So. I had an embarrassing moment the other day. I was lunching at Whole Foods, a dangerous proposition in itself. Sometimes, the buffet is a psychedelic experience. Not that I’ve ever had one. The menu there can be so delish you swoon. Then, there are days when you pay $38.85 for lunch and it tastes like cardboard lightly seasoned with powdered plaster of Paris and cat litter.

Darn hippies, infiltrating the food industry.

Anywho. So. To wash down this shoe leather posing as chicken enchilada, I purchased a quart of orange juice and sat outside to enjoy the clouds. Problem arises. I used to refer to myself as a strapping Polish sun god, powerful and laughing at danger. In a couple of days, I’m turning 75. You know. Approaching middle age? Short of using a chainsaw, I can’t twist off the OJ cap. I hate to confess this, but I now carry a pair of large channel locks but they’re in the car, yards and yards away. A fetching, sweet, courteous and helpful Whole Foods young lady passes. She’s easily half my size at about 100 pounds. I asked her if she could go into the store and go to produce and ask Whole Foods’ Tolaf, who carries a sword and shield around and weighs north of 300, if he could take my orange juice to the vise in the back and open the stubborn container.

Sweet as pie, the checker-ette takes the OJ and says, “Here, sir. Let me give that a try!” With a simple twist, the diminutive food engineer opens the bottle.

“There you go!” she says. Reading the astonishment and........

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