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"An Outstanding Mediocrity"

A near-contemporary of Plato, Mediocrates was a fourth-century BCE Athenian philosopher best-known for his controversial teaching that one should avoid all extremes.

Mediocrates apparently taught that a balanced life requires conscious effort to avoid standing out from the norm: in fact, the deliberate avoidance of all extremes, even extremes of virtue. In this, he differs from virtually all of his contemporaries, from whom the pursuit of aretê, “excellence”, was the ultimate goal of life.

For his doctrine of deliberate non-striving, he came to be known as the “Philosopher of the Middle”; indeed, his very name itself may be translated “halfway up the mountain.”

If Mediocrates wrote down his teachings, none of his writings have survived. He is, however, credited with originating a number of common sayings, including “Keep your head down,” “Just go with the flow, man (voc. ἄνερ, áner),” and "The higher up the tree the monkey goes, the more of its bottom you see."

According to the only known story about Mediocrates, a student of Aristotle once quoted him in the course of a debate.

“Who?” replied Aristotle.

“My gods, Steven: you haven't aged a bit in 20 years!”

To be sure, my friend is being generous. The widow's peak continues its northward recession, and shows more gray than it used to. My face is finally getting that doughy look that all Posches get as we age.

Still, I'll take the compliment. For a man of my age, I'm looking good. I keep engaged and active, and I'm seeing the long-term health benefits of lifelong vegetarianism. A couple-three years ago, I started in on the Regimen: Grand Sabbat was coming up and, when you're giving your body to a god, you need to look as good as you possibly can. For all the work that it's been, I'm pretty pleased with the results. As usual, when you give to a god, he gives back; but he gives as a god gives.

“Oh, you know how it is,” I joke. “Sell your soul to the Horned, get eternal youth and beauty.”

Dear Boss Warlock:

I wanted to make some chutney, so I bought some rhubarb at a store, even though as a native Midwesterner I understood that in doing so, I was breaking a major local taboo.

Now I'm afraid of the resultant Curse: that for the rest of the year, I'll be snowed under with gifts of rhubarb from everyone that I know.

Help! Is there any way to escape the Great Midwestern Rhubarb Curse?

Wincing in Winona

Dear Wince,

Whichever gods you honor, my friend, you now owe them big-time. Since the Great Midwestern Rhubarb Curse is a strictly regional phenomenon, there is a way out of your conundrum.

Here's your “Get Out of Hell Free” card, Wince: Local taboos only apply locally.

Before you make your chutney, first cast a circle and, for the duration, declare the entire kitchen to be somewhere else, somewhere that the Curse does not apply—say, California, or Florida.

Good luck, my friend. Let me add that, chutney made, it might very well be politic to send Boss Warlock his own jar by way of thanks for having bailed your sorry Midwestern butt out of this mess in the first place. As it happens, Boss Warlock just loves rhubarb chutney.

My address will be arriving shortly by psychic post.

Boss Warlock

A Note to Readers:

Joy is sacred, too, you know.

Those of us who grew up surrounded by the fundamentalist Christian concept that humor, laughter, and fun are somehow inherently evil - that the only way it's possible to worship or show reverence is by being deadly serious - sometimes have trouble with the idea that it's OK to laugh as part of our spiritual practice.

Has anybody else noticed that there's nary a vegetable bouillon cube to be found at the stores?

I know, I know. Vegetable bouillon cubes are outré, taboo to serious cooks. Well, la-dee-da.

Me, I like them. They're quick, they're easy and, when you cook vegetarian, tossing one in can add that extra layer of base flavor that makes the difference between good and really good.

But—dammit—there aren't any to be had.

I ran out just before Thanksgiving. Since then, I've looked for more every single time that I've been at the store.

Ix-nay.

Then I discovered the reason why.

You know all those baby-eating cannibals that the Q-Anon election-deniers are so worried about?

 A Guest Blog by Rudd Rayfield

Ohmigods!

He's turning blue!

Ohmigods!

He's playing a flute!

Ohmigods!

He's surrounded by cows!

(sings)

The Archdruid was dying.

From all over Gaul, druids gathered to his bedside to ease his passage from this world to the next. As they stood around him chanting, a novice brought him a bowl of fresh milk, but the Archdruid refused it.

The novice took the milk to the hearth, warmed it, and stirred in some honey. As he poured the milk back into the bowl, he spied a jar of apple brandy that had been a gift from the local chieftain, and added a goodly amount to the warmed milk-and-honey.

He held the bowl to the lips of the Archdruid, who drank it down to the last drop.

“Old Father, do you have any final words of wisdom to guide us after you have gone Behind the Sunset?” asked a senior druid.

With difficulty, the Archdruid raised himself on his elbow. An otherwordly light shone from his eyes.