Mike was telling me a story the other day about his experience in a local restaurant. Oh, not restaurant: pâtisserie. Excuse me. That’s French for specializing in pastries, you ee-dee-ottt.
I’ve been in there exactly once, pastry not being my thing. I think someone called a meeting or something, which is how Mike ended up in this establishment the other day. Pastry isn’t his thing either. Not that there’s anything wrong with pastries, mind you. Pastry wasn’t the problem.
Mike was there for the meeting he didn’t call when some hapless guy asked the lady behind the counter for some jelly to go with his croissant.
In my mind the guy is holding his plate up, pointing at the flaky lump – his cress-ant – looking as doe-eyed and humble as Oliver Twist requesting another portion from the workhouse master.
If I ever completely lose my mind, it will be ten minutes before dinner.
My losing my mind is not what this blog was going to be about. It was going to be about my daydream of being on reality television.
My favorite reality show was Frontier House on PBS. Its producers plopped modern families in the Montana outback to live as pioneers. The winner was supposed to be the family that not only survived a summer, but also had adequately prepared for winter by the end of the series.
I think they all failed, not just the family from California with the mom who bawled at the outset when she couldn’t bring her make up kit.
Not enough room in the wagon for mama’s face, apparently.