Glenn Cochrane: Glenn has a tassel tantrum over denuded veggies

I would like to take this opportunity to say a few words in support of tassels, which the dictionary describes as a tuft of loosely hanging threads or cords attached to various items such as scarves.

In the days of my youth, they were also attached to the woollen caps worn by young girls in the school I attended, and many’s the time my young buddies and I would snatch the caps off their heads and throw them into the nearest snowbank. The irate young ladies would retrieve the items and then proceed to throw us into the snowbanks, but this is a fact that is never discussed at school reunions.

Now you may be wondering where this is heading, and indeed on many occasions so do I, but after rummaging about in my notes, here is the connector. Just about the only place one sees tassels nowadays is on the corn sold at food stores near the family home on Queen Street. Imagine my dismay when I discovered on a recent shopping trip in the Queen and Lee area, two food stores with bins of de-tasseled corn for sale.

I’m not sure if de-tasseled is a word but I kind of like the look of it.

One does not shear the flowing mane of a horse, one does not shave the flowing beards of our ancestors and I say one does not shear the tassels from corn and subject them to ridicule from customers as they pass by the bins in the food section. Corn helped build this country and the least we can do is leave it properly clad when it is seen in public.

If this trend continues are shopkeepers going to paint our good Canadian red cherries different colors in a bid to lure passersby onto their premises? Will celery stalks be tricked up with circles and dots, or will carrots be made to look like barber poles?

These are questions that need to be addressed, and by ginger, Mrs. Cochrane’s little boy is just the guy to ask them.
Meanwhile, as I wait for answers to bubble to the surface, other matters have arisen, and it is time to focus my attention on them.

In a move that I am sure will positively transfix music lovers everywhere, I am pleased to announce that I am learning to play the ukulele. Or ukelele, take your pick, but leave me out of the argument, that is all I ask.

There doesn’t seem much to the actual playing, you just sit there and strum, near as I can tell. But what do you call the person who is playing the instrument? Ukeleleist, ukelelezer, somehow don’t sound quite right, but I am willing to consider any suggestions.

I would like to point out, however, that submissions such as “throw the thing out of the window and take up knitting” will not be seriously considered, and besides, The Wife has already put that one forward.

Speaking of wife-related matters, I wish to point out that a man is not fully assembled until he is married. There are rough spots to be knocked off, and we must be trained to respond to specific commands such as “get your head out of the fridge, you’re spoiling your dinner.”

And that leads me to one of the truly great mysteries of life. How can a wife who is toiling away in the attic know with absolute certainty the very moment that the husband has, in truth, just stuck his head in the fridge?

If your circle of friends happens to include a behavioral scientist, don’t bother asking him that one, because he doesn’t know either. The fact is, chaps, we will never understand our wives and other opponents, and when everything is considered, it is probably just as well.

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