You weren't around when I was stuffed and sewn together, were you?

For Mother's Day, derspatchel and I took my parents to brunch at Foundry and the centenary extravaganza at the Somerville Theatre. The brunch was amazing. My mother pronounced the beignets the best she'd had outside of New Orleans. I stalked the wild brisket and the French toast and the crepes, which were filled with orange zest crème fraîche (note to self: learn how to make that). When we reconvened for The Wizard of Oz (1939), both of my parents were in formal dress and Rob had put on his black velvet jacket and his new, very terrible tie. The opening vaudeville was great—I was especially impressed by Sir Harry the Juggling Gentleman, who balanced a bicycle on his face, and Mary Dolan, closing out the first act with Sophie Tucker's "Fifty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong." There were two shorts before the feature. (Mickey Mouse's The Band Concert (1935) was appropriately cyclonic.) And then there was a very beautiful 35mm Technicolor print of a film I imprinted on in childhood and had never seen on the big screen. It was wonderful. The audience was enthusiastic, but not ironic. There were an uncertain three or four minutes when the sound broke down shortly after the introduction of the Cowardly Lion, but the house rapidly supplied the soundtrack to "If I Only Had the Nerve" and the following reprise of "We're Off to See the Wizard," and were just starting in on the dialogue in the poppy field when the sound came back. I love Ray Bolger so dearly. The Scarecrow was one of the first characters in a movie I can remember identifying as my favorite.

And then my parents took us for ice cream at J.P. Licks. And we came home and Rob took off his terrible tie and I put more drops in my ears. So I think that all worked out.