Blog #426                                May 8, 2025

 

“Ahab, my captain still moves before me in all his Nantucket grimness.”  Yes, I’m still reading Moby Dick, but I won’t talk about it anymore.  Actually, I’m reading a newer edition.  My older copy, through overuse over the span of the last half-century, has ceased to be considered bound. 

 

We all love to eat.  We all love to go to fancy restaurants and try new things.  I’ve had ostrich (tastes like chicken), wart-hog (tastes like pork), kangaroo (tastes like chicken).  I wonder what an Australian would say the first time he tried chicken.  “Tastes like kangaroo,” I suppose.  In each of those forays into adventuresome eating, however, I knew what I was getting.  But in some of these chichi joints, I haven’t a clue.  A few weeks ago, we went to a new place.  It was beautiful; the food was colorful and architecturally impressive, built into little hills and balls.  And then I looked at the menu and found this:

 

Cassoulet in choux pastry glazed in a cumin and mint ratatouille and topped with a chiffonade of brussels sprouts, arugula and kale.

 

Did you know there is no such thing as arugula?  Arugula is actually the sound someone makes when trying to swallow a brussels sprout.  Back to the cassoulet:  I had no idea what this stuff was and I was not about to order a wart-hog in a poke.  Restaurant people, listen up.  Tell me what I’m getting – in some form of English I can understand.  I don’t really care if the food is parboiled, blanched or bruised; just tell me what it is.  Truthfully, some of the food at these places is exotic to read and sumptuous to look at.  But eat?  Arugula!

 

This fancy new restaurant was neat

I sat in a comfortable seat

I admired the venue

Then read the whole menu

And couldn’t find one thing to eat.

 

Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you are well.  Did you know that May is National Older Americans Month?  I think most of them forgot. 

 

And speaking of forgetting, the other day I was looking through some old pictures.  Remember pictures?  We used to take pictures of our families standing in front of the World’s Biggest Ketchup Bottle or just being cute on the couch.  I have travelled with picture-crazy people who insist on having a waiter take a picture of the four of us at every restaurant.  We used to have these pictures “developed”; then we’d put them in a scrapbook or throw them in a basket.  Now everybody keeps their pictures on their phones and printed pictures are as rare as birds on Guam.  Did you know there were no birds on the island of Guam?  The snakes have eaten them all.  Am I not just a bottomless cornucopia of useless what-nots? 

 

Anyway, I still have my basket of old pics.  You should go look through your old pictures some time.  I bet I can predict exactly what you’ll say when you look at yourself ten or twenty or thirty years ago.  All you women will say, “OMG – look at my hair!”  And all you men will say, “I still have that shirt.”

 

One of those old pictures shows me wearing a big medal around my neck.  It was some fake, touristy thing.  I don’t have any real medals.  Come to think of it, though, why not?  Don’t I deserve one for 57 years of devoted service?  The Supreme Order of the Husband!  It should be beige (for insignificance) with the Latin words “votum est mandatum meum” (“your wish is my command”) emblazoned across the bottom and the semblance of a closet door with a big X over it.  A few weeks ago, my granddaughter Charley was over and she wanted something.  I said it’s in my closet.  She said, “You have a closet?”  She’s learning fast.  I’d be satisfied with just a plain medal that said, “They also serve who only stand and tinkle.”  The medals, I mean. 

 

I was with a friend the other night who was showing off his Artificial Intelligence prowess by displaying pictures of his grandkids that his phone’s AI had transformed into superheroes.  He told me to text him a picture of Shakespeare, my cat.  I did, and in a matter of seconds, he displayed Shakespeare wearing a cape and a mask.  Super Cat.  I liked the look.  Maybe I’ll give Shakey a new sobriquet.  I’ll call him Clark Cat.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been (Much Ado About Nothing).  Of course I’m a Super Cat.  I’m super cute and super soft and super lovable.  And Pops is super dumb if he says anything different.  Purr.

 

Sobriquet, our Weekly Word by the way, means a nickname.  Simple as that.  While looking that up, I found another word starting with S-O.  It was sologamy.  Now, I’ve heard of that word.  Sologamy (rhymes with monogamy) is actually a new trend.  Sologamy is the practice of choosing yourself as a spouse.  I am very pleased and totally proud to say I don’t get it.  All I know is that if I had told my mother I was getting married to myself, she would have said, “That’s nice, Dear.  At least you’re marrying someone Jewish.”  What kind of gift do you give at a sologamous wedding?  A mirror?  Batteries?

 

Next week, Carol and I and my daughter Abby are driving to North Carolina with Abby’s dog.  Chilula is a sweet hybrid puppy.  You know, money will buy a fine dog, but only kindness will make her wag her tail.  She is a mixture of basset, boxer, probably some poodle.  Everything has some poodle nowadays.  Labradoodle, Goldendoodle, everything has a doodle.  I think in the future, dogs will be named for the religions of their owners.  There will be Methodoodles, Buddhadoodles, Hindoodles, Muslimdoodles and even Jewdledoodles.  See, that’s what you get when you give a keyboard to an old man with a disturbed mind.  Sorry.

 

And that’s enough for one week.  I don’t want you to hurt yourself laughing so hard.  Don’t forget Sunday is Mother’s Day.  So a very happy and healthy Mother’s Day to all you mothers out there and to anybody who has ever had a mother.  Stay well and count your blessings.  I’ll see you in a week.

 

Michaeldoodle                         Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com