I was brought up pretty well, I think, in terms of having (and keeping) principles and honor and honesty. But my parents failed terribly in one regard: I have horrible eating habits. The stuff I love is, generally speaking, the wrong sort of stuff to be eating, and those wholesome and wonderful foods leave me cold. Some of them, cooked squash or most egg preparations for example, actually induce a gag reflex.
Given a choice between eating a fried (or boiled) egg or being water-boarded, I would have to give the matter some serious thought. It’s like the old Jack Benny joke about the time he was mugged. “Your money or your life!” says the mugger. [long pause] “Well?” says the mugger. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” replies Benny.
The irony is that my parents were actually pretty big on veggies. My father had an extensive vegetable garden every summer, and fresh cucumbers, tomatoes and squash were the norm. I hated them all. I can choke down cucumber slices and some tomato bits in a salad, but the operative phrase is “choke down.” (And I actually do like a fresh lettuce salad, but I tend to tart it up with cheese, raisins, sunflower seeds and other goodies. A plain lettuce salad is fine, although with some dressing—bleu cheese; maybe ranch.)
I do like (most) fresh fruit, though. Not big on cooked fruit, not big at all, and that means, are you ready for this, I don’t like pie. (Given what I said above about squash, this goes double for pumpkin pie.) Sadly for my waistline, it’s cookies and cakes that I adore. (Ginger and molasses cookies top my list of irresistible treats.)
Which brings us to peaches. Don’t like them. Fruit shouldn’t be furry, for one thing, and I find peaches (and related fruits, including pears) to be sweet in a cloying way I don’t like. Nor do I care for their pulpy consistency.
However, a fresh peach plucked from a good tree gets into territory where I can appreciate how people could love them. I don’t and never will, but I can see how people could.
A lot of things in life are like that. I can understand why people like them, even love them, but they’re not for me. Sometimes a best-case example, like a truly fresh peach, helps one understand.
I have no segue into the next topic, so hang on while I veer onto a new road.
Anyone who’s ever watched cop movies knows the old trope that, if there is an older cop who is close to retirement, that cop will either die in some ironic or trivial way in the first act, or will die in a tear-jerking way in the last act (aw, he almost made it).
The closer the cop is to retirement, the more likely he’s toast. If it’s his last day, he’s basically the equivalent of a Star Trek red shirt.
The Lethal Weapon movies play delightfully against this trope with Danny Glover’s character who is constantly, “Too old for this shit.” The saving grace, of course, is that he’s one of the stars and needs to survive for the next sequel.
So, anyway, here I am, after 33 years of dedicated service, less than a year from making the numbers that would have let me retire if I wanted to… And, oh my God, I’m one of those cops! (With luck, I’m Danny Glover!)
I really want to go out and buy a bunch of red shirts to start wearing to work. (For those keeping score, the clock is down to three weeks.) Ah, yes, Ensign Smythe! Welcome to the Enterprise; I knew your father well. Why don’t you join us in the transporter room and beam down with us.
Incidentally, as ways to waste time on the internet go, for literate people who love stories (be they filmed, televised, told or read), one of the best possible places to go Wiki Walking is the TV Tropes site.
If you’re at all like me, you’ll need to be very careful. It’s all too easy to look up and wonder why there is now daylight coming through the windows. That used to happen all the time when I was playing video games or doing more full-time programming. Now it happens when I go Wiki Walking or Blog Spelunking.
Same melody; different words.