Crushing On

Yes, I am crushing on my dentist.

Allow me to explain.

Teeth are a serious business for me. Not because I am a total narcissist (well, not only), but because I spent four and a quarter years in braces and even if I live to be a 100 that constant torture will have lasted over 1/25th of my life, so I need to made it count.

(Actually, my orthodontist was life-changingly amazing and turned me from an outcast freak into the handsomeness you see today, but that’s for another Crushing On.)

The year before our wedding I chipped one of my front teeth at lunch and completely FREAKED OUT. My front teeth, y’all.

One of our friends had just had major dental reconstruction and had referred E to Dr. Deborah E. Backiel, whose office is directly across from the clothespin in Center City.

That’s only a few blocks from my office. I called in a panic. “I know I’m not your patient,” I pleaded, “but my friends swear by you and I chipped my front tooth and I’M FREAKING OUT.”

They had me come in the same day and Dr. Backiel filed away the chip. I can’t even tell where it was.

That was the beginning of my love affair with Dr. Backiel. She is an amazing dentist (degreed by UPenn), incredibly empathetic, and honestly just a charming person to talk to. She explains things in a way you can easily understand before flipping to technical jargon with her staff. You get the sense that she has found her calling and thrills in being great at it. And, not for nothing, but my totally dental-phobic wife visits her without hesitation.

Not only is Dr. Backiel an amazing dentist, but she runs an incredible office. I think the longest I’ve ever waited has been twelve minutes. All of her dental techs are fantastic. Everything is digital and you get to see your X-Rays and problems spots live in front of you, entirely removing the mystery of dentistry. They are upfront about how much everything costs based on your insurance. They are unrealistically accommodating of emergencies and schedule changes. You get a reminder email the day before an appointment (soon, text messages!).

Seriously, guys, I am in love with my dentist. I want to shout it from the rooftops. Every time I get a second of free time while I’m in the chair I tweet that people who don’t like their dentists need to visit her. One time she asked me what I was doing on my phone and I told her, and she said, “awww, aren’t you so sweet!”

I have now referred nearly a dozen friends to her, and every single person comes back with the same glowing endorsement. I’m always afraid if she gets too popular that the wait times will increase or the service will decline but, you know what, she deserves to be popular. I can’t imagine that there is a better dental office anywhere in the Philly city limits.

PS: I don’t get any kind of referral bonus I’m aware of – this post is purely out of love – but if you visit please let her know I sent you.

Up until about two years ago the only think I knew about Ricola were those old commercials. You know what I’m talking about.

Riiiiii-cola.

When something enters the public unconscious before I get to have a personal experience with it I tend to mentally write it off. Like, they’re just some stupid cough drops that blew their marketing budget on one big commercial.

Seriously, I have been like that since age six. Totally other story.

Anyhow, about two years ago E had begun equipping herself Ricola cough drops before rehearsals. I didn’t have an urge to try them, but in the way of our household eventually I was in a pinch and ferreted one away from her to try.

Instant addiction. Even though they are mentholated, they don’t have the chemically menthol taste of other cough drops (like the Ludens I used to mainline as a kid). They taste like actual herbs and whatever else is included in the flavor you pick up, with just a mild radiating zing of menthol in the midst.

The flavor we’re specifically fixated on is Honey Lemon with Echinacea, which not only is a dead ringer in taste for the special voice tea that E makes us when we’re gigging a lot, but has the added effect of giving a teeny Echinacea immune-boost in every drop, plus some Vitamin C.

Placebo or not, I rarely leave home to gig or rehearse without Ricola in my bag. Even if it’s entirely my imagination, if the occasional ten cent cough drop helps soothes my throat after strenuous singing and keeps me in good health, I say it’s worth both the expense and the delusion.

So, I guess a bunch of yodeling dudes on television were more than just hype. Score one against the skepticism learned in my childhood.

I’ve had the same green LL Bean Backpack since the mid-90s, following me across Philadelphia and the country, stuffed to the gills. You know the one I’m talking about – with the embroidered initials? Everyone I knew had one in highschool – most of them were blue or purple.

It’s a marvel that the thing has lasted this long, because I don’t travel lightly.

It’s not that I’m an overpacker. When it comes to socks and pants I’m sparse and practical. It’s more my voracious appetite for things to do.

It was easier when I was a kid. How many waking minutes would I be away from home? Bring that many pages worth books. Done and done.

Now it’s not so simple. A book or magazine, yes. My laptop is necessary, of course, as I might want to write, tweet, or work on lyrics. And I can’t go more than a day without playing guitar, so that comes too – plus maybe some sheet music. Oh, and I’m mostly a vegetarian, so I might need to pack some backup food in case I’ll be in the exclusive company of carnivores.

Seriously, I’m harder to pack for than a pair of twin toddlers.

This bag has been so many trials and indignities. It’s bedn dragged across beaches and subway floors. It’s been crammed full of microphones and cables. It’s been soaked and spilled on, washed and hung out to dry. Right now it’s carrying The Beatles Full Scores, two days of cold-weather clothes and pajamas, guitar accessories, toiletries, snacks. and a pair of shoes.

The previously bright green is faded and the bottom is a thinning a little, but otherwise it’s practically like new.

How many other things in your life do you have regular, sometimes DAILY use of for over a decade?

I’ll probably cry the day that it gives up the ghost.

Some crushes are a little less cerebral than others.

E brings home amazing butter crunch peanuts, cashews, and almonds from Iovine Brothers at Reading Terminal Market. They come in pint-size plastic containers, are festooned with tiny morsels of buttery crunch, and rarely last past two sittings with me.

When I saw this fairly hefty tub of (surprisingly good) Target house brand Archer Farms Butter Crunch peanuts over the weekend I felt like I had found the mother-ship, and oh how they lived up to that promise and MORE.

First, this thing is massive. I attacked it again and again over the weekend and hardly made a dent. The peanuts are covered entirely with a buttery, caramel-esque shell that renders them the totally perfect sweet:salt ratio. PLUS they are nuts, so they’re a suitable between meals snack to keep from getting ravenous (even if they aren’t exactly health nuts).

Finally, while I cannot comment on this theory from firsthand experience because the risk of having ice cream in the house is far too great, it seems like the litter of broken crunch shells from the bottom of the container would be the best ice cream topping in the history of civilization.

Let’s just say I’m obsessed and leave it at that. And if you have some horrible truth to disclose about their nutrition information, or that they’re harvested by killing defenseless baby narwhals, or whatever, just keep it to yourself, mmkay?

Get ready, I’m about to crush on a blog you’d think I’d never be caught dead reading:

A new Philly foodie mommy blog called Table for 2 and a Half.

I know what you’re thinking. Is this some sort of quid pro quo? Am I name-checking this blogger in turn for her recommendation of me as her local singer-songwriter of choice to the many foodie moms around the region?

Nope. Well, I mean, I hope I’m her local singer-songwriter of choice, but I just love her darn blog.

Before regular status updates were de rigueur, getting someone to blog was the best way to hear the voice inside of their head and to keep up with their adventures. I’d cajole my favorite friends and co-workers, mostly to no avail – I don’t know many people bit with the blogging bug quite so hard as I am.

In a Facebook and Twitter era, my convincing is less essential. Now have people have other, more easily accessible means to express their inner thoughts in conveniently bite-sized fragments, and I’m happy to consume them that way.

That doesn’t mean my refrain of “you should have a blog” has gone the way of the dinosaur. Nay. I save it for special cases when I truly need to acquire as many words as possible from a particular person.

For the past two years my number one target has been my co-worker Mel, a formidable former journalist, certified sommelier, and dedicated foodie mom full of never-ending perk and snark. She’s also the 9-to-5 voice of sanity in my life.

(Seriously, if only we kept a list of the ridiculous ideas she has talked me out of. It could be a blog unto itself.)

When Mel prepared for her maternity leave I badgered her constantly about blogging. “Are you really going to leave me here without you and expect EMAILS to suffice? I need DAILY BABY UPDATES!” My request fell on deaf ears, which grew even more disappointing when we learned that Mel’s son is just about the cutest possible baby of all babies.

However, when she returned she quietly ramped up to writing for Haute Living and being the wine-girl for Drink Philly, plus tweeting, and so the volume of my “rah rah blog!” mantra increased.

Lo and behold, it finally happened! Table for 2 and Half follows the misadventures a foodie whose wee one is finally old enough to dine both in and out. Will his toddler palate warm to her gourmet cooking? Do her favorite restaurants even own a high chair?

The blog is still fledgling, so it’s not packed with posts, but I love every word of it so far. Mel writes exactly how she speaks. She is fretful and funny in her home escapades and descriptive and pointed in her reviews of family-friendly, fully-adult restaurants. While I love her writing on Haute Living and Drink Philly, 2-and-a-Half finds her free to be herself. I’m looking forward to it getting even more madcap as her adventures continue and her son reaches the terrible twos.

Now if I could just get her to write a novel…