I’m sitting at the kitchen table, reading a fascinating web article on the Industrial Revolution and the premise of if the British had dropped the ball, how soon would it happen again. The consensus was, probably never.
My slightly svelte and totally delicious Mrs Chef, is whipping up breakfast as I bend her ear on my take of what I have read. She has a history degree from some hippie commune University on the Left Coast and we tend to have some interesting chats about historical things. I have always had a keen interest in the past, fostered by my Mother’s taste in books. She had a collection of Elizabethan murder mysteries that I burned through after mastering the mysterious black magic of making letters into words. The Weekly Reader was a hard core favorite of mine, and as soon as I got my first library card, pestered the Librarian with my eclectic tastes in reading material. I more than once was told that a particular book that I had requested was “beyond me” or not appropriate to my reading level. It was here, my disdain for authority bloomed. In fact, my mother had to intervene, more than once, by telling the blue haired nazi to “give him the damn book so he’ll shut up about it” or words to that effect. In later years I was the go-to guy for the Trivial Pursuit game.
All of which brings us to this morning’s conversation. After prattling on for a good 10 minutes, I took a breath and informed my wife that I recently awarded myself a Master’s of History and other odd stuff degree. I paused, looked at the wife and asked, “I can do that, right?” She responded, while sliding the eggs onto the toast, “I don’t see why not, when they’re handing out posthumous degrees and sh*t like that.” Alright then. It’s a done deal. Pass the rooster sauce, please.