Oddities and Obsessions

I am not a totalitarian, you probably aren't either, but there are times when our leftist minds linger on a fleeting thought that fatally undermines our morality. This thought is induced, as I'm sure you are aware, by an errant sock.

Stories have been written to explain the missing sock. Some claim that gnomes are responsible. Others suggest that socks may have just fallen behind the dryer. These tales answer the ontological question: Why is my sock missing?

I am far more concerned with the political and ethical implications of this conversation. Namely, how should one judge a sock that is missing its partner. The school of thought, which I tend to follow in my daily life, is one of tolerance. I throw the singular sock in with rest. One big socky family. Beautiful.

The other school, says with fascist efficiency: "This sock is not normal, eliminate it."

Let me just say it right here, with the internet as my witness, "I have a serious addiction to potatoes." There, my secret is out.

It's sad, but I am unable to consume a reasonable amount of potatoes when they are placed in close proximity.

Whether they are mashed, made into gratin, scalloped, french fried, baked, latkes, chips and even tater tots, (I could go on and on), I have a propensity to over-indulge in this tuberous root vegetable.

Even when called a tuberous root vegetable, it still doesn't turn me off. I think I'm a potato ho.

I rank potatoes right up there with butter and mayonnaise.  Spuds and I go way back.

What I don't appreciate is the "unspoken potato rule". Yes, there is one.

The rule is, "we always wait for the main course meal to enjoy this perfect food".

WHY?

Why is a mimosa called a mimosa? The flower is sort of pink and spikey. The drink is spiked...? The drink is actually orange, fresh orange juice and preferably good champagne and it was first served (or first served under the name mimosa) at the Paris Ritz.  But I’m still not certain why it’s called a Mimosa.

Cherries Jubilee is easier to determine.  It was invented by Auguste Escoffier who prepared the dish for one of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee Celebrations in the late 1800’s and paved the way for other fruit flambéed desserts, notably Crepes Suzette which legend has it was created in 1895 at Monte Carlo’s Cafe de Paris by a 14 year old sous chef by mistake – he got too close to a chafing dish and the alcohol caught fire– as he was serving the Prince of Wales who was dining with a young lady whose name was, you guessed it, Suzette. 

First of all, I thought, no, assumed, I was popular, and all kinds of people were going to be asking to take me out to celebrate. I didn’t throw myself a party which I often do, so then I was thinking that some of my party regulars will get that I’m wanting to celebrate with every one of them individually, or in small groups. I’m not popular, I’m delusional.

It started kinda great. Two days before my birthday Robin and Libbie took me for a celebratory dinner at the Palm. Then on my birthday, I woke up to an email from Huffington Post saying the piece I wrote had been posted that day. Which I thought was a great sign because the story I wrote is all about my fear of dying at a young age like my mother. Then a small group of girlfriends met me for lunch on the patio of the Malibu Hotel where I was spending the weekend.   We ate, laughed, and I received some lovely gifts and amazing sentimental notes that I will always cherish. Libbie is re-gifting cards to me from our long friendship. So, there was this loving thing I wrote to her in the 1970’s about how beautiful she is and how much I love her, and on the other side she wrote an update to me. Kimberly wrote a card with words that made me cry (Libbie’s card made me cry too). It was going smoothly.