Sous son tablier

Oh, how I've missed American TV.

Today, while taking a break from cataloging nearly all of my mom's furniture on Craig's List, I indulged myself and in a little boob-time. Plopping in front of the tube, I switched on her old telly and waited for that familiar, magical numbness to overwhelm me.

Virginia cable didn't disappoint. I had surfed no more than 15 channels when I landed squarely on the "Hippie Gourmet" about to share his groovy vegetarian fried rice recipe. While he chopped and diced -- I swear it to you -- psychedelic bell peppers, and mushrooms, clips and scenes from Haight Street and People's Park faded in and out in colorful paisley swirls.

It's no wonder my Ohioan Granddad referred to California as the land of fruits and nuts. Is this really how we're perceived by the non-initiated over here in tobacco land? Represented by an aging hippie dumping organic raw cane sugar on a barbecue in the middle of a metropolis, within a few feet of junkie beggars and pipe shops? Far out.

Thankfully, Madame Stewart's Everyday Cooking show followed, sanitizing the screen of any latent trippiness. Indeed, every demonstrator was in her mid-30's, married (as evidenced by the ubiquitous ring), and sounded pleasantly sedated, with zesty obvious scripted dialog that included, without fail, the recitation of this pre-roasting mantra: "But first I'm going to wash my hands."

I suppose Martha would rather her presenters afflicted with chilblains than her dishes with e. coli. And -- you knew it was coming -- that is a good thing.