I’m no Marlin Perkins

nor Jacques Cousteau, as much as I love the sea…

Nor Jane Goodall…

The Julia Child of Chimpanzees…
I mean, she taught the world about them, I’m not suggesting she cooked and ate them

Guardian of the sea

Nor even Steve Zissou, although we’re getting a little closer…

But the wildlife on Banner Avenue tonight was not to be believed. I came home from visiting my parents in Santa Monica and was met with so many crickets in the driveway I thought I’d walked into one of the plagues of Egypt. Then, near the bottom of my stairs, I was met with a black widow that looked just about like this:

…its red hourglass was a beacon of impending doom and death, so I ran upstairs, wondering where Jeff Corwin was when I needed him…

…and I was confronted by Tom Buchanan.

Angry!

No, not the Oscar nominee and father of Laura Dern actor Bruce Dern, but a local cat, who’s been stalking the cat I live with, Myrtle Wilson. Like the Dowager Countess of Grantham

disdainful

Mrs Wilson was not amused.

Daisy, Daisy, Daisy!!!

I paid all due homage to the cat and then I grabbed a bottle of 409 (I don’t keep spider repellant in the house) and rushed, Ellen Ripley-like, where I sprayed the spider and stomped upon it without mercy. And I sprayed my shoes and the stairs and all around the house. Joan would be very proud.

The widow had an egg sac with her, so I felt a little Pol Pottish eradicating the family-I know Hagrid would be horrified-but whenever I think of black widows, I think of John Connolly’s The Killing Kind, and if you read the prologue to that, you’ll hate spiders more than sharks.

Sharks, on the other hand, really are the Mothers Teresa of the maritime world, and have always gotten the fuzzy end of the lollypop.

Let’s try the missionary…

An exciting end to a relaxing afternoon. Mother, father, sister, b-0-l, niece and I had a lovely white wine flight with a perfectly delicious dinner, and gazed through the family albums. And my Dad’s become friends with an artisan baker, so I brought home olive bread, ciabatta, and brioche. If the French peasants got some fresh brioche, the revolution would have been a little different. I still wish Jeff Corwin would show up, but that has little to do with spiders…

He’s dreamy…

About What would Julia do?

Being timid and meek like Dorothy Gale, I have surprised myself by starting this blog. But a few people have suggested I do so, so there it is. I love to eat and I love to drink, so although this blog could be about almost anything I choose to type, there's likely to be a lot about what you put in your mouth. Why the title? Anyone who knows me knows my reverence for Julia Child. I don't think it's hyperbolic to say that our country's interest in the culinary arts would be all but non-existent but for Her. I would not attempt to count the number of people who have cited Her influence in their lives and careers. What Atticus Finch is to lawyers, Julia Child is to the cook, be s/he servantless or professional. Honesty demands me to say that it is not simply Her advocacy of GOOD FOOD that has immortalized her; She had the happy circumstance of coming into her own at a time when media was in her favour. We can all be thankful for that. I would name Julia Child as the patron saint of second starts, but I'm a happy heretic. Julia's dogma goes beyond the kitchen: She has famously stated that "[y]ou've got to have the courage of your convictions..." Her statement applies as equally to any part of one's life as it does to flipping a potato gallette. I will conclude by noting I have my own personal trinity of Js--Julia, Judy Garland, and Joanna Rowling. Please refer back to that part about my being a happy heretic.
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2 Responses to I’m no Marlin Perkins

  1. Erin Gibson says:

    Oh Padric, I read this before drinking coffee this morning. I have tears in my eyes from laughing so hard. I always love looking through those photo albums.

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