No, not because I’d watched the horrors of war, or some bizarre political shenanigans, or anything Covid-related

I had to take a sleeping pill because I couldn’t stop laughing.

We had just watched the first two episodes of “Julia,”  now playing on HBO Max.  There’ve been other shows about Julia Child but this one, well,  you have to see it to understand.  Sarah Lancaster, who plays Julia, IS Julia Child, reincarnated in-full. And what a joy she is.

As it happened, we were living in Boston in 1962 when Julia first came on the scene at WGBH.  And, yes, that’s a little personal connection for us but it’s not remotely necessary to slurp up this new show with a big spoon and savor every delicious bite.

The new “Julia” takes us back to her early days at WGBH when most of the male-dominated leadership couldn’t see her appeal.  They fought tooth and nail to keep her off the air.  However, and happily for the world, the Big Cheese had some thoughts of his own.

As it turns out, both he and his wife had seen the “demo” and his wife had consequently declared an interest in French cooking and vowed she would faithfully watch and learn from Julia.  The Big Cheese quietly listened to his staff’s negative remarks, assessed their various concerns, and finally said: “My wife’s cooking makes me sad and fearful.  If Julia can help with that, nothing else matters.”

And with that, Julia got her show. The rest is history.

Sketch of Julia thanks to NewYorker.com

No, let me be clearer.  It was absolutely none of my business but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have some thoughts about it.  So here goes.

There were six of us at lunch earlier this week.  A friend had been visiting and we were gathered to tell her how much we’d enjoyed seeing her and how much we hoped she’d come back soon, if not sooner.

A family of six came in shortly after our arrival and were seated near us.  There were two grandparents, two parents, and two kids somewhere in the 5-7 year old range.  They’d barely been seated when earphones (nearly as big as the children’s little heads) and I-pads were placed on and in front of the kids.  And there they stayed for the duration.

I suppose we should have been grateful that there was no screaming, yelling, fussing, stomping, and all the other annoying stuff kids do when they’re forced to sit for too long.  These kids were essentially mute and invisible.  Stoned, if you will, on their devices.

It was truly none of my business but still I kept a close eye on the scene.  Discreetly, I hope.  I know the kids didn’t notice because they were aware of nothing outside their electronics.  They were perfect little children.  Seen, but not heard.

Hmmmm…..

Is that the way it is now? Like it once was way back in the good old days? All the way back to the 15th century? When a fusty old clergyman, named John Mirk, first coined the phrase that children should be seen but not heard? I certainly hope not. We need young minds and voices in our midst. And maybe, just maybe, they need ours.

Image thanks to Dreamstime.com

And I’ll cry if I want to.  And, cry I do when I see images of Ukraine, its land and its people.  I want to look away but something tells me to watch. To watch at least enough to be aware. To be connected, in some very small way, to their plight.

No, I don’t wish to dwell on what’s going on over there.  But, when I’m out with others, be it lunching, meeting, walking, talking, I come away empty when not even a simple acknowledgement of that war has been made.

Well, you say, let’s please not put a damper on our time together.  It’s a grim subject and we’re here to have fun.  Besides, there’s really nothing we can do.  Right?

Right you are.  But, if we can’t bring ourselves to acknowledge the reality of this war and its terror, then what else is missing in our gatherings?  Can’t we take a brief moment of silence, offer a suggestion of what we as individuals can do, and collectively speak of the courage and bravery of the Ukrainians? I know that I, for one, would take some comfort from that.

It’s such a little thing and surely not too much to ask in the face of a world crisis.

Well, it wasn’t her given name but it’s what everyone called her.  Even her children, of whom The Mister was one.

Dux had strong feelings about many things.  Ice cold gin martinis got gold stars. Her own special chocolate icing and hot dogs, prepared in a double boiler (dogs simmering in the bottom, buns steaming in the top) were also top notch. The Pittsburgh Pirates could do no wrong and there was nothing good to be said about the Yankees.

And then there was Phil Mickelson.  Oh, how she loved Phil.  Wherever he went, Dux was there in spirit.  She followed his every step and stroke.  She cheered when he won and was truly sad when he lost.

And, boy, am I glad she’s not around to see the trouble Phil’s in right now.   She’d be mad but, more over, she’d be sad. 

We think of Dux today and know exactly how she’d feel about Ukraine.  A world-wide traveler and a WAVE during WWII, she’d be deeply concerned and very sad. 

In 1784, Robert Burns wrote the poem “Man’s Inhumanity to Man.” Now, here we are In 2022 suffering from ONE man’s inhumanity to man. It’s hard to believe and also terribly, terribly sad. Dux would be the first to agree.

We stopped slurping our coffee and started laughing as we read a headline in our little newspaper back in January. It said: “GROUP PUSHING FOR MOUNTAIN BIKE TRAILS IN BEAUFORT COUNTY”

Whoa, we said to ourselves.  Have these people ever been to Beaufort County?  They really want “mountain bike trails” here?  Here, where, not for nothing, we’re known as The Low Country?  Here where the elevation is somewhere around a twelve inches at its highest?.  Here where ” Flat as a pancake” best defines our topography?  

We chuckled at the mere and seemingly ridiculous idea of mountain bike trails here, on this sea-level Island. What are those people thinking?  Or smoking?  We chortled, snidely as I recall, at their naivety and ignorance.    Mountain bike trails, indeed!  When pigs fly! Or donkeys. What nonsense, we said.

We were wrong, of course.  As we so often are.

Had we continued reading beyond the headlines, as we hadn’t, we’d have learned that that the group is simply asking for “trails” for “mountain bikes.”  As opposed to “trails on mountains” for bikes.  Big difference.  We swallowed our chuckles, ate some crow and reminded ourselves to stop jumping to conclusions quite so fast.

I hope they get their trails.  It sounds like fun.  Good family fun.  Exactly what Beaufort County is supposed to be all about. Our apologies to the group. We hope they carry on with their mission. If they build it, people will most definitely come.

Who were those icons of food?  Who were the real people behind the products we’ve known for so long?   The ones who’ve been on our grocery lists and in our pantries for so many years? Just exactly who were Uncle Ben, Aunt Jemima and Mrs. Butterworth?  And why do we care at this point?

Uncle Ben was a Black Texas farmer.  He later became a waiter at a fancy Chicago restaurant and was known for his ability to grow rice.  His name was Frank Brown.

Aunt Jemima’s real name was Nancy Green.  Born into slavery, she became a sought after cook and later the trusted face of Aunt Jemima products.

Mrs. Butterworth, born Thelma “Butterfly” McQueen, was, among other things, the actress who played Prissy in “Gone With The Wind”.

They are all now labeled as stereotypically racist. It’s time for them to go.  Time for their faces to be removed from the packaging and new, noncontroversial names given to their products. All of that in order to reflect our political correctness. And yes, we get it.  How could we not?  But with that change, an important period of history gets erased.

“Uncle Ben’s” became simply “Ben”s”.  “Aunt Jemima” morphed into “Pearl Milling Company” and “Mrs. Butterworth” awaits a new name. All so bland and unremarkable.

And we muse:  Is Paul Newman in jeopardy? How about The Green Giant and the jaunty Planters Peanut man? Or the little Morton’s salt girl? Are they politically correct? More importantly, who decides? So, hang on to your hats and tighten your apron strings. It’s a slippery slope out there in grocery-land.

That’s the question the thoughtful and dedicated therapists ask when I take The Foot to physical therapy.  Sometimes The Foot can do what they want it to do.  Other times, not so much.

The newest trick these people want The Foot to do is pick up a pencil from the floor by curling its toes around it.  The Foot balks at this.  But The Foot’s partner, the other foot, can do it in a snap.   Easy peasy.  Would you like it to write your name with the pencil?  Put it in a drawer for you?  Sharpen it? No problem.  Just ask.

That’s nice, the therapists say, but we’re not here to deal with the “other” foot. We’re all about the one with issues.

I ask if THEY can pick up a pencil with THEIR toes.  Of course we can, they say.  Show me, I say.  Two little words: they can’t.

There followed considerable and lively discussions about whether or not young, able-bodied people should ask old(er), not so able-bodied people to do things they themselves cannot do.

We’ve not settled the matter entirely to my satisfaction, but it was, all in all, a fun and productive physical therapy session.  Proving, once again, that laughter is, indeed, the best medicine.