Lovely start to the day. Cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, sunny skies. Feeling particularly well-balanced today in a mentally-healthy-no-especial-need-to-march-on-Montenotte sort of way.

Older Child slogged through room to announce he’d finished Global History assignment on the Ottoman Empire, to which I, ever in possession of the latest nomenclature of today’s youth, responded, “Awesome sauce.” Older Child suppressed the admiration undoubtedly swelling in his breast and continued on slog out the door to driveway to shoot hoops.

Pondering the obvious now: Did Napoleon ever say “awesome sauce?” Napoleon spoke French and Italian but didn’t start learning English until exiled on St. Helena, at which point he gave it the old college try. Count Emmanuel de Las Cases reports: “At about three o’clock, the Emperor summoned me for conversation… He happened to remark by chance that it was scandalous that he could not yet read English… [He] then ordered me to force him to take a lesson every day.”

Which order doesn’t bear thinking about. Used to teach English as a Second Language to grad students and can’t think of a more nightmarish scenario than trying to teach noncount nouns and twelve verb tenses to a fallen military dictator. I had half a class of former East Germans one summer and barely made it to August. Las Cases goes on to say, “The Emperor’s acquisition of English was a real and significant victory,” which tells us nothing because you know who’s filling out the teacher evaluation form. And anyway, they were stuck there. Las Cases had to live with this man.

No, highly unlikely that Napoleon ever said, “Awesome sauce.” Much more likely that he was moved in moments of approbation to utter, “Sauce incroyable!” which is such an appealing phrase that I tried it out at first chance. Older Child slogged back into house and announced he’d just beaten Younger Child at HORSE, and I ejaculated, “Sauce incroyable!” Older Child so vastly impressed that his face froze in expression of absolute neutrality. Am now thinking of responding to Mme. French’s wayward email with, “Sauce incroyable, but you’ve grabbed the wrong address list!” Maybe start up a conversation. You know, with an adult other than the one currently whistling loudly along with Vivaldi’s Concerto for Four Violins in B Minor WHICH JUST FOR THE RECORD ADDS NOTHING TO THE LISTENING EXPERIENCE. Eye twitching. Note to self: Napoleon died at 52, possibly of stomach cancer, possibly of poison, but possibly—just possibly—because boon companion wouldn’t stop with the #$@(*& whistle solos and he just keeled over in despair.