Consider the Egg

In Chicago to open a restaurant, I was invited to dinner with my friend Elizabeth and her parents. Elizabeth’s father, Dr. Pepper (no lie), had just completed a crazy-difficult robotic arm techno-surgery. He hurriedly gave us some scant details before turning to me and asking how the restaurant opening was going.

The robotic arm story was left on the table while they asked question after question about kitchens and sous chefs and menus and servers’ shoes and pasta. I kept thinking we were missing a great conversation about the future of health care and that the trivial workings of a restaurant opening were best left as server fueled pub-fodder.

But I get it now. I get that people who spend their days wielding robotic arms with someone’s life in the balance may absolutely need to talk about how you go about mashing fifty pounds of potatoes. People who spend their days wielding computers in fuzzy grey cubicles may need it even more.

And so I’m Doris Day. I will sit at my piano in the embassy and belt out my song of quince, meatballs, cocoa and eggs until your poor little kidnapped souls can run freely down the stairs into the yolk colored sun.