HCAYMAN

LOL is great. LOL is uplifting. LOL positively affects mental health by helping overcome stress and decreasing stress hormones in the blood. Having said that, sometimes LOL is just not enough. Sometimes a step up from LOL is needed.

It’s been quite some time since I saw a great comedy. Arguably, the last one was Dumb and Dumber, which has been the bar I have used to rate comedies ever since. Sadly, most modern comedies fail to reach that bar. They are watchable, but not great.

Sometimes, the movies I find the funniest are the unintentional comedies. Generally, they are action movies, like sequels to Fast and Furious, that are so far-fetched that they morph into comedies. Die Hard sequels fit that category, too.

Other times, movies that intend to be a combination of action and comedy become pure comedies for me, as I view the action scenes as modern-day slapstick schticks—the more over the top they are, the more intense they try to be, the funnier they become.

Pam and I watched one such movie last night: Beverly Hills Cop Axel F. Because we live in Beverly Hills, we had to watch it. Because on Father’s Day, I saw the helicopter used in the movie as I was strolling down Rodeo Drive enjoying the car show, we had to watch it. Because we heard the explosions on Wilshire Boulevard as they filmed one of the gunfight scenes, we had to watch it. Because we had seen the original over forty years ago, we had to watch it. That does not mean we expected to enjoy it. But we did.

On the surface, it should have been tolerable at best, a movie with a mindlessly predictable script containing lots of needlessly long action scenes. When we began to watch it two nights ago, I had to turn it off, thinking it was just too stupid and vapid to warrant watching. Maybe it was the foul mood I was in due to some work-related stress. Maybe it was because we had not seen a quintessential Eddie Murphy comedy in a long time. Who knows why, but we shut it off during the opening scene. I’m glad we opted to re-start it last night.

Once we turned it back on, something clicked. Something resonated with me. Maybe it was the comfort of watching scenes filmed in our backyard. Maybe it was the supporting cast. Maybe it was the lighthearted nature of the “intense” scenes. Maybe not. Maybe it was all about Eddie Murphy. In no time, I was laughing out loud—with regularity—and really enjoying the movie.

When it was over, I realized that I had just done more laughing than I had done in a long time—in short, I had spent a couple of hours LMAO.

And I felt a lot better for having done so.

I am a rational guy—most of the time. Every now and then, though, I do not throttle my irrational impulses, and when I don’t, I usually incur a significant cost. Cars, especially Porsches, cause me to become irrational, to discard my normal fine-tuned, accountant-fueled mindset, to throw cost benefit calculations out the window.

When I look at cars, I perceive potential—not reality. I visualize endless backroad twisties with no other cars, motorcycles or bicycles. I feel unbridled acceleration, heavy g-force cornering, crisp, aggressive braking. I embrace the subtly of the contours of the bodywork, the nuances of the underlying engineering. I imagine hearing the symphony of the exhaust notes. I don’t think about the costs, the traffic inflicted limitations, my inability to drive sufficiently well to take advantage of the car’s potential, the craziness of other drivers, the dings from parking in public lots. In short, I find myself in a virtual La-La Land, which makes sense, as I live in LA.

Before I started driving Porsches, I drove BMWs, and my friends used to laugh at me when I bought or leased one. I would go to the dealer and buy one—all on the same day. They were not wrong for laughing at me—I did not do tons of research or pit one dealer against another or threaten to walk away to grind the price down. Instead, I did enough research to support my decision, knowing which model I wanted and approximately what it should cost. Then I would go do the deal, knowing full well I probably spent more than I had to. Simple. Easy. And, to some degree, rationally irrational.

This week has been a rollercoaster for me, as I alternated between common sense and irrationality. It was not my fault. Far from it. It was foisted upon me by my good friend, John. The one who has talked me into renting an office as I glide towards retirement. He is still babysitting the Guards Red Porsche GT3 for his son-in-law. The one I drive sporadically. The one with the racing bucket seats that I have a love-hate relationship with. The one that will be for sale. The one he parked in my driveway Tuesday night because he was having some work done on his house. At least he was kind enough to put a cover on it, so all I could ogle from my dining room window was its silhouette. Unfortunately, that was still more than enough to drive me to irrationality.

It hit me—hard—on Wednesday morning as I was walking to Supercuts in Beverly Hills, something else my friends laugh at me for, but that is another story. Out of the blue, I was thinking that I should sell my two Porsches, the ones I rarely drive, to generate about two-thirds of the purchase price of the GT3. My thinking was simple: I would be taking a rational step to simplify my life and enhance my driving experience at the same time. It felt like a win-win. Kimberly and Pam thought I was nuts.

Then I compounded my problem by mentioning to John that I might want to buy the GT3. Of course, John mentioned it to his son-in-law on Thursday. His son-in-law offered to sell it to me for below market price because he would be glad the GT3 was going to be owned by an afficionado. Once Jeff, one of my friends who is not a car guy at all, heard that, he started telling me I would be an idiot to pass on the opportunity, going as far as saying it would be an appreciating asset. My irrationality spiked dramatically.

John came by on Saturday morning to take the car for a drive. As I handed him the keys, which he had left in my possession on Tuesday, he said, “You might want to go inside while I take the cover off and drive away.” He was right, but I could not bring myself to do so. Instead, I felt my heart rate accelerate as he uncovered it. I felt it accelerate further as I heard the exhaust note when he started it. I wanted to cry as I watched him drive down the street, my sense of loss palpable.

At that point I felt I had to buy it. Thankfully, I still had a modicum of common sense. So, a little later Saturday morning I reached out to several of my Porsche cronies to talk about it. My buddy, Mark, who has forsaken the Porsche marque because its sports cars are too impractical to fulfill his current lifestyle requirements, thought that I should buy it, despite any of its inherent inconveniences, impracticalities and exorbitant cost, saying I had earned the right to treat myself. He also noted that Pam, my saint of a wife, was way more tolerant of unnecessary and aberrant automotive purchases than his wife was. After the call, I was convinced the GT3 should be my well-deserved Father’s Day gift.

I spoke with David later Saturday morning and Charlie later Saturday night, just before I went to sleep. I had not kept up with either of them since my self-imposed exile from organized Porsche events at the outset of Covid, but I remembered that each had had a GT3 back then.

David, who has many, many cars, including two GT3s, has the same one that I wanted to buy. He extolled the virtues of its 4.0 liter, naturally aspirated, 500 horsepower motor, which redlines at 9,000 RPM. He was glad to hear that the GT3 had the option that electronically lifts the front end, making it possible to get in and out of almost all driveways without doing too much damage to the undercarriage. He thought it was a good buy, though he said that the 12,000 miles on the six-year-old GT3 would make it a high-milage car, driving home the point that most people look at them more than drive them. He is no exception to that rule. As I do not drive everyday, anyway, I thought I would fit the mold.

As the day wore on and before I spoke with Charlie, Jeff called. He was in his car with his wife and adult son. He went on to say that they had seen the GT3 while John had it, and they told me how wonderful “my new car” was. I continued to feel good about my impending purchase.

At 10:30 Saturday night I spoke with Charlie. Charlie has fewer cars than David does but drives each of them more. He is over the top when it comes to his Porsches. The day I met him, over a decade ago, he told me he did his own oil changes, going as far a leaving his cars on a rack overnight to ensure that every drop of old, dirty oil came out of the engine before he put the new oil in. He went on to tell me that he thought my Porsche at the time was running rich because he felt the color of my tail pipe was too black and not brown enough. Though I felt a tad violated, I realized he meant well and was a purist with an in-depth knowledge of Porsches. it was the start of a beautiful relationship. I expected Charlie to be irrationally positive about my need to buy the GT3. I was wrong.

He told me he sold his GT3 after a couple of years of ownership. I was shocked, as he was so into it the last time I spoke with him. When I asked him why, he said, “I never was in position to use the 500 horses, to rev the engine to its redline. I thought the car was too powerful and that the risk was too high to drive it hard enough to have fun with it.” He went on to say he thought it was a great car, but not for him. He bought a second Boxster Spyder and was much happier. It was a sobering conversation, reminding me that my Cayman GTS, which I adore and really do not want to sell, performs a lot like his Spyder did. My Cayman, which has about 65% of the potential of the GT3, has way more potential than I can utilize. I went to sleep second guessing my decision.

I woke up today, Father’s Day, realizing that I was not going to buy the GT3. Everything Charlie said resonated with me. It was too irrational to buy it. I just didn’t need it. Moreover, I just couldn’t use it enough to justify it.

I confirmed those thoughts when I took my Cayman GTS into Beverly Hills this morning, thoroughly enjoying the short trip. My plan was to go to Rodeo Drive to see the annual car show, and then have brunch with John and his family, as Pam spent the night at Shelby’s, babysitting the grandkids. Walking to Rodeo Drive, I saw several GT3s parked on the streets, noting that I did not feel the tug or the need to have one. It was liberating, and I thought I was over my bout of irrationality. I was wrong about that, too.

As I strolled down Rodeo Drive enjoying the world-class cars on display, I started thinking about how to spend all the money I saved by not buying the GT3, reminding me that my irrational side still needed throttling.

For the past four years, I have spent most of my time—living, working and playing—within the four walls of my house. It has become a cocoon, one I leave less often than I should. For a while, cocooning was novel. Then it struck me as kinda funny. Something to make a joke about. Something I named hermatitis. Then it stopped being funny. Now it’s worrying me.

I have never been the most outgoing guy, but at least I was going out, leaving my house frequently, seeing other people on a regular basis. That changed with the start of Covid. Obviously, I was not alone. The whole country was in lockdown.

Pam, my saint of a wife, and I adhered to the rules of lockdown—mostly. We defined our lockdown bubble to include the market and our older daughter’s house, which Pam made sure we visited every week. We saw one other couple on a social basis every month or so, always sitting outside. Other than that, we were housebound, meaning we stopped going to work, the gym, concerts, movies and restaurants, and stopped seeing the remainder of our friends. I stopped seeing my cronies from the Porsche Club, as I no longer went to Porche Club events, including Cars and Coffees and organized backroads drives. Hell, I even stopped going to Luftgetkült, the granddaddy of all air-cooled Porsche shows and the one I had had my cars displayed in for several years.

I accepted the lockdown limitations with equanimity—not the cause, just the result. I took to them easily, like a duck takes to water, like a hot knife cutting through butter. Lockdown enabled me to simplify my life, as I no longer traveled for work, left at zero dark thirty to exercise at Equinox, fought traffic or waited at restaurants.

There was even an unexpected, though much appreciated, upside to the lockdown: We had more time to spend with our children and grandchild.

I tried using food delivery services a couple of times when lockdown started because I was leery of going to the market. I was nonplussed by the results, though, and I decided to risk going to the market. I minimized that risk by going Sunday mornings, leaving my house before seven. I felt comfortable, as the market was empty at that time. Interestingly, I noticed the same shoppers and workers in the store each week and began speaking to them, wearing a mask and keeping a safe distance. I learned the names of the produce guy and the checker. I talked to them more than I spoke to many of my friends. They became my de facto cronies, as I had few others. I would laugh to myself about the absurdity of my situation, thinking how comfortable I was with the lockdown, loving not leaving my cocoon, telling people I had hermatitis, the fake disease I created to describe my behavior.

The lockdown ended after about a year, enabling me to do more. I left the house slightly more often. I was no longer concerned about getting Covid because I was vaccinated, had had myriad booster shots, and had not contracted it, even though Pam had had it twice. Pam and I saw a few more people. We ate at more restaurants, though usually outside. We went on vacation. I kept going to the market on early Sunday mornings. The produce guy and the checker continued to be my cronies.

I fell into a rut-like existence. Each week had the same cadence. Each week felt like a groundhog week, with very few changes from the prior one. I lost the desire or need to return to my prior lifestyle. Maybe it was just inertia, maybe it was something worse, but I continued to exist primarily within the confines of my four walls.

My Porsches kept collecting bird shit in my driveway and dust in my garage. I rarely felt the urge to use or clean them. I am shocked that I have driven my 2015 Porshe Cayman GTS, my supposed daily driver, fewer than three thousand miles in more than four years. I buy gas for it every two or three months, and I think it spends more time recharging its battery while it sits idling in my driveway than it does on the road. My feet have covered more miles than it has.

I spend my workdays staring at my computer, looking at spreadsheets or people on Zoom calls. I eat lunch by myself almost every day, which has the upside of enabling me to save money and keep my diet clean. I never call anyone to go out, though I will grudgingly go if I get an invitation, which my friend, Jeff, gives me every month or so, invitations that usually require me to clean one of my Porsches.

Until recently, it felt comfortable. Now it concerns me, as I live like a fucking hermit, and it’s not so funny anymore.

Worse, as seventy is the next mile marker on my road trip through life, I feel like I am squandering my remaining quality time, which is dwindling at an alarming rate. I feel it’s time to emerge from my cocoon, leave my house, relegate the produce guy and checker from crony to acquaintance status and, most importantly, find new cronies.

Thankfully, I have a few potential cronies in mind, but I will have to pay a pretty penny to elevate them to crony status. At a time when I want to reduce my workload, thereby reducing our income, and when Pam is set to retire, further reducing our income… and when I should be husbanding cash… I plan to spend more money, rent a vacant office in my friend’s suite of offices—a suite he shares with two other guys who I know and have skied with for years, and who can return to crony status overnight. On the surface, this office space is a waste of money. It’s not like I need an office—I don’t—but I need cronies, and I need to get out more.

I would like to take credit for the plan, but I can’t. I owe it all to John. Last month, I called him to wish him a happy birthday. He was hanging out at the beach with his wife on the big island. After I delivered his birthday wishes and got caught up on his vacation, he asked me if my ears were burning. With some trepidation, I asked, “Why?” Laughing, he told me that he and his office mates had discussed asking me to rent their vacant office. I got the sense they thought—somewhat appropriately—that it would be difficult to pry me out of my cocoon.

John, who I have known for over fifty years and is more like a brother, is the consummate salesman. His first part-time job was selling Yellow Page ads. How many people could do that? He could… and was good at it. He knows how to push, prod, cajole, deflect, all the while staying on the right side of the line, stopping just short of being irritating. I knew this was important to him and would be his current raison d’être, his sales pitch du jour.

As we spoke, John dropped into sales mode, telling me to think about it. No pressure. Sure. He pointed out why it was a win-win-win situation. He needed an office mate. Pam needed me out of the house after retirement. And, most importantly, I needed to get the fuck on with my life. He was right, and I knew I would do it, but I wanted him to work for it. So, I said, “Thanks. You make good points. I’ll think about it. Talk to you later.”

We talked again before he got back. Of course, the conversation revolved around the vacant office. I heard all about the win-win-win. Not to mention the lack of pressure. Sure. I remained non-committal, enjoying the process.

The following Sunday morning John drove up and parked in front of my house, unannounced and uninvited, but not unwanted. I didn’t realize he was out there, sitting in a Guards Red Porsche 911 GT3, the one he babysits for his son-in-law, the one with the racing bucket seats that are so hard to get in and out of, the one he wants me to drive.

Instead of knocking on my door, he chose to call me. When the phone rang, I was in the bathroom, bent over the sink brushing my teeth. If the water hadn’t been running, I would have heard the sublime exhaust note of the Porsche. Spewing toothpaste, I answered his call on my Apple watch. The connection was not great, but I heard well enough to converse with him, “You’re where? You want me to do what? Drive the GT3? Sure, but I need to get out of my pajamas and finish cleaning my teeth. It will take me a couple of minutes.”

Pam, possibly overhearing our conversation, but more likely hearing the Porsche, went outside to say hello. I should have known she would. When I was heading to the front door, I yelled, “I am going to drive the GT3.” I got no response and did not see her, so I went outside.

Pam was leaning over with her head in the open passenger window. She was laughing. I knew I was the subject of her laughter. I knew John had told her it was in her best interest if I rented the office, that the last thing she needed in retirement was to have me underfoot. He knew she would support his cause. I knew it, too. Game over.

She stood up as I approached, smirking as she said, “Have a nice drive!”

I did.

It strikes me kinda funny that after 50 years I am choosing to return to the belly of the beast. I define the beast as a UCLA writing class, the last one of which I took began in January 1974, the second quarter of my freshman year. That class was the dreaded, at least to me, English Composition class, a requirement for all students, a class in which I was lucky to earn a “C,” and a class in which my writing was subjected to ridicule by the TA on numerous occasions. Yeah, those comments still rankle and my psyche still bears the scars.

The reason I took that class during the winter quarter was that UCLA deemed my skills in English, specifically with respect to writing, to be too weak to allow me to take English Composition without first taking the Subject A English class as a prerequisite, a class I never even got credit for taking, as it was deemed remedial and not worthy of counting towards anyone’s degree. I never understood why UCLA opted to name the class Subject A. I would have thought a better title would have been Subject D (for dummies) or Subject R (for remedial) or some other equally demeaning title. I must have done okay in the class, though, because UCLA let me into English Composition afterwards.

In case I have not made this abundantly clear, I did not like to write at that stage of my life. Frankly, I could not conceive of a future in which I ever would. I chose to become a math/computer science major because I thought it would enable me to avoid writing one page more than absolutely necessary while earning my degree. I did not think too hard about the choice. I selected it when I was at orientation, a month or so prior to entering UCLA. It took me all of a minute to make the decision and check if off on the form. I knew I was pretty good at math, but I had never written a computer program, so it was a somewhat risky option. It’s not like math or computer science graduates made much money back then. So I did not pick it for the job opportunities. During my four undergraduate years, I never once thought of changing it. It turned out to be a smart decision made, to a large extent, based on a stupid reason.

So here I sit, 50 years later, having just signed up to take a writing class at UCLA Extension. I realize it is not part of the UCLA undergraduate curriculum, but that distinction does not matter to me, as this class still has an instructor, it still has assignments, and I still perceive it as returning to the belly of the beast. Ironically, this time I am choosing to enroll. Thanks to the ravages of inflation, I am choosing to pay more for this single class than what my family paid for tuition for my entire first year at UCLA. I want to take it. I am interested in it. Dare I say it, I am taking it because I have developed a passion for writing.

What the hell? How did this happen? What ended my desire to avoid writing? When did writing become one of my hobbies, an enjoyable way to pass the time without having to watch tv, peruse social media, or, God forbid, play golf. When did I discover that my brain felt good while I was writing? That writing was fun. That I liked filling a blank screen with words. The simple answer is, “I have no idea.” And, frankly, I have no need to know.

That does not mean that I am completely comfortable with taking a writing class. even one at UCLA Extension. Far from it. Now, I write when I feel like it. I write when I have something I want to say. I write to tell stories that are meaningful to me. I write to make myself happy. Taking a class may force me to add structure to my writing, to write more often than I wish to, to write to meet the expectations of others, to write about subjects of which I do not care. In short, it may make writing less of a hobby and more like work. I hope that does not happen.

Thankfully, I do not have too long to dwell on any of those thoughts, as the class starts next week. Soon, I will be firmly ensconced back in the belly of the beast, hoping to escape it without any more ridicule or scarring of my psyche.

it’s the end of the year, and I know it. I think I feel fine, but at my age, who’s to say what’s lurking right around the corner. I guess time will tell, but that does not alleviate my year end concerns.

I find myself in a rather introspective mood in dealing with my bout of neoannophobia, or fear of the new year. Fueling my thoughts were the Grateful Dead, specifically a live version of Ramble On Rose which was recorded at Winterland during the final show at the legendary venue before it closed on December 31, 1978, to make room for condos and a Burger King.

I am not sure what led me to listen to Rose, as it is not a song I listen to often, and frankly, I am not much of a Deadhead. I, however, realize that the lyrics are damn near perfect for year-end phobia driven musings, as I was trying to get mentally prepared to enter 2024. So perfect, that I had to replay Rose several times, thereby extending my retrospection.

Somewhat predictably, my curiosity about Winterland did not stop with Rose, and I somehow ended up listening to The Band, another group I do not listen to often. Now the The Last Waltz concert, with its bluesy, Americana feel, downloaded in lossless audio, is playing on my KEF wireless speakers, as I tap the keys on my keyboard and ruminate about 2023.

At 68, soon to be 69, I have yet to bow to the realities of my exalted age, but I am standing somewhat less vertically than ever before. I spent 2023 working, though at a lesser rate. I am still running my fractional CFO consulting business and enjoying it. I spent 2023 working out, averaging between five and six workout days per week, focusing on maintaining muscle mass, balance and flexibility so I can still get off the toilet and walk without assistance. So far, it’s working, as I ran about two miles on my tread this morning without falling off. I’ll have to see what happens in 2024.

A couple of highlights of 2023 included the 50-year anniversary of the night Pam and I attended our Senior Prom and 2023 also included the night we attended our 50th high school reunion. The former passed without too much fanfare and the latter was a hoot. The biggest issue I had there was reading name tags, as the font in which the names were printed was tiny and headshots from 50 years ago were not too useful in helping me recognize the faces of the people at which I was peering.

Our kids and grandkids are doing well, and we get to see them often, as we all still live in LA.

After a whole Covid pandemic full of procrastination, Pam and I decided 2023 was the year to bite the bullet and do most of the maintenance on our house that we had been deferring, including redoing our 90+ year old front hardscape and driveway, redoing our 20+ year old kitchen, replacing our rotting 90+ year old living room windows and repainting the outside of our house. Yeah, it cost a pretty penny, but it was worth it, even though we had to pay twice to have the outside painted, as we hated the first color we chose. We had no choice, as Pam thought it looked like baby diarrhea. Sadly, she was not wrong. We have a few more things to do, but I am pretty sure they can wait. If they can’t, we sure can, possibly until 2025.

So much for the highlights of 2023. Unfortunately, there are a couple of lowlights that portend a tumultuous 2024. The cork-like buoyancy of Donald Trump continues to cast a pall over 2024 and calls into question the mental state that exists in our country. The abject assininity of the Progressive Left continues to demonstrate just how much we have to fear from them as well. Now that I am on Medicare, I have to endure the infamous donut hole in my health care coverage. Unfortunately, I have to endure it in politics, too, as none of my candidates will ever get their party’s nomination. Which of course, leaves me wondering if I will ever collect my social security, something I may have foolishly been deferring for the past couple of years.

Of course, I dread 2024 for a couple of other reasons, not the least of which is the splintering of the Pac 12, a conference I have followed since the 1960s, and it makes me feel like my splintering is destined to be right behind it. Additionally, Pam is retiring in mid-2024, which will be great for her, so Iam happy about that. I still have to come to grips with how I want to spend my quality time remaining, and while that is weighing on me, I can put it off for now. Of course, I have yet to identify any New Year resolutions I want to make for 2024.

As I listen to The Last Waltz playing on my KEFs, Neil Young just sat-in with The Band for a version of Helpless. Seems sort of fitting.

Happy New Year!?

With all due respect to Pete Seger, for the past couple of decades I have been asking myself, “Where have all the Golden Delicious Gone?”

My earliest apple fixation was with the Golden Delicious apple cultivar. Its taste profile just resonated with me. It was not too hard. It was not too soft. It was not too sweet. It was not too tart. Its skin was not too thin. Its skin was not too thick. For me, it was damn near perfect.

I ate them throughout the 60s, 70s, 80s and most of the 90s. They were easy to find at the market with their distinctive yellow skin. At some point, they started getting to the market while they still had green skin, a sign that they were picked before they were ripe and then stored. No matter how long I let the green ones sit at home, they never ripened into a yellow color and they never tasted right. Needless to say, I was not fixated on eating them. I did not like them at all, and I had a hard time finding any other apple cultivar that I did like.

It is sort of odd that I couldn’t find an apple to eat. There are over 7,500 cultivars of apples, with about 90 or so in commercial production, meaning that there was a high probability that I would find one I liked. Sadly, until recently, I never could. In fact, I just skipped eating apples altogether, unless I ate some Granny Smiths I had put into an apple pie.

I used to listen with envy as Pam and Kimberly discussed apples. What they liked. What they didn’t. I don’t remember if Shelby contributed to the conversations because all I remember about Shelby eating apples is her spitting out a mouthful of apple as she exclaimed, “Ugh, that sucks!” I could never contribute except to complain about the lack of yellow Golden Delicious apples in the store.

To some extent, the Golden Delicious cultivar was a freak of nature. It was found in the 1890s in the eastern US as a chance seedling of either a Grimes Golden or a Golden Reinette cultivar. It was wildly popular in the early 1900s and maintained its popularity for decades. It is still one of the top 15 apple cultivars in production. It just does not get to the market in a state I will eat.

Many other apple cultivars are based on the Golden Delicious, including the Jonagold, Gala, Mutsu, Pink Lady, and Ambrosia, Opal apples, to name a few. It shocks me that I do not really enjoy any of these varieties. But I just don’t.

One day last year while I was at the market during apple season, I happened to spot a yellow apple. I always look at the yellow apples, hoping against hope that they are Golden Delicious. Generally, the yellow ones I see are the dreaded Opal apples. To me, Opals are just a tease. With their mellow yellow coloring they look like I will like to eat them but their texture and taste are off-putting to me. On that day as a looked at the yellow apples on display and read the sign, I noted it did not say Opal. Instead, it read Lemonade, a variety I had never seen before. Smiling broadly, I bought some.

It’s a good thing I did because they come closer to meeting my Golden Delicious apple expectations than any other cultivar I have ever tried. I really enjoyed them.

It turns out that, unsurprisingly, Lemonades are descendants of Golden Delicious apples. They were cultivated by crossing a Royal Gala and a Braeburn cultivar. Braeburns were created by crossing a Granny Smith and a Lady Hamilton cultivar. The Royal Gala was created by crossing a Kidd’s Orange Red and a Golden Delicious cultivar.

The Lemonade was first cultivated in New Zealand in the early 2000s. As far as I can tell, it first made its way to the States last year when I saw them. As far as I am concerned, it was about time they got here, and I salute the company that is importing them.

So, I am back to eating apples. They are still Golden Delicious, sort of. They just have a weird name.