She won't eat fruit. Not any fruit. Not in any form. Not alone or as an ingredient in a dish. That makes preparing our Sabbath evening meal, which I prepare and she shares with us, a culinary sudoku. I made the mistake once of preparing a Moroccan style meat loaf with fruit. Well, prunes to be exact. She about had a heart attack. I'm sure I could hear her artificial mitral valve cramp. She didn't finish the meal. Hence the following conversation this Friday morn between my wife and me.
Me: Your mother is a neo-Pythagorean.
Me: Beans, but not fruit.
(Wife sipping coffee and perking up.)
Wife: Yeh. All angles.
Me: Well, she's not an equilateral triangle.
Wife: Maybe isolosceles.
Me: Um. Not a triangle at all. She's an irregular polygon.
(Pause. I'm thinking about dinner.)
Wife: Good thing she doesn't know tomato is a fruit.
So went my wife's morning rant about the state of the English language in our local newspaper, after we spent five minutes parsing a five-word summary of the weather forecast for California's Bay area. I am transfixed by the fantasy of little statues of gerunds suddenly springing to life, like Chucky dolls, and running rampant, destroying as they go. Maybe they would migrate to the Bay area and jump off the Golden Gate bridge, lemmings.
Who said and what is the source of the observation that the standard theme of a woman's autobiography is venturing out into the world, and the standard theme of a man's autobiography is triumph of the will?