While waiting for my lacerated finger to heal and my soup to warm up, I’ve taken to watching snippets of the Senate’s interrogation of Judge Brett Kavanaugh, 45’s choice to fill the seat of retiring Justice Anthony Kennedy.

Judge Kavanaugh’s Wikipedia playbill describes him as being a pit bull of Republican politics (as an attorney he worked for bigger pit bull Ken Starr) and “played a lead role in drafting the Starr Report, which urged the impeachment of President Clinton.”

I’m afraid that this is all far above the pay grade of a writer who’s ingesting 2,000 milligrams of Cephalexin antibiotic pills a day with daily afternoon decaf, nonfat, no-whip mocha.

Seen through the medicated fog, Judge Brett appears well mannered and neatly attired, but, of course, he’s a nominee for the U.S. Supreme Court, and like major award show nominees and felons appearing before judges in night court, it is important, as my mother always said, to “make a nice appearance.”

In this case, nominees know that once confirmed, they’re going to be on the cover of six magazines come Friday, all the talk shows and late night comedy spots, and then postcards, Christmas cards, and eventually gift calendars.

I see that he has a nice haircut, not that that means anything. Richard Nixon was always well groomed, and his bad-boy Vice President Spiro Agnew always looked spiffy.

I can’t see Kavanaugh’s nails from here, but he probably had them done in the Senate barber shop before the hearing instead of in one of those shops at Walmart or at the mall.

However, the nice thing about the shop at Walmart is you can pick up personal items there afterwards, like toothpaste and toilet paper, current magazines and cigarettes.

Aha! I woke up just in time to see them return from lunch. I wonder where they dined? Is there an Applebees or Olive Garden nearby?

I get the feeling, just by looking at him, that Judge Kavanaugh is probably a fussy diner, the kind of fella that sends the soup back if it’s not hot.

I’ll bet they had lunch in the Senate dining room. That’s kind of a tradition.

I’m told that the food there is always good. The soup du jour is the traditional navy bean soup.

My brother-in-law, the late Maine state Sen. and Waterville Mayor Cyril M. Joly, had lunch there when he worked for the late Richard Nixon, and he said it was super.

As a favor for my readers, here are the ingredients for that famous bean soup:

2 pounds dried navy beans

4 quarts hot water

1 1/2 pounds smoked ham hocks

1 onion, chopped

2 tablespoons butter

Salt and pepper to taste

The ham hocks are a must.

I see Pat Leahy, D-Vermont, is there. I always liked him. Diane Feinstein, of course, is present, and that good old Southern boy (not the one 45 called “mentally retarded dumb Southerner” — that was Jeff Sessions) Lindsay Graham, who is hoping he’ll be up for the next vacancy.

Dick Durbin, who once called Judge Kavanaugh the “Forrest Gump of Republican politics,” is here, and there’s Kamala Harris, who keeps picking at Kavanaugh’s failure to answer fast enough for her.

The chairman of this inquisition is, of course, Chuck Grassley, the old Iowa corn farmer who looks like he just stepped out of a Willa Cather novel.

The questions all seemed to cover the salient points required for nomination, but I wish they would have asked more personal questions that would give us a better idea of who he is.

1. Nobody asked if he has a dog. That’s primo in my opinion. What kind of dog? Does he walk it himself and what’s its name? Maybe he likes cats. That would lose my vote, but maybe not our Senator Collins. I suspect she’s a cat person.

2. Does he favor briefs or boxer undershorts? That tells me a lot about a fella.

3. Does he drink, and what? I need to know that right off.

At any rate, given the political climate at the moment, the judge looks like a shoo-in. Oh well, it’s time for my next Cephalexin and Band-Aid change. Soup for dinner?

Uh-oh! Wait a minute. The judge is being paged for a phone call. Who is Professor Christine Blasey Ford? Hang up, Judge; hang up. It’s a trick call.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.

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