Two days ago
it looked like nearly everyone usually reading my blog had jumped ship on me.
Sailed off to the land of striking for better subjects.
Or more social action.
Or at least as much controversy as whether you can wear tennis shoes with a ball gown
if you are elected prom queen.
The truth though,
as I later discovered,
when reading other bloggers,
apparently with the same problem,
was that everyone on blog
was apparently just plain in a stinking bad mood.
Maybe something to do with the rain.
But still, when you read your husband your blog,
and he asks if you have a jar of peanutbutter somewhere…
And your comment section contains elements
roughly reminiscent of Dante Alighieri’s:
“abandon hope, ye who enter here…”
You suddenly realize:
time for a topic full of hope.
That, as someone once wrote,
“nobody can’t not like”
And here, since I have gotten hit with this cultural identification marker several times,
and still find it marvelously funny,
including a first confrontation with Edinburghese:
a Chinese mother, Italian father,
and Edinburgh dialect speaking son,
all trying to ask the idiot if she would like jelly for desert.
With mushy peas and white sausage?
It was jello.
And nicely done it was.
Which brings me to the point.
Half of what interests me about jello,
when it does,
is the memory factor.
Comfort as a child with a sore throat.
Throwing cubes of it at school,
when the state board decided if you put tomato juice in jello it is a vegetable.
Shocking Germans with it in the form of golden glow salad-
lemon jello with pineapple and grated carrot.
when injured, make it with less sugar,
and eat jello.
That to me is growing up.
Knowing what makes you feel better and doing it.
Like dancing in the rain to the beach boys,
remembering beautiful moments,
and recreating them, if you can.
Just don’t toss the jello on anyone else.
Or neglect the ones you are responsible for.
Or yourself, of course.
And as for growing old?
cereal with cream,
The seven ages of woman.
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