Maybe next year

When the Nobel committee first contacted me I was taken aback. I was also shaving.

"Can I call you back in, like, five minutes?" I said. "If the soap dries out I have to start all over."

"Den er verkligen helt viktig..." I heard the voice saying as I hung up.

I really don't need this right now. We have two huge projects going at work and— In retrospect I probably should have asked what category. I think today is Peace Prize day, but that seems like a stretch. I mean, have you seen me trying to break up the kids? If there's a prize for pompous bellicosity maybe I've got a shot. The other night I tied the boy to his chair with my belt until he ate his vegetables. Alva Myrdal I'm not.

Figuring I'd have to talk to the press eventually, I called the editor of Popular Science.

"How come there's no Nobel Prize for Meat?" I asked. "I smoked a 10-pound brisket last week that was beyond."

"It's funny you bring that up," he said. "I just got back from headquarters in Stockholm, home of said Prize committee. The big meal the first night of the conference, prepared by one of the country’s top chefs"—here he made the "Bork! Bork! Bork" sound—"was billed as barbecue. Pork, chicken and beef. It was grilled, not smoked, but it was stupendously good."

"What is your point?"

"I'm just saying, it’s not as though the Scandinavians don’t appreciate a good piece of meat."

Ultimately I called the committee back and declined. We are just so busy. I'm trying to finish this arbor in the backyard and before you know it we'll be back to Standard Time.

"Listen," I said, "I appreciate it. I really do. But this is a mistake. I haven't really accomplished anything yet. Maybe someday, when the kids are grown and I finish painting the back bedroom. But right now it would just be a big distraction. Give it to the next guy on the list. Ha det god."

So I'm free tomorrow. Hoops at St. John's? We tip off at 8:00 a.m., as usual. Let me know.