In matters of the heart,
she was no shrinking Krimpet

Robyn’s Hood
By Robyn McCloskey

While perusing my newspaper the other day, I read with interest Jerry Jonas’ column about the Tasty Baking Co. moving its headquarters from Hunting Park to a new state-of-the-art facility at the Philadelphia Navy Yard.
I enjoy reading Mr. Jonas’ column in the Bucks County Courier Times, because he tends to wax nostalgic on his Philadelphia childhood memories. His piece got me waxing nostalgic on my own Philadelphia childhood memories, especially those involving Tastykakes.
Like every family from Philly, we grew up on them, and like every family, we have our favorites. Mine is the cream-filled cupcakes with buttercream icing. You know . . . the ones with the chocolate stripe down the middle.
When I was in eighth grade, my older brother Scott was a senior. We attended a small school, and at the time, grades K-12 were housed in the same building, which meant I would occasionally pass him in the hallway. More important, I would occasionally pass his friends in the hallway. Even more important, they occasionally would say "hi" to me in the hallway, which, when you’re a peon eighth-grader and a worshiped senior acknowledges your presence, really elevates your social standing.
One of those friends was a boy named Paul Bauer. Paul’s grandfather, Philip J. Bauer, was a baker from Pittsburgh. He had a friend named Herbert T. Morris who was an egg salesman from Boston. In 1914, Philip and Herbert got together and started a baking company in Philadelphia. Their modest beginning is known today as the Tasty Baking Co.
At some point, Philip J. Bauer’s son, Philip J. Bauer Jr., took over the family business. And at some other point, Philip J. Bauer Jr.’s son, Paul Bauer, said "hi" to me in the hallway.
And that’s when I fell madly, deeply and permanently in love. Or so my little 13-year-old heart thought. Paul had blond hair, blue eyes and a killer smile. He was always nice to me, and even pretended not to notice the times I was so nervous around him that I could barely speak.
One time my brother was going to the Bauer residence for a small get-together. He took me along. I forget why, although I’m pretty sure that begging, pleading and tears were involved.
One of Paul’s brothers owned a llama. It spit at me. Had I known llama saliva was involved, I might not have pressed so hard for an invite.
A few years after that, my brother got married. Paul was in the wedding party. I was in the wedding party. "Please oh please God, let Paul be my escort!" Never let anyone tell you that God doesn’t answer a prayer.
Many, many, many more years later I had gotten over Paul and was happily married to a man with brown hair, brown eyes and a killer smile. Apparently I’m a sucker for a killer smile. My husband was in school, working toward his master’s degree. One day he came home with a bag full of Tastykakes. Someone on the board of directors at the school, he explained, worked for Tastykake and always brought some in for the students to enjoy and take home to their families.
About a year later we attended a small dinner party, and that Tastykake-toting board member was going to be there too. As I entered the room, I noticed a dapper older gentleman with thinning blond hair, blue eyes and a killer smile. He introduced himself to me as Phil Bauer. I introduced myself to him as the girl who used to have a crush on his son Paul. I also told him how nice his son was to me all those years ago, but that I still held a grudge against his other son’s llama.
He told me Paul was happily married, had a couple of kids and at the time was working in the family trade. I told him I was happily married, had a couple of kids and that we all appreciated the endless supply of Tastykakes at the school.
He smiled that killer smile. As the evening ended, I asked him to tell Paul I said "hi". And that the next time he leaves Tastykakes at the school, to please make sure there’s plenty of those cream-filled cupcakes with the buttercream icing.
I may have gotten over his son, but to this day, those cupcakes are still too hard to resist. ••
Robyn McCloskey’s column appears each week in the Northeast Times. She can be reached at crmccloskey@verizon.net