Spinach just wouldn’t be as funny
Image by Bob Janes, with permission |
I’m still uploading my flood photos, but want to point out that even when we were being evacuated from our hotel and helping build sandbag levees and watching our plane tickets become useless as the only road to the airport was closed due to flooding, we kept on writing.
Well, and drinking. That was for the anxiety.
We talked about a lot of humor writing last week, and one title that came up was Nora Ephron’s I Feel Bad About My Neck. Kroger’s had the book on sale today, so I bought it. Here’s my favorite paragraph so far, from the essay “Serial Monogamy: A Memoir”:
Just before I’d moved to New York, two historic events had occurred: the birth control pill had been invented, and the first Julia Child cookbook was published. As a result, everyone was having sex, and when the sex was over, you cooked something. One of my girlfriends moved in with a man she was in love with. Her mother was distraught and warned that he would never marry her because she had already slept with him. “Whatever you do,” my friend’s mother said, “don’t cook for him.” But it was too late. She cooked for him. He married her anyway. This was right around the time endive was discovered, which was followed by arugula, which was followed by radicchio, which was followed by friseé, which was followed by the three M’s — mesclun, mâche, and microgreens — and that, in a nutshell, is the history of the last forty years from the point of view of lettuce. But I’m getting ahead of the story.
