I told my sister, “Your plaque in the
kitchen is right. It is bon
appetit, as in “tee,”

but I still like bon appe-tit. Hey,
I only passed French because
Ms. Wonderlick,

yes, that’s right, Wonderlick
really liked me. I was the cutest
college kid

you would ever meet. I would
come into class and say,
“Good morning, Ms.

Wonder-LICK,” with the emphasis
on the last syll-Ah-ble. And she
would say,

“It’s bonjour, my sweet.” And I
would say, “Peut-être,
bonne nuit,”

thus securing a “C,” for which
I was the most grateful guy
in a front row seat.