Chick Wit

By Lisa Scottoline

Certain smells bring back memories of Mother Mary. 

Among these are Estée Lauder Youth Dew perfume, More 100’s cigarette smoke – and mozzarella.

Not exactly sentimental, but there you have it. 

You can trust that all the memories of The Flying Scottolines will be related to carbohydrates.

Let me explain.

The other day, I was walking through the food court in the mall and I caught a whiff of a distinctive aroma. 

Bad pizza. 

Specifically, frozen pizza.  

By way of background, my mother was a terrific cook, especially of Italian food.  She made us homemade spaghetti, ravioli, and gnocchi from scratch.  As a child, I spent hours watching her.

And it took hours.

If you’ve ever watched anybody make homemade spaghetti, it’s a domestic miracle.  A loaf of dough that somehow ends up being rolled out and then fed into a spaghetti maker, coming out like flour-y tinsel. 

Same with ravioli, because she mixed the ricotta cheese and seasonings according to her own secret recipe that had a tangy cheesy salty taste I could never duplicate and wouldn’t even try. 

And when she made gnocchi, she started with the dough, but rolled it out into long skinny tubes, cut it into little chunks, and then floured her fingers and pinched each chunk, making the special dimpling that marks the best gnocchis – made by hand, dimpled by fingertips.

The problem was pizza.

When we were growing up, I wanted to be like the other kids, who got pizza delivered or had somebody go pick up pizza and brought it home.  We never did that, because Mother Mary felt that since it was Italian food, it would be heresy to buy it at a restaurant.  But she had no interest in making homemade pizza, and who could blame her, so she would buy it frozen at the Acme. 

Or as we say in South Philly, the Ac-a-me.  

She bought a no-name brand in a plastic bag, with ten small pizzas stacked on each other, as appetizing as hockey pucks.

She cooked it at home.

For three hours. 

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but she overcooked the pizza every time, refusing to follow the directions.  She wouldn’t even let me follow the directions.  It was her kitchen, so she did the cooking, which meant that our pizza always sucked. 

And let’s be real, back then, it was the dark ages of frozen pizza.

In fairness to Mother Mary, overcooking was the only chance that frozen pizza had of drying out, otherwise the crust stayed soggy and the tomato sauce distilled to hot ketchup.

So as I entered high school, I ended up at a friend’s house and they ordered pizza from a great neighborhood pizza place, Marrone’s.

I was hooked.  

So one night, when Mother Mary wanted to make frozen pizza, I told her about the magic of store-bought pizza at Marrone’s, but she wasn’t having any.  We fussed about it, but amazingly I persuaded her to give it a try.

Mother Mary was delightfully stubborn.  You could move the Mummers up Broad Street easier.

So I went to Marrone’s, bought an actual take-out pizza, and brought it home.

Mother Mary opened the box, and we all waited in suspense while she slid out the first piece and cut the mozzarella strings with the gravity of a surgeon servering an umbilical cord.  She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and then said with a wink:

“I knew it would be better than frozen.”

From that day forward, we ordered from Marrone’s.

And I forgot all about that story until I walked through the mall the other day, and smelled the mozzarella.

I knew that somewhere, Mother Mary was winking.

Grief is funny that way, bringing back the good and the bad, the funny foods and the dumb fights. 

And most of all, the love.  

That never goes away.   

And the best of it is homemade.  

Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2016

By Lisa Scottoline

Everyone is talking about the exorbitant price of gas, as well as groceries like eggs, bread, and produce.

You know what I’m worried about?

The price of cake.

I can’t even believe it.

Last week, my best friend Franca was nice enough to send me an entire chocolate cake, because I was talking about how much I love it and she’s such an amazingly generous person who would do something that wonderful.

As soon as I got the cake, which came delivered in a cardboard box, I opened it up to find the most delicious-looking cake ever, with glistening chocolate icing topped with orange and black jimmies for Halloween.

To me, every holiday should be about saturated fats.

Why should kids get all the sugar?

But the receipt for the cake was taped to the back of the box, and I caught a glimpse of the price.

Thirty-five dollars.

What?

That’s a lot of money for cake.

You shouldn’t get sticker-shock over baked goods.

Gas is one thing, but carbs? 

They’re all I want to eat, all day long.

To be fair, I’d already noticed the price of cakes going up, but thirty-five bucks has to be an all-time high.

I remember when cake was under ten dollars, then it went to twelve, then it zoomed sky-high, like my cholesterol.

I mean, what gives?

It made me think of Marie Antoinette’s quote, “Let them eat cake!”

Would she say that if she knew how expensive cake was?

At this rate, we’re going to have to eat vegetables.

And that’s going to start a revolution.

By the way, I went online to learn about Marie Antoinette and found out that she did not say, “Let them eat cake.” 

More accurately, what she said was, “Let them eat brioche!”

I bet brioche is up to fifty bucks a dozen, because it just sounds expensive.

To return to point, I cut a big piece of the chocolate cake Franca gave me, which probably cost five bucks right there, and it was delicious.

I put the rest in the freezer.

Maybe I should put it in the safe.

I might be able to pawn it even.

And if you hadn’t noticed, pie prices are crazy, too.

Pies used to be cheap, and I always get pumpkin pies around this time of year. They used to be eight bucks, but now a pumpkin pie will run you six dollars a gallon.

My favorite pie isn’t pumpkin anyway. 

It’s pizza.

Remember, pizza is a pie.

As in, pizza pie.

Pizza is just its first name.

Pizza prices have gone up, too, but in the end, I will pay anything.

Cake, pie, and pizza are necessities.

And I always freeze my saturated fats, because otherwise I will eat them in one entire sitting. 

Even so, they call to me from the freezer, and I think about them all the time.

Nowadays people call this food noise. 

I call it food music.

It’s the soundtrack to my life.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Is it me or is it fruit?

Here’s what I mean.

I don’t know when anything ripens anymore.

Except for me.

Believe me, I’m plenty ripe.

In fact, I’m overripe.

I’m practically dying on the vine.

But to return to topic, I didn’t have a decent peach all summer, and this is why:

I couldn’t figure out when it ripens.

I would buy the peaches and bring them home and they were hard. I let them ripen in a bowl on the counter, but in one day, they were not only ripe, but spoiled. 

They had brown spots everywhere and weird fuzz.

This also describes my face, but nevermind.

I figured that a fly got them and I remembered you’re supposed to

put them in a brown paper bag to ripen. So I did and then I checked on them the next day.

Spoiled again, even fly-free.

Meanwhile the peaches cost a fortune because I was buying organic. 

So I thought maybe that was the problem, so I got the nonorganic kind. They looked normal enough and they were hard, so I assumed they were unripe. But just to check, I took a bite into one when I got home, and it was brown inside.

Wait, what?

And the other three non-organic peaches started to implode, getting soft spots all over, like cellulite.

Not that I would know what that looks like.

So I gave up and finally bought pears. They were hard when I brought them home, and guess what happened.

Week One, they stayed hard.

Week Two, they stayed hard

Week Three, and guess what. If these pears were men, I’d marry them.

If you follow.

So bottom line, I’m a person who used to eat a lot of fruit but can’t anymore because I can’t figure out when anything ripens.

And don’t get me started on watermelons.

The problem with watermelons begins at the very store.

Because I have no idea of how to tell if a watermelon is ripe or not.

You can smell it, pump it up and down, and try to mush it between your hands like a basketball, but it remains a mystery.

I just take my chances.

All summer long, I lost out. 

I’d bring home a watermelon one week and open it to find it was soggy inside. 

I bring home another watermelon the next week and it would be a weird light pink.

Nobody wants to open a watermelon and see pale pink.

It’s like a ball of veal.

Horrifying and disgusting.

I tried small round watermelons, but they were just as bad.

I tried seedless watermelons, but they were just as bad.

I had a similar problem with oranges, in that I could never get a good one, but I don’t think it was about ripeness. At first I thought I was mistakenly buying juicing oranges because every orange I got was juicy, but flavorless. There was no sweetness to anything. 

And the color wasn’t a true orange, but shade more like my lowlights, which need to be redone.

And now that it’s autumn, apples are no better. 

I read somewhere that any apple you buy in a grocery store is a year old before you even get it, and maybe that’s true. I bought some the other day, which were allegedly Red Delicious, but they were neither Red nor Delicious. 

I took a bite, and the inside was mealy. 

Not a good meal.

Same with the Yellow Delicious, but they were at least yellow.

So I don’t know what to tell you.

I’ve lost my mojo with fruit.

Instead, I’m turning to chocolate.

Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

I try to confine my crushes to emotionally available men.

Bradley Cooper, for example.

I’m pretty sure he would be very emotionally available, as a man.

I know this for sure, from the movies he’s been in. Like he plumbed the depths of drama when he played a reserved sniper in American Sniper, and right after that, he played an alcoholic musician in A Star is Born.

Like, that’s emotional range.

And talent.

Also biceps.

And these are the factors I consider in selecting my crushes.

But lately it occurred to me that I should try to pick a crush less embarrassing than a global superstar.

Who’s even too young for me.

So I started getting a crush on this hot silver-haired guy with horn-rimmed glasses on Instagram, who had a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, like me.

I have horn-rimmed glasses, too!

We have so much in common!

Like that’s very relatable emotional availability.

If you like dogs, I probably like you.

And if you’re Cavalier-crazy, you might be my next ex-husband.

Thing Three!

Lucky fella.

So I started following this man on Instagram and noticing how great he is with his Cavalier and loving the various tips he gives in his posts, like special ways to pet Cavaliers that they’ll love. For example, in one post he’s sitting behind his little Cavalier who looks just like my Eve, and he said that Cavaliers like it when you massage them under the ears in a circular motion, and his dog looked completely adorable, happy, and relaxed. 

By the way, his circular-massage technique looked excellent.

I couldn’t help but think how many circles of mine need massaging.

I became a fan of his dog, too, because why not? I follow a lot of dog accounts online and even follow accounts of people interviewing people about their dogs. I also follow lots of other animal accounts, like otters, ferrets, groundhogs, hippos, donkeys, and capybaras. I’ve watched videos of beavers building a dam in a hallway and pet rats driving toy trucks.

Evidently I have a lot of free time.

But this man and his Cavalier really captivated me, so I tried this circular-massage technique on my dogs.

It didn’t work at all.

Eve was annoyed, and New Puppy George kept trying to bite my hand. 

I figured I was doing it wrong, so I kept following in the guy, and in other posts he recommended other massage techniques, all of which I tried and none of which worked.

Meanwhile I kept telling Francesca to follow his account because he has great tips for dogs, none of which worked for me but might work for you.

Finally she followed him, then texted me:

Mom, that Instagram account with the ear massage you sent me is an AI generated account! Not a real person and not a real dog!

Wait, what? I called her immediately. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Francesca answered gently. “Did you read the bio?”

“No.” I didn’t, I was too busy thinking about the circular massage.

“It says it’s AI-generated content, right there.”

I reeled. “So this guy doesn’t even exist?”

“Correct.”

I know this is repetitive but I needed it repeated. I generally can tell when an image is AI slop, but I had absolutely no idea. So I had to ask, “And the dog?”

“Isn’t real, either.”

“What about the glasses?”

“Not even.”

I hung up, disillusioned. 

Until I realized it didn’t matter at all. 

By definition, a crush is a product of the imagination. 

So it can be based on someone real or someone imaginary.

There’s no crush rules.

And I mean, let’s be real. 

I’ve fallen for men who weren’t what they appeared to be.

So I’ve been fooled by slop before.

Why stop now?

Or more positively, a girl can dream, can’t she?

Copyright © Lisa Scottoline 2026

By Lisa Scottoline

Another day, another doggy drama.

Thank God, this one ends happily, too.

I tell you that up front because I don’t want you to stress.

These weekly columns of mine exist to make you smile. 

I want them to go down easy, like a cup of decaf, with occasional profanity.

I reassure you upfront because, like anybody with a heart, I can’t bear it if something bad is going to happen to an animal. 

I’m so crazy that I actually consult a website called does-the-dog-die.com before I watch a TV show with a dog. If you didn’t know that website exists, you do now. 

I want everybody happy and decaffeinated.

Plus what happened this week will seem like a rerun, if you read a column I write less than month ago, when my spicy little cavalier Eve ate thirty cherry pits from a bowl that I carelessly left poolside.

I’m not blaming the dog.

I’m blaming myself.

Like I’m the problem, it’s me.

So what happened is that it’s tax time, and I have a wonderful accountant who will come to my house and meet with me and explain my taxes to me. I think I dread this meeting, because who loves paying taxes, but I know it’s necessary because I really want to try to understand more about my finances. 

I have math anxiety, which is a medical excuse for freezing up whenever I hear numbers. 

But I’ve been trying to fight my way through it and I haven’t succeeded at this point, but I’m going to keep trying.

So please understand in my own defense that I was sitting at my kitchen table with my accountant, and he was taking me through my tax return and explaining stuff about business deductions and I was really trying to pay attention, when I started to hear some noise under the table right at our feet. 

Eve was under the table with my new puppy George, also a Cavalier, and they’ve been getting along great which is a miracle. George was an older puppy when I got him, so his transition has been miraculously amazingly easy, and Eve has not tried to kill him, which is its own sort of happy ending.

On the other hand, George does everything she does, and she has led him into temptation.

I never should have named her Eve.

I actually thought about naming the new puppy Adam, but that would be stupid.

But it might have been true.

To return to the story, I heard some noise under the table, and I assumed the dogs were playing with their frisbee. I was trying to focus on what the accountant was telling me, and there were so many numbers I was trying to keep my face looking like a normal person and not a confused person.

But finally I looked down and the dogs weren’t playing with a frisbee.

They were playing with an empty box of yogurt-covered raisins.

I did a double-take. I didn’t know where they came from because I don’t buy yogurt-covered raisins. 

I like raisins covered in chocolate.

Obviously. 

In fact I like anything covered in chocolate. You could cover cardboard in chocolate and you-know-who would eat it.

Unfortunately, it turns out the accountant had a box of raisins in his backpack, and Eve had dug them out for her and her partner-in-crime, and they had eaten them.

Uh-oh.

Raisins are poisonous to dogs. 

So I called the vet right away and they said bring them both in, right away.

You may recall that it was only a month ago that I brought Eve in for the cherry pits, also toxic to dogs.

Luckily my vet did not say, “Again?”

Or, “Will you have the usual?”

Or, “Why don’t you watch your dogs for a change?”

Bottom line, I brought them both in, and they both were made to throw up. The box held between twenty-five and thirty raisins. 

All told, Eve threw up twenty-eight and George threw up three.

So she doesn’t even share.

And we live to tell the tale. 

From now on, I promise to watch the dogs better. 

It’s more fun than watching the taxes.

Copyright  © Lisa Scottoline 2026