So why do I hear a cacophony of voices asking, “Who? The WHAT?? What the hell is an echidna?”

That’s not surprising — I had never heard of it either, until I read a fascinating, though somewhat disgusting, news item about one today. It seems that something happened off the coast of North Queensland, Australia, that had never happened before . . . or, at least, had never been witnessed before. A tiger shark was seen vomiting up a dead one . . . a whole, completely recognizable, though unquestionably dead echidna.

Wanting desperately to barf at the thought of what I had just read, I turned instead to Google to find out what the poor, unfortunate, undigested shark bait had been in life. What I learned was that it is also known as the spiny anteater, of which I actually had heard at some point in my life but knew nothing about. It turns out that it belongs to the family Tachyglossidae (you can file that away for use in your next game of Trivia), lives in Australia and New Guinea, and is most closely related — not to the common anteater, as one might logically expect — but to the platypus, of all things.

Most interestingly, though, it — and its duck-billed cousin — are the only living mammals that lay eggs.

Wait . . . what? A mammal that lays eggs? How can it still be a mammal? And that’s not all. About a month after mating, she deposits her egg into her pouch, where it remains for about ten days before hatching into a baby echidna, known as a “puggle.” Now, that is just too cute for words. It’s also weird. That adorable, long-nosed, quill-covered monotreme (egg-laying mammal) is also a marsupial. She has a freakin’ pouch!

I want one of those! I’m a mammal. I don’t lay eggs, but how convenient would that pouch be for other things: keys, lipstick, cell phone, a few dollars in mad money . . .

Reading on, I learned from Wikipedia of other interesting, though fairly gross, characteristics of this little cutie (whom, by now, I have named Sid, just because it seems to fit), such as her diet of insects gathered by “tearing open soft logs, anthills and the like, and licking off prey with their long, sticky tongues.” There’s more, for all you nature lovers who don’t mind doing your own research, but way too much to include here.

Anyway, by this time I was wondering how Sid had wound up in a shark’s esophagus. That mystery was solved when I also read that she and her relatives are good swimmers. Apparently, she just took a dip in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bad move, Sid.

*. *. *

Nicolas Lubitz, one of the researchers from James Cook University who witnessed the unusual upchucking, said that tiger sharks rarely regurgitate their food, though it can happen when they’re stressed. “In this case, I think the echidna must have just felt a bit funny in its throat.”

Yeah . . . I can understand that. All those funny little quills.

But you’ll be relieved to know that the shark, at least, was not harmed by its experience, “and was released back into the water by the team after being fitted with an acoustic tracker.” [Amarachi Orie, CNN Science, June 6, 2024.]

*. *. *

And if that’s not enough for you, you’ll want to learn that the same team had also caught and tagged a different shark that had surprisingly regurgitated . . . not an echidna . . . but half a dugong.

“Half a what??!!!”

Okay, here we go again. For all of us who are not from Down Under, I looked it up. A dugong is an herbivorous marine animal most commonly found in Australia. This particular shark “threw up a big piece of blubber and then a full vertebral column,” according to Mr. Lubitz, who believes they belonged to a dugong calf. I know it’s Mother Nature at work, but I find that sad; they’re rather cute, don’t you agree? (The dugongs, not so much the sharks.)

Now, if you think that echidnas and dugongs are unusual fare, keep in mind some of the other delicacies tiger sharks have been known to devour: “other sharks, fishes, sea turtles and seabirds, as well as . . . garbage including coal, tin cans, clothing . . . bones, license plates, small television screens, and tires.” [CNN Science, id.]

So an occasional dugong must be a real treat for such an indiscriminate glutton. I think I’ll call that shark Henry VIII.

*. *. *

Thus ends our Natural Science lesson for today. And not a moment too soon. [Cue theme from “Jaws”]. I’m never going near the water again.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/7/24

Not much, I’m afraid . . . not since the Russians finished with him.

Roman Gorilyk is a Ukrainian citizen who was working as a checkpoint guard at the Chernobyl nuclear plant in northern Ukraine when he, among others, was taken prisoner by Russian forces in March of 2022 — the early days of Moscow’s war against Ukraine. After more than two years in captivity, Gorilyk was finally released last week in an exchange of prisoners of war: 75 Ukrainians for 75 Russians.

And this one picture says more than any number of words ever could hope to do. It speaks of the starvation, the beatings, and the other forms of torture used by the Russian military in flagrant and arrogant disregard — not only of the Geneva Conventions — but of every law of human decency known to mankind.

And this by the very people who consider themselves worthy of ruling the world. They are Putin’s people, and they continue to prove themselves less than human.

I have nothing more to say.

Brendochka
6/6/24

This is not a criticism of the State of Georgia, or of the American South in general. It’s a beautiful, friendly, happy place (if you can survive the heat and humidity). No, this is a little tale about living — and growing old — in the countryside. And trying to get . . . well . . . anywhere when you no longer own a car.

I’m not alone; I live with family. I’m mentally okay (regardless of what anyone else thinks), but I do have a few physical disabilities. My folks look after me while still encouraging me to be as independent as possible — altogether a good thing. But I gave up driving a few years ago because I felt it was no longer safe for me to try to control a ton and a half of steel and glass when I could no longer even walk without my rollator. So I’m pretty dependent on others to get me where I need to go. Which these days is mostly to doctors, dentist, and an occasional grocery run.

Now, my family have been great about chauffeuring me about. But they work long hours, and I just don’t feel right about constantly asking them to take time off from their jobs to drag me around to my increasingly frequent doctors’ visits. So I recently began looking for alternative arrangements.

We don’t live in a city. We don’t even live in a town. Oh, it has a name; it just doesn’t have anything else. We live in a lovely neighborhood of lovely homes in the middle of lovely nowhere. It’s peaceful, quiet, safe . . . and way off the beaten track. The nearest town of any size is a 20-minute drive. But remember: I no longer drive. And I can’t find my way around these country roads in any event. I mean, where are the buildings and the street signs? I’m a transplant from the big city. And one oak tree looks pretty much like every other oak tree, right?

So you’re probably wondering why this dumb broad . . . er, woman . . . doesn’t just call a cab, or Uber, or Lyft.

Once more:

Because, while they do exist just 20 minutes away, they don’t come out here. At least, they don’t pick up out here. If I call them from my doctor’s or dentist’s office in that 20-minute-away town, they’ll come for me there and bring me home. How I get there in the first place is my damned problem.

That’s right . . . it’s strictly a one-way service for us country folk. Which makes a lot of sense . . . if you’re mentally challenged. So, am I just stuck? Well, almost. But my son wasn’t satisfied with that answer — he never gives up — and he found something called Coastal Regional Coaches, part of a broader service for the “elderly.” (God! How I hate that word!) Anyway, they have these cute little buses, or coaches, and you can reserve a ride 24 hours (or more) in advance, and they’ll pick you up at home, take you where you want to go, and come back for you at the appointed time — all for $5 each way within the same county, $10 inter-county. Now, that’s a bargain! Especially considering that a one-way trip with Uber or Lyft would have cost between $35 and $40, which is actually irrelevant in any case since they won’t come out here to get me . . .

And the coach service does work. Or it did, the one time I tried it. I had the loveliest driver, no other passengers that day, and for $10 round-trip she got me to the dentist and back, right on time. Just a couple of little problems.

First, the service is strictly curb-to-curb; they do not come onto your property, for legal liability reasons. Not to the front door; not even onto the driveway. So we now have at my house — compliments of my very talented son again — a ramp from the front porch to the sidewalk. I can easily manage the short walk from there to the curb (yes, our neighborhood does have streets, sidewalks, and curbs, thank you), but I have to wonder about people more restricted than I am.

Next: How do you know when you’ll be finished at your appointment? Have you ever known a doctor to be exactly on time? (My dentist always is, which is nothing short of miraculous.) But I just allow more time than I think I’ll need, and sit around surfing on Facebook while I wait for the bus to get back.

No, my main issue has to do with the vehicle itself. Aside from the apparent lack of shock absorbers — which, on these country roads with their multiple railroad crossings, can be challenging to one’s bones and bladder — there are three steps up from the street onto the bus. Three big-ass steps. Not little ones. Really high ones. And my knees . . . well, they were replaced years ago, and hauling myself up, even with the dual hand rails, was no picnic. But with a boost from my driver, I finally made it. Happily, getting back down was easier. Not graceful, but easier. Grace is something you stop worrying about at a certain age anyway. That, and eyelashes.

The bottom line is, it did work. And it’s going to have to work again, twice this week. Fingers crossed.

Oh, one other thing. Since I can’t get out to the bank by myself either, I had to work out a way to get a supply of $5 bills, since — rather oddly, I think — the coach only accepts cash, and in the exact amount. So I transfer money (thank goodness for Zelle) to my son’s account, he withdraws the money, and then has to get the $20 bills changed into fives. I keep telling him it’s still easier than taking time off to get me to my appointments. I think he agrees.

*. *. *

So far, there has been a solution for every problem. But it’s not always easy, and especially for one who is accustomed to picking up the phone and having every imaginable service and commodity available in mere minutes. And handicapped access everywhere. There is much I miss about the city: the activity, the easy access to everything . . . though not so much the crime and grime.

And never — not once — did I ever see a family of deer on the back lawn of my high-rise apartment building.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/5/24

And why would I want to?

Well, because the former American martial arts movie hero has turned out to be — and keep in mind that this is a gross understatement — a huge disappointment: a lying, two-faced, seditious, Putin-loving, propaganda-spreading, war-mongering son-of-a . . .

Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to go off on a rant there. But it felt so good. Because if anyone deserves it, he does . . . as evidenced by this picture of him receiving his Russian passport in Moscow some eight years ago:

And here he is, just a few days ago (May 30, 2024), receiving the Order of Friendship from none other than his good buddy Vladimir Putin, in the Kremlin:

In case you’d been wondering what’s happened to Seagal over the last several years — or, more likely, in the event you hadn’t noticed his absence at all — I’ll try to piece it together for you.

This honor — the Order of Friendship — doesn’t pretend to be awarded for courage in battle, or for pulling someone’s children out of a burning building. It is bestowed for the recipient’s “great contribution to the development of international cultural and humanitarian cooperation.” Or so the story goes. But what sort of humanitarian cooperation has Seagal been promoting? And in view of the current state of U.S.-Russia relations, how successful has he (or anyone else) been?

Well, at this very ceremony, upon receiving an honor so great that it had to be presented by the President of Russia himself, Seagal read (from his phone) the following statement, which gives you a clear idea of the nature and extent of his humanity:

“Ukraine was known for human trafficking, organ trafficking, narco trafficking, child sex trafficking, biochemical warfare labs, fascism and nazism . . . And these are the things that we still tried to make them our brothers [sic]. These are all poisons that can affect the entire world and not just us.” [Kelby Vera, Huffpost, May 30, 2024.]

And he went on to raise the spectre of World War III, denouncing the United States and other Western nations for their support of Ukraine:

“This war that we are currently embroiled in was started and financed by the West, and has come to involve the entire world in a fight against good and evil. All religions, all nations and all people should unite instead of being controlled and fooled by the monster of fake press.” [Id.]

My favorite Kremlin Press Secretary, Dmitry Peskov, couldn’t have said it better.

Well, actually . . . he could have. “ . . . fight against good and evil”??? Okay. Sure. Whatever. Who writes Seagal’s stuff, anyway? Certainly not someone who comprehends the significance of “international cultural and humanitarian cooperation.” Or the English language.

*. *. *

But that’s not the issue here. What I’d like to know is: Why? What? And how? Why did he leave what had been a successful, and presumably lucrative, career in the U.S. for Russia? What turned him against his country? And how did his head get so screwed up that he actually believes the drek he repeats with such conviction? He even has his own martial arts center in Moscow, where he trains young Russians headed for military service.

*. *. *

A Russian citizen since 2016, Seagal was appointed in 2018 as “a special representative of the Russian Foreign Ministry in charge of Russian and American Humanitarian ties.” [Id.] And, as a sign of their true and enduring friendship, he was even honored to attend the inauguration ceremony for Putin’s fifth term in office last month. Impressive stuff. Still, how did it all begin?

According to a man named Bob Van Ronkel, it was all his doing. Described as “the Forrest Gump of U.S.-Russia relations,” Van Ronkel has been introducing American celebrities to Russia and other former Soviet republics for the past two decades through his company, Doors to Hollywood. [Tim Mak, NPR News, July 3, 2018.] Says Van Ronkel: “I was hired to bring Steven Seagal to perform with his band for another event with President Putin, so kind of was responsible for that introduction, and Steven becoming best friends with him.”

Well, both Putin and Seagal are into martial arts, which would have been a perfect conversation starter. And apparently, Putin is something of a show biz groupie; he seems to think that — despite his outspoken disdain for the West — mingling with the Hollywood elite lends him a certain . . . what? . . . Panache? Credibility? Sex appeal?

As for Seagal, perhaps the fact that his U.S. career was pretty much in the toilet as he grew older and heavier led him to search for a place to reinvent himself, and meeting Putin was the ego-boosting event that did it for him.

It’s just too bad he didn’t opt for an audience with the Pope instead; he might have found religion, rather than a cockeyed political ideology.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/4/24

It’s been going on for a while now, in — of all places! — Korea. I guess it hasn’t been gory enough to warrant a headline, or at least not for me to have paid attention . . . that is, until yesterday, when it was reported that North Korea said it was stopping the “deliveries” for an unspecified amount of time. So, of course, that was just tantalizing enough to encourage my reading further.

To begin with, there is no need to panic. There have been no nukes, no missiles, no drones. Nary a rifle fired nor a grenade lobbed across the Demilitarized Zone. Just balloons. Low-tech, gas-filled, trash-bearing balloons. An estimated total of 15 tons of the stuff over time from North to South, including the hundreds most recently released and received before the announcement of cessation.

And when they land with a “splat” . . .

Now, according to Kim Kang Il, North Korea’s Vice-Minister of Defense, the whole thing was started by South Korea years ago when it began sending balloons into the North with anti-North Korea leaflets enclosed, and that this was “strictly a responsive act.” “We’ve let the South Koreans experience enough of how dirty it feels and how much joint effort it takes to clean up spread-out rubbish,” Kim said. [Kathleen Magramo and Gawon Bae, CNN, June 2, 2024.]

As I see it, though, the problem is that the North Koreans didn’t just respond with more leaflets. They sent real trash, and most recently included some used toilet paper (yuck!). That’s just not nice . . . and it’s a potential health hazard. So an official from the South Korean presidential office has pledged that his country will take “unendurable measures . . . [to be] specified in the coming days.” And just as I’m thinking about the possibility of something like . . . oh, say . . . flaming balls of fermented kimchi, he says that they “will not rule out the issue of resuming [playing] loudspeakers,” which they used to do in order to blast propaganda across the DMZ (but which was discontinued in accordance with a 2018 military agreement). [Id.]

*. *. *

Now, I have to tell you that I absolutely love this. These “Trash Wars” are a civilized way of both sides getting out their anger and frustration without anyone being killed or seriously hurt. And it’s not only cheaper; it actually creates jobs for the balloon manufacturers and the street sweepers. Plus, just imagine what a treat it must be for all those fun-starved North Korean children, who undoubtedly have been recruited to fill the outgoing balloons with gas and launch them toward the South.

I’m telling you . . . it’s a win-win situation. It’s just a pity no one thought of it sooner. Think of how much death and destruction could have been avoided in Ukraine, Israel, Gaza . . .

*. *. *

Now, about the recipe for those flaming balls of kimchi . . .

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/3/24

Yet another Sunday has rolled around without any of Vladimir Putin’s HOSTAGES having been released. There is, of course, further news from Moscow of purges within the military hierarchy; a turncoat American actor/martial arts expert who has swallowed the Kremlin’s propaganda whole, and is himself spewing it worldwide; and various other inmates running the asylum. But I’ll deal with those separately. That is not the purpose of this Sunday issue.

*. *. *

So please — once again — let us not forget the HOSTAGES, still wasting away in various Russian prisons and penal colonies for the simple act of disagreeing with Vladimir Putin’s excessively onerous edicts. It is for them that this regular Sunday posting is written.

To those known . . .

Vladimir Kara-Murza – HOSTAGE
Evan Gershkovich – HOSTAGE
Paul Whelan – HOSTAGE
Ilya Yashin – HOSTAGE
Robert Woodland Romanov – HOSTAGE
Boris Akunin – HOSTAGE
Marc Hilliard Fogel – HOSTAGE
Asya Kazantseva – HOSTAGE
Ilya Barabanov – HOSTAGE
Alsu Kurmasheva – HOSTAGE
Aleksandr Skobov – HOSTAGE
Antonina Favorskaya – HOSTAGE
Oleg Orlov – HOSTAGE
Boris Kagarlitsky – HOSTAGE
Oleg Navalny – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Karelina – HOSTAGE
Ksenia Fadeyeva – HOSTAGE
Lilia Chanysheva – HOSTAGE
Vadim Ostanin – HOSTGE
Sergei Udaltsov – HOSTAGE
Konstantin Gabov – HOSTAGE
Danuta Perednya – HOSTAGE
Olesya Krivtsova – HOSTAGE

. . . and those hundreds of others whose names remain unknown to me . . . you are not forgotten, nor have you been abandoned. The fight continues on your behalf.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/2/24

This is what I usually look like by 11:45 p.m.: hastily giving my blog post for the following day one last read-through, checking those notes, tweaking the grammar, the spelling, the punctuation . . . all of those little compulsions that make me the pain in the ass you all know and hopefully love anyway.

And here I am tonight:

I got nothin’. I guess it happens to all of us from time to time. Even the pros run dry, so an amateur such as myself should expect it now and again. It’s frustrating, but I’ll get past it.

And so to sleep, perchance to dream . . .

Oh, crap! Now I’m plagiarizing! I told you . . . I got nothin’.

TTFN,
Brendochka
6/2/24

That’s not possible. I mean, it was just Christmas, wasn’t it? And the start of the brand new 2024, when everything was all bright and shiny and going to be better than crappy old 2023? What the hell happened to the last five months?

Well, face it — they’re gone. And things aren’t better, generally speaking. We’re still mired in inflation that has us cutting back on luxuries like . . . groceries. People are dying of thirst in India, while the heat wave in Texas was broken by a 50-degree temperature drop and a deluge of hail. China has decided that if their friend Russia isn’t invited to the Swiss conference on Ukraine, they won’t go either. And the United States has a convicted felon running in the next presidential election. It’s a crazy, whacked-out world, and all the discarded calendar pages don’t seem able to fix it.

But . . .

I have found a silver lining, of sorts, at least for one day. Because it turns out that June 1st is a day for commemorating quite a few cool ideas. So paste a smile over that glum face, and let’s begin with . . .

National Pen Pal Day. Considering that no one under the age of 60 has likely heard of a pen pal, let me explain. It was the precursor of today’s email buddy or social media “friend,” perhaps someone you have never met but enjoy exchanging thoughts and words with. The difference is that we used to write with a pen, on actual paper, and send the letters through the mail in envelopes with postage stamps on them. And we used complete sentences, and mostly correct grammar and spelling. But since no one seems able to write any longer — certainly not in cursive! — forget it. This day should be scrubbed from the calendar.

Global Day of Parents. We already have — in the U.S., at least — Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. But a global recognition of the blood, sweat and tears that go into raising one or more children would be a nice thing. Although there seems to be less real parenting these days than in my childhood, so this one is up for debate. If you’re one of the lucky ones who have great parents — one, two, or more of them, of whatever gender identity — then by all means, count your blessings and celebrate them today.

National Say Something Nice Day. This should be every day, but it seems to be harder and harder for people to do. Maybe it’s our role models: actors, sports stars, musicians, journalists, royalty, and especially world leaders and politicians. What the hell is wrong with everyone? I’m trying to find something nice to say right now, and not having any luck. Screw it.

Dare Day. Okay, here’s one: I dare you to find something nice to say. Right now. Don’t hesitate, don’t overthink it. Just spit it out. Ha! Not so easy, is it?

National Skincare Day. Well, that’s lovely. I’m not sure how much good one day of taking care of your epidermis will do, but maybe it will feel so good it will become a daily habit. In any event, it can’t do any harm, and it could even give you something nice to write to your pen pal about.

And by the way, I do believe June 1st is the official first day of hurricane season, isn’t it? Whoop-de-do for that one! We now have six months of waiting for the next name on the list to head our way.

*. *. *

Now, if none of those events move you to waves of rapture, there’s always tomorrow, June 2nd, which looks like fun. We have, among others:

National Cancer Survivor’s Day. At last, something to truly celebrate! Seriously.

Leave the Office Early Day. Wait a minute — that’s a Sunday this year. Stiffed again.

American Indian Citizenship Day. Uh . . . weren’t they the original American citizens? That just sounds insulting.

National I Love My Dentist Day. Yeah, sure.

And finally . . .

National Bubba Day. I’m afraid I don’t know a single soul named, or nicknamed, Bubba. But I’m going to spend tomorrow looking for one. It’s a great name. (Do you suppose there’s really a Bubba Gump?)

*. *. *

So have a terrific weekend, everyone. Pick your favorite celebrations, kick back, and enjoy. And don’t forget to say something nice to your parents. Maybe tell them how good their skin looks.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
6/1/24

The Russians are coming . . . Well, maybe. Maybe not. But just in case, we had better be ready.

Such is life today in the former Soviet Republics of Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania (among others). In Latvia specifically:

“In places where once not even border posts disturbed the landscape, earthmoving equipment is currently carving a trench down the boundary between Baltic NATO and Russian territory.” [RFE/RL’s Northern Realities, May 29, 2024.]

For decades, the free people of Latvia have lived peacefully despite the presence of the Russian bear, and its puppet Belarus, immediately next door. Many areas are primarily Russian-speaking, due to the fact that there were only Russian schools allowed prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union. Residents of Latvia crossed the border into Russia without difficulty in order to shop for less expensive goods, or simply to visit. Other than immigration checkpoints established to control a recent influx of illegal emigres attempting to cross from various countries across Russia and into Latvia, there were no serious issues . . . not even after Latvia’s accession to NATO some 20 years ago.

But the coronavirus pandemic and Russia’s invasion of Ukraine have changed all of that. The Baltic nations are once more on alert.

The busiest checkpoint on Latvia’s eastern border is located at Terehova because of the highway that runs directly east from there to Moscow, and the proximity of the area to Belarus. In 2019, a fence was built to block the illegal immigrants. And now, Riga is implementing its “eastern border reinforcement plan,” which will include major military fortifications, anti-tank trenches, and the like. [RFE/RL, id.] Recruitment posters for new border guards have been placed around the village of Terehova.

Many of Latvia’s citizens still do not consider that there is an increased danger of an incursion by Russia — at least, not in the near future. Others, however, are more than a little concerned; they see the war in Ukraine — once also thought to be unlikely — as an omen of more of the same to come in Putin’s never-ending thirst for “reclaiming” the lands he delusionally believes to be his. They know that Russia’s protestations of good will are meaningless; time and time again throughout history, they have proven themselves to be, at the very least, shall we say, two-faced? . . . cunning? . . . deceptive? . . . double-dealing? . . . underhanded? . . .

At the very least.

And so the Latvians have begun their preparations for the worst-case scenario, hoping that it will never happen, but not content with blind faith.

*. *. *

In 1966, the immortal classic film “The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming” [United Artists] made light of the very real, very serious geopolitical situation known as the Cold War.

But were that imaginary scenario to become a reality today, it would be no laughing matter.

Ask any Ukrainian.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/31/24

We’re all guilty of it. No matter how much we love our French fries, our chips, and our loaded bakes, we all tend to take the foundation of those culinary delights — the humble potato — for granted. It is, after all, just a dirt-covered lump of starchy calories dug from the earth: a root that requires considerable manipulation and imagination to become even barely edible.

And for the most part, it’s just a side dish anyway . . . unless of course it’s a loaded baked potato smothered in some form of protein such as chili con carne and gobs of cheddar cheese with an added insult of sour cream shimmering on top, all sprinkled with some crispy crumbled bacon and chopped green onion.

Okay, now I’m really hungry! But I digress . . .

So who would have thought that, in a world overflowing with exotic delights such as caviar, truffles, and haricots verts (those impossibly skinny little French green beans), the potato would have been chosen to have its very own day — and an international day, at that? Well, it has been . . . and by no less an exalted institution than the United Nations!

Now frankly, I would have thought they’d be too busy dealing with issues like, well, the wars in Ukraine and Gaza, or China’s gun-toting robot dogs (wrote about those yesterday), or the world’s never-ending ecological disasters, to worry about the humble spud. But they’re not; and with good reason.

Because in a world plagued with both natural and man-made disasters on a daily basis, the kartoffel (that’s Germany’s, Russia’s, and a few other countries’ name for it, though with different accents) stands out as one hell of a life-saving, famine-preventing, economy-boosting miracle. Just ask the Irish of the mid-19th Century . . . or at least the ones who didn’t die of starvation when the potato crops became infected with one of those unpronounceable blights.

At any rate, to honor this surprisingly nutritious hunk of Heaven, the United Nations last year decided that henceforth May 30th each year will be known as International Potato Day. And from the good folks at the U.N. we now know — those of us who didn’t previously realize, myself included — that there are some 5,000 varieties of the incredible pomme de terre (that’s the French name, which somewhat whimsically translates to “apple of the earth”); and that it is adaptable to many climates, making it a vital crop in the effort to combat hunger and malnutrition throughout the world.

Did you know that one medium white potato (with skin) contains a whopping 620 mg. of potassium, 45% of the daily requirement of Vitamin C, as well as niacin, folate, manganese, magnesium, phosphorous, and Vitamin B6? And it also brags of low greenhouse gas emissions . . . though if you smother it with a heaping helping of that chili, you may soon be emitting enough of those deadly gases yourself to offset the original benefit to the environment.

But never mind . . . I digress again, and in a somewhat inappropriate direction. Sorry.

Thus, on December 16, 2023 (the birthday of Ludwig von Beethoven, by the way . . . a bit of trivia apropos of absolutely nothing), the United Nations resolution was unanimously adopted. The leading force behind the resolution was Peru, where our subject — the potato, in case the pictures weren’t enough of a reminder — is affectionately known as the papa. And that country is itself home to thousands of potato varieties as well as — and I did not know this either — the International Potato Center. Not surprisingly, the UN decision was hailed by the Food and Agriculture Organization — of which I also had never heard, but which sounds like an altogether good thing.

And so today we celebrate for the very first time . . . drumroll, please . . . International Potato Day. I suggest we all grab, at the very least, a Peruvian flag, a bag of potato chips, and a glass of our favorite liquid refreshment, and munch away. Somewhere in the world, a potato grower will thank us.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
5/30/24