnel Airport in Dublin, Ireland.

When officials questioned him, Douglas stuck with his story of getting lost in the clouds and flying the wrong way. Upon his arrival back in the United States, the newly-nicknamed "Wrong Way" Corrigan was given a hero's welcome. The New York Post printed a front-page headline that read "Hail to Wrong Way Corrigan!" — and the headline ran backwards. Douglas also received a ticker-tape parade down Broadway with more people lining the sidewalks than had turned out to honor Charles Lindbergh after his transatlantic flight.

Long after his fame had faded, Douglas retired to an orange farm in Santa Ana, California. He passed away in December 1985 and he never changed his story.

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My wife’s grandmother turned 101 this past July. When I met her nearly thirty years ago, she was a feisty, strong-willed woman who called things as she saw them and took no shit from anyone. She came from humble beginnings in Russia and lived an even more humble existence upon her arrival in the United States. She single-handedly raised two children – and by “single-handedly”, I mean that she got absolutely no help from her perpetually out-of-work husband. Eventually, her husband, through some shrewd maneuvering, became prosperous and his latent financial success allowed her to enjoy the life she always longed for and certainly deserved. She doted on and cared deeply for her children, their ensuing spouses and subsequent children. She hosted elaborate Sunday dinners and made sure everyone was abundantly satisfied. She was generous to a fault, but she also enjoyed frequent gambling excursions to “the casinas” — as she called them — to win more money with which to be charitable.

My wife’s grandmother always held a special place in her heart for her grandchildren and that place grew larger as offspring multiplied with progeny of their own. With the birth of my son twenty-four years ago, the family welcomed the first great-grandchild of the generation. I began referring to my wife’s grandmother as “GG”, short for “great grandmother”. She approvingly responded to the nickname.

GG lived on her own until well into her 90s. She currently resides in a gracious assisted-living facility.
Although her memory is failing with each passing day, her spunky spirit still regularly surfaces. She was lively and animated at her 100th birthday celebration last year, cracking wise in front of an audience of extended family and friends. More recently, she wandered into another resident’s room late one night and demanded that she “get the hell of my bed!” Lately, though, her pace has slowed, her recognition skills have diminished and her demeanor wavers between happy and terribly sad. After all, she is 101.

My wife’s cousin Cuz went to visit GG this past week, as she is his grandmother, too. He hadn’t seen her in a long while and arrived to find her in bed, quiet and melancholy. He brought her some ice cream — an all-time favorite — and it seemed to perk her up a bit, but GG was still despondent and detached. Cuz concluded his visit, kissed GG goodbye and went out to his car. On his way home to see his own family, he called his sister. Sis answered the phone in a harried manner, obviously preoccupied with plans and activities concerning her own two children. Cuz reported on GG’s status and suggested that Sis pay her a visit of her own. Sis hesitated, then said, “You mean now? Can’t it wait until Friday?”

Cuz was silent for a moment, and then answered, “I don’t know, Sis. I’m not a doctor.”

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One of the slimiest, shiftiest villain to ever grace the silver screen was the despicable Hans Guber, as portrayed by Alan Rickman, in the original “Die Hard”.

Under the guise of a group of international terrorists, the cold and ruthless Hans and his cohorts merely wish to steal 640 million dollars in bearer bonds from the vault of the Nakatomi Building in Los Angeles. Their plans are eventually thwarted by visiting New York City cop, resourseful John McClane, the self-proclaimed “fly in the ointment; monkey in the wrench”.

“Die Hard” is actually based on the 1979 novel “Nothing Lasts Forever” by Roderick Thorp. The book, itself a sequel to Thorp’s novel “The Detective” (filmed in 1968 with star Frank Sinatra), was adapted for the action film with several alterations, most notably the inclusion of the Hans Gruber character, who did not originally appear.

Josh Pincus is Crying has even more of my illustrations.

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She spent her entire screen time in “The Wizard of Oz” tormenting Dorothy Gale. Whether it was in her role as Miss Almira Gulch, the wealthy but crotchety landowner who takes Dorthy’s beloved Toto away under court order or as the main roadblock in Oz keeping Dorothy from returning to Kansas, The Wicked Witch of the West was as evil as they come. (Okay, so Dorothy killed her sister with a house, but she was a witch, after all.) The Wicked Witch was eventually served her just desserts when a slow reaction to a hurled bucket of water brought her to a bubbling and steamy demise.

Margaret Hamilton, who portrayed the Witch, was in reality a former kindergarten teacher who loved children. (Two of her students during her teaching days were future actors Jim Backus and William Windom.) After her iconic, career-defining role in “The Wizard of Oz”, Margaret often visited schools as part of her advocacy for public education. She loved the childrens’ reaction when she told them that she played the witch and was often coaxed into performing the famous cackle to squeals of delight.

A veteran of over 100 movies, television productions and a turn as “Cora” in a popular series of Maxwell House coffee commercials, Margaret passed away at age 82 in 1985.

Josh Pincus is Crying shows even more of my illustrations!

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