The Jello-In-the-Swimming Pool Quandary

Weigh in on this vexing question.

These gelatin leaves are so old that they came from “West-Germany.” It is unchanged. It never changes. I have 357 leaves left. It will outlive me. But sadly, it’s still not enough to Jell-ify a swimming pool.

It’s not an easy time to be an American. I never thought I’d say that. Ten years in Europe in my earlier life left me ready, if not super enthusiastic at the time, to return to the USA. I re-made a life here, and it’s been mostly great. (If you’ve read my recent memoir Rottenkid: A Succulent Story of Survival, you’ll know why I was less than enthusiastic.)

But I digress.

This is a piece about Jello and I need your razor-sharp minds.

I first met Anne Futterman at Buckley School in Beverly Hills when we were about five years old. She became my bestie and remained so for many years, until I lost track of her while living in Europe (sadly, I haven’t been able to track her down since). My favorite Anne Futterman story unfolded when we were taken by our parents to Palm Springs, aged 5-ish. Of course we went up the tram to the top of the San Jacinto mountains—what a magical transformation: from desert floor to snow-capped peak! Anne had never seen snow before, while I’d been to the East Coast once, so was an old hand at snow. If one can be considered an old hand at anything at all when one is five.

We trundled down from the arrival platform and approached the first patch of brilliant white fluff with glee. “It’s Snooooow!” Then Anne knelt down, all 3 feet of her, and cupped her hand to retrieve some of this magical substance. She turned her head accusingly toward the rest of us, her face suddenly all squinched up and red and clearly very unhappy.

“It’s COLD!” she wailed. She’d never been told that snow was cold. Southern California.

But I digress again.

First it should be understood that Anne and I were very silly. We imitated the Beatles’ accents ad nauseam; she was always John; I always Paul. We experimented with moving peas around our plates so our “unsuspecting” parents would think we’d eaten some of them. She got to eat Lucky Charms; I did not. I always wanted to go to her house.

Then came Jello. I think we were about 7 when we became, if not obsessed, then exhaustingly consumed with the question of The Jello in the Swimming Pool.

Our existential and all-consuming question was this: If a swimming pool were (somehow) filled with Jello, and a person fell or jumped into said pool, would one drown? We conveniently ignored the fact that Jello must be heated in order to, um, gel. We were not concerned with the logistics. We were simply curious. Very curious.

Life went on. We parted ways after I went off to boarding school, then re-met, then parted ways again. The Jello Question was never not on the agenda. With time I began to ask others what they thought: Would one be able to breast-stoke up to the surface? Or would one’s arms simply sink through the Jello, consigning one to sink down through the mucous-like gel and suffocate? Much mental effort (and many adult beverages) have been expended on this subject in the ensuing years, and the consensus seems to be that one would drown.

What do YOU think?

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Tidbits For The Week of July 14, 2024

Brigit’s What I’m

CURRENTLY LOVING ➡️  I need to think about this for a couple of hours. Or months. OK, I know! The dogs, always.
THINKING ABOUT ➡️ What did it feel like to be a Jew in Germany in 1938?
LISTENING TO ➡️ Its the End of the World as We Know It. (And I don't feel fine.)