The Rich Man’s Omelette

A few days ago I wished my picture book critique group a good summer and sent this as a good omen for getting lots of reading done—

© Summer Reader by SHELAGH DUFFETT

One of my critique buddies  responded with, “I want to be where this gal^ is.”

I thought how I am exactly where this reader is.

I mean, almost.

I do have cats, and one of them will jump on my lap, though never when outdoors. She’s too dignified for that, I think.

I do have a view of the bay if I walk a few blocks up the hill.

I have good books to read. Maybe I would read more if the to-be-read pile by my bedside was not so dauntingly tall.

And when I’m sitting by the blooming plants, it’s not to read, but to weed. I told you it’s an almost.

I do have a tree in the backyard I lean against. I do so when I’m tired of yard work.

All of that got me thinking about the old story of the rich man’s omelette.

A poor man returned home and told his wife he’d had the most amazing meal at a rich man’s house. The wife, eager to replicate it, asked what it was.

“We’ll need some eggs,” the man began.

“We’ve got that!”

“And some butter,” said the man.

“Well, we don’t have butter. But I can use margarine.”

“And some French cheese, such as Boursin or Pont-l'Évêque, ” the man added.

 "We don't have anything like that, " the wife said.
"What do we have? " the husband asked.

“We’ll use Velveeta,” the wife said.

“And we'll need fresh shallots,” the man continued.

“Onion power will do fine,” the wife says.

As they sat to eat, they had to agree that it was, well, almost.

 

This made me resolve to at least now and then try and narrow the gap between the summer reader above, and my life.

Be nice to yourselves, out there.