Et Cetera Archives - Inside Chappaqua and Inside Armonk: The Magazines for New and North Castle

Learning to Love My Dad Bod

June 1, 2018 by Daniel Levitz

So apparently having a Dad Bod is now a “thing.” You can certainly Google the term or drop it in a conversation. Most likely someone will chuckle and refer to a loved one who can be described as such. A Dad Bod, essentially, is a physique of middle-age that can been described as masculine, reasonably muscular and slightly overweight. What is intriguing and, counter-intuitive, are the positive connotations almost universally associated with this common and easy to achieve body type. Putting aside years of denial, I’m prepared to admit to having a Dad Bod but also to realizing that the concept is some kind of odd societal rationalization that is in reality just vaguely insulting to men and women.

Personally, I’ve had my weight fluctuate over the years for many reasons. I can say, first hand, that being too thin or too heavy can be really unpleasant. Of course, I’d like to be as fit-looking as possible but eventually one realizes that certain physical ideals may never be fully achieved. For me, probably the best personal state of my body is to be a few pounds heavier than I’d actually like to be. Aesthetically, believe me, this is not a thrilling state of existence but with maturity (Ha!) I’ve realized that the way I look is secondary to being as healthy a person as I can reasonably manage. What’s particularly galling about the Dad Bod movement is that while I’m strenuously trying to accept myself, it somehow makes this effort more difficult by making me feel slightly patronized by an entire culture.

I’d love to be writing this as an exotically rare middle-aged Dad with wash-board abs, 20:20 vision and a fast metabolism but I most definitely have to check none-of-the-above on those. From that super-fit perspective, I imagine it would be so easy to be enthusiastically supportive about the Dad Bod thing precisely because I wouldn’t be stuck in one. However, living in this body, as I must, I refuse to smile politely if someone wants to essentially say that the very same body I am regularly struggling to learn to accept is now, (drumroll please) objectively attractive. I just don’t buy it. There is some kind of passive-aggressive condescension connected with the embracing of Dad Bods.

As for the female members of our culture, I can only imagine how they must feel about the acceptance and celebration of Dad Bods. It’s something of a cliché but I’ve heard women confirm the difficulty in dealing with their own aging process in comparison to men. You know, men become more distinguished, the lines on their face only add character, etc. This is a societal reality. Look at movie stars. Clooney & Pitt will be leading men for decades to come because they’re perceived as only getting better looking as they age. Leading ladies of the movies hit the age of 40 and abruptly must decide between character parts, plastic surgery or professional oblivion.

Why is there no female version of the Dad Bod? The closest thing I can think of is Mom Jeans and that association is quite the opposite of the now sexy Dad Bod. Why are we, culturally, not prepared to embrace women with a female version of the Dad Bod as universally attractive? Obviously, in 2018, there’s still a lot of work to be done on gender roles in society. If Dad Bods are, presumably, built upon men who have worked hard professionally and, perhaps, parented as well, then why aren’t women afforded the same leeway in how their bodies evolve? Especially considering how child-birth can affect one’s physical being. It just doesn’t seem fair.

I suppose what really irks me with the whole Dad Bod phenomenon is the reality of analyzing someone’s physical appearance and imparting a judgement upon that particular bodily state. There is an impermanence of one’s physicality that is just a fact of human existence. I question why we assume that being kind about chubby Dads is any more appropriate than telling a woman she looks sexy or criticizing someone for being too fat or thin.

Don’t get me wrong. I know attaching the Dad Bod moniker to a middle-aged gentleman is essentially a way of saying we love you just the way you are. That’s a great lesson. We should all learn to love acceptingly as best we can. However, as a reluctant member of the Dad Bod club, I implore you to think about what you are actually saying when you label your slightly corpulent loved one as such. Might I suggest a karaoke dedication of Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are” instead? Just not Dad Bod. Please.

A Tribute to My Aunt Jane

April 21, 2018 by Eric Doppelt

I’M EIGHT, and standing by my bed is an actual grownup in iguana-themed pajamas: Aunt Jane.

“Wakey-wakey, ‘Lil Wingman!’” my weekend guardian commands. “What’re we doing today?”

“Ummmm…pajamas, TV and Häagen-Dazs all day long…and NO TELLING Mom!»

“You’re on, kid.”

We spend the next 48 hours sugar-high and stoked on back-to-back “Star Wars” flicks.

Jane’s officially the Pied Piper of my childhood.

TEN. It’s my birthday, and Jane brings a record–old to her, new to me.

Bruuuuce.

She and my dad start singing, dancing, playing air guitar, pulling me in. The music swells like an ocean, its hypnotic waves–love, loss, freedom–all new to me.

And time feels…infinite.

“Wait’ll you see Springsteen!” exults Jane (a Jersey girl). But I already know: I’m Born to Run.

THIRTEEN. My Bar Mitzvah is eclipsed by shocking news: Jane has pancreatic cancer. I can’t even fathom what I’m Googling: a 7% survival rate??

Jane starts chemo; I start high school. Immersed in chemistry, biology, statistics, I find no antidote to fear. I do find PanCan (Pancreatic Cancer Action Network). Inspired by its motto—“Wage Hope!”—I launch a website that’ll tell Jane’s story while raising funds and awareness, team-jane.com. A bashful kid, I’m starting to…Run. Because maybe time’s not infinite after all.

FOURTEEN. Team Jane flourishes online and off as I coordinate supporters for a 5K. Jane walks nervously alongside me, wearing a brilliant smile. We raise $3K, far exceeding our goal. Afterwards I phone her, bursting with plans for our next event. She’s weirdly subdued. “Wingman,” she confides, “it was the worst day of my life.” First I’m stunned, wounded. Then I realize I’ve been given a trust. My Pied Piper’s yanked me past childhood and into the abyss where only she and her tumor live.

“Heyyy…c’mon,” I stammer, helpless for words of my own, “y-y-know what Bruce says, ‘No retreat/no-ohhh sur-ren-derrr…’”

“Of course!” she responds, playful again. “And we’re a team now, thanks to…my captain!”

Her new nickname for me–“The Captain”–fuels my shaky-but-growing belief in myself.

SIXTEEN. Brooklyn, Delaware, Chicago–at PanCan Walks nationwide, Dad and I represent Team Jane. Jane, despite cancer’s spread, keeps fighting. I keep coordinating, blogging, fundraising. I’ve raised nearly $150K, and with it, my confidence.

I summer-intern at PanCan. It’s intimidating–lobbying on Capitol Hill, being interviewed on TV, addressing hundreds at 5Ks. Most rewarding is creating “Voices of Hope,” a platform for teens to connect with survivors. Hope: it’s the only thing that quells the fear in kids like me, racing against time. Except…it’s not enough.

On 9/24/16, I cling to the last remaining beeps of Jane’s monitor. The only other sound in her crowded-but-hushed hospital room: Bruce, serenading from somebody’s phone. She can’t speak anymore but recognizes me, still tries flashing that smile that launched a thousand crazy adventures.

I can’t speak either, because there are no more words. Together we’d fought for life/love/family/all-day PJs/nonstop ice cream/Springsteen/a freaking CURE.

Anything but this statistic.

SEVENTEEN. Heavy-hearted and lead-footed, I summon Jane’s mantra: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” I intern at another pancreatic cancer organization, CodePurple, where massive amounts of data are the chief weapons against this monster. Travelling the Northeast, entrusted with a self-designed project, I interview leading clinicians and researchers.

It’s illuminating. Progress, I’m learning, is fueled by passion and data, like life encompassing both sugar-highs and heartbreak. I grapple with paradoxes: Jane’s eternal childlike persona and her adult hell. And I resume Running–not “away” from anything, but towards everything.

My momentum is now for the 65,000 Americans battling this cancer and the 50,000 who’ll be diagnosed next year. For Jane and all the others whose races have ended. And for my own self; for the ability to marry fear with hope, hardship with joy–to fill finite hours with infinite fun. Blessed with this rare gift, my aunt took on the world. Today, armed with a Häagen-Dazs pint and a playlist, I plan on doing the same.

From Sump Pumps to Sandwiches: My Adjustment to Suburban Living

March 8, 2018 by Daniel Levitz

As we were planning our move to Chappaqua from the city back in 2003 all the big questions had been addressed. Roaring Brook would have 19 or 20 kids in Charlie’s first grade class as opposed to the 27 in his Manhattan kindergarten. We’d convert our oil-burning furnace to natural gas because a knowledgeable source told us to. Bella’s crib would fit in a wonderfully proportionally manner in her new bedroom as opposed to the glorified walk-in closet that was her room in the apartment. And, Laurie would be able to walk to the train which was only a half mile away. With these issues addressed I was able to focus on something that I’d been mildly dreading. How and where would I be able to equal the bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich I’d treat myself to on mornings of happiness and optimism?

You see, pre-move, when I’d walk into the Korean deli on our block I’d make eye contact with the grill-man and before I could grab a self-serve regular coffee the eggs would be cracked, sizzling and within minutes I’d be enjoying the perfect urban New York sandwich. So, over those initial weeks I got the lay of the land breakfast-wise and from there was able to go on with my life. As it turns out, there were a number of local fine bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwiches sampled and each one a little different. One local deli offered a solid and tasty effort aesthetically notable for the fact that they don’t cut the roll in half. Another put forth a hearty two egg affair with lovely fresh bread and egg yolk just runny enough to make the sandwich delicious yet manageable. The bagel store offered an extremely hearty sandwich, which was elevated by the meticulously crisped bacon. Much to my delight, the local delis up here were most definitely on their game.

Other elements of adjusting to life in Chappaqua were a little more jolting. We quickly realized that the 10-minute walk to the train was not exactly safe, nor even doable with snow on the ground, due to a lack of sidewalks on Quaker Road. I investigated alternative routes but realized that the fading dream of living a pedestrian lifestyle like our previous one would not be easy to accomplish. Happily, a number of years into our residency here sidewalks were installed near our house and this game changer of an infrastructure project most definitely opened up the possibility of, once again, being an active daily pedestrian. Ironically, years of driving everywhere, a situation I preached against when I was an urbanite, had become quite comfortable and the conversion to shoes back on concrete would take another mental adjustment.

Getting used to living in this countrified suburb took some time and a steep learning curve. The first house thing encounter was like a slap in the face. I knew intellectually that house-living meant you can’t call the Super when there’s a dripping faucet. Cut to me wading in ankle-deep water in our basement barely being able to pronounce “sump-pump” let alone having any idea of what the hell it even was. A more pressing issue was how exactly to make the damn thing function properly and clear the water out of our suddenly disgusting water logged basement. Now, a veteran homeowner, I’m essentially “Mr. Sump Pump” with a high-end, self installed bad-boy keeping the basement fastidiously dry. And, don’t get me started on my back-up sump-pump because I’ll happily chew your ear off on why having a second one is simply a must.

We’ve been here now for 15 years and It’s gone fast. Of course there’s been physical changes in the community from the aforementioned sidewalks to changing businesses to new athletic fields and so on. For us the changes have been the simple and huge developments that are universal yet unique to any family and probably somewhat indefinable. It’s the concrete things like a good bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich that hopefully remain constant. If not, there’s always another deli.

Local Joe: Many Area Residents Prefer Independent Purveyors

March 8, 2018 by Amy Kelley

They’re ubiquitous – the chain stores that make a business of selling coffee.

Yet in our area, independent coffee shops are outright thriving – and Chappaqua and Armonk both boast several different places to get the beverage by patronizing hometown businesses.

On a recent weekday afternoon, Tazza Cafe in Millwood was a hub of activity. Tables were full of chatting pairs, groups of young women were ordering food, and several employees were busy behind the counter.

Tazza Cafe at this past summer’s Armonk Outdoor Art Show

James Monica, owner of Tazza Cafe in Armonk, Millwood, Katonah and Ridgefield, credits much of his shops’ success to employees like these. “Really a big part of it is the people who work here,” Monica said. He’s been able to retain many workers which he says makes a big difference. Longtime employees “provide a personal touch and connect with the customer more.”

Julie Dickens, owner of Beascakes Bakery and Breads in the Armonk Town Center, has similarly attentive employees. “We have regulars and we have their coffee ready at the cash register as they get out of their cars,” she said. At Beascakes, they sell Lavazza, an Italian coffee.

At Chappaqua Station, 1 Station Plaza, where coffee’s served starting at 4:30 am during the week, better, faster service help them maintain a devoted and large customer base, even though the business is quite close to two large chain purveyors of coffee, manager Erik Gonzaga said. “We do have two big competitors here in town but our business keeps picking up,” Gonzaga said. The coffee is La Colombe, a premium brand from Philadelphia and hundreds of customers are served each day.

During the morning rush, there are usually no less than four employees working hard to ensure quick service: one at the register, one making specialty coffees, one filling and restocking and one handling pastry and other food orders, Gonzaga said, “We have our regular customers and once they come through the door it’s ready waiting on the countertop,” Gonzaga said.

Employees build relationships with customers but that community feel is, of course, accompanied by a serious focus on the coffee itself. “From the beginning we took the coffee very very seriously – from the way we grind it – and the amount we use is probably a bit more than typical,” Monica said. Purveyors like Monica can’t have the economy of scale the nationally-known shops do, yet they inspire loyalty and according to owners and managers, business just keeps on growing.

At Armonk’s Market North, at 387 Main Street, “all of our coffee is from artisanal roasters,” Stephen Mancini, one of the owners, said recently. Mancini and others, such as a chef and manager, regularly taste new coffees in blind taste tests called ‘cuppings’ and currently use beans roasted from Port Chester (Path Coffee Roasters) to Maine. “We try to find small-batch and responsibly-sourced,” Mancini said. Perhaps that’s why at Market North, customers often express praise for the coffee and types of coffee available. “When we change coffees or try different roasters there’s excitement about that,” Mancini said.

The appreciation of Mancini’s customer base is no anomaly. According to the National Coffee Association, an industry trade group, 59% “of coffee cups consumed daily are classified as gourmet,” and “out-of-home coffee consumption reached a high of 46% in 2017.” That’s a lot of coffee purchased in shops, and more and more, it’s very good coffee.

Tazza’s customers can tell the difference, Monica said. “A lot of them would say they would never go to a chain store because the coffee is so much better here.”

Local coffee spots also focus on the quality of other ingredients. “In order to make a really great latte you have to start with the milk. Seventy percent is the milk,” Mancini said, “All of our milks are Hudson Valley milks.” Cashew and almond milks are made in house. Perhaps that’s why one Armonk-based customer wrote on Yelp that Market North has “the best latte in Westchester.”

At Beascakes, details are also attended to. “We’re known for our iced coffee because we make our own coffee iced cubes so we have a real following,” Dickens said. Customers avail themselves of fresh cake doughnuts, scones or pastries or on Sundays, Boston cream or jelly doughnuts. “You know, you got to have coffee with your doughnut, right?” Dickens said.

And these days, more people prefer to shop locally. “People appreciate having mom-and-pop places to go,” Dickens said. “We know when a baby’s due, we know when a first birthday is, we follow the families.”

“From the very beginning I definitely tried to focus on and put an emphasis on the quality of whatever we serve – sandwiches, baked goods and coffee,” Monica said. “The people have been very responsive, and I never take it for granted.”

The Wasabi Incident and other Tales of Aging Parents

December 1, 2017 by Daniel Levitz

(L-R): Lorraine, Dan (the author) and Martin Levitz

Interacting with aging parents, for those of us firmly entrenched in middle age, can be pleasant, painful, humorous, bittersweet, inspiring, odd….and, please, feel free to insert your own adjectives. I don’t believe that there is a universal approach nor experience regarding older parents, however, I do feel that participating in a conversation about that last stage of life with them is a significant endeavor.

Lately I’ve been talking to friends about experiences with their aging parents. A close pal from high school told me that he was having the difficult conversation with his octogenarian father about possibly moving into an assisted living facility. Apparently the conversation was non-conclusive and resulted in what will forever be known as “The Wasabi Incident.” As my friend related, “We took Dad to visit the assisted living building for a tour. Didn’t go well. He pretty much shut down the sales guy telling him he was only there because we made him go and he has no intention of moving. He was happy later though because he got to eat dinner there for free. Sigh. Surprisingly still hungry, we then took Dad to a sushi restaurant and he ordered California rolls. Not sure if he realized what he was ordering. When the food came he immediately reached out with his fingers, grabbed the blob of wasabi and started to stuff it in his mouth. I yelled for him to stop and he only ate some but was definitely surprised by the spiciness of it. He’s mostly okay but does weird stuff like that once in a while”.

My friend’s Dad, as I’ve known him, is a bright, decent, no nonsense kind of guy.

I wish “The Wasabi Incident” could provide answers concerning his state of mind. However, all it raises are short-term questions like what the hell was he doing and, more daunting existential queries about the universally shared reality that with inevitable relentless urgency it is all going to end. For everyone.

Another buddy shared a story about when his father passed. They’d had a volatile relationship going back to his childhood and while always connected, there remained tension. His Dad had learned that he was terminally ill and requested a meeting with his son. My friend was certain that this farewell of sorts would be the moment where they could finally express their true good feelings for one another despite their bumpy history. They sat in his Father’s yard and drank wine on a crisp autumn afternoon. The Father looked into the son’s eyes and hesitated while the son prepared for some kind of emotional revelation. What followed was quite simply a non-negotiable list of people the Father vehemently forbid from attending his funeral. Not exactly what my friend was expecting but he laughs about it now as it was certainly consistent with his Father and, in retrospect, was most definitely a farewell.

My Dad died in 2013 at the age of 89. Martin was the kind of person who really took pleasure in life. He was passionate about collecting art, eating great and abundant meals, New York Yankees baseball and of course his wife of 66 years, my Mom. The last year of his life was difficult because most of these things were taken away from him because of his health. All except my Mom who took care of him in a heroic and remarkably devoted manner. Despite pleas from everyone to get help she took all of this on herself because she felt that’s what he wanted. My Dad would constantly yell out with urgency “Lorraine!” I found this touching (and not to mention loud). One day I convinced Mom to take a walk and have a little time for herself. As the door shut I heard the same demanding exclamation, “Lorraine!” Answering his call I told my Dad that Mom was taking a walk but I was home with him. I thought he might be unhappy about this but a minute later in the same formidable tone he hollered, “Dan!” That he was able to shift his focus so quickly from his wife to his son told me that despite his love for and reliance upon his wife there was a pragmatic element to survival that may transcend even indestructible love.

Lorraine and Martin Levitz, the author’s parents

As for Mom, now 90, she can be found on one of her two daily walks around her neighborhood in lower Manhattan. She lives alone and gets a nice amount of attention from her children and grandchildren who all live relatively close. It’s not unusual for her to meet someone new and within a minute or two proudly note that she is indeed 90. In fact, she began bragging about being 90 when she was only 89 but you can’t blame her as the reaction is almost always complimentary. At a younger stage of adult life, stating one’s age out of the blue would be something of a non-sequitur.

At 90 it’s simply addressing the elephant in the room. A beautiful aspect of this time of Mom’s life is that she is still happy and independent yet fully aware of the numbers that prove that things are definitely winding down. I think that fact is harder on the rest of us than her but it’s inspiring to know that she can talk about it calmly and firmly in the context of what a wonderful life she most certainly has enjoyed.