A few weeks ago my lunch companion told me about something amazing he heard about on a podcast: that once upon a time, people used to hire ornamental hermits as status symbols. Oh, you know, so rich, what’s this on my property, a hermitage, you say? In which my hermit lives? Oh, of course! It’s perfectly natural to hire a man to live in a hut and not cut his fingernails or hair for five years. But what happens if you’re low on cash, but high on a need for an ornamental hermit? Well, you can fudge it. Just put a classical text and a pair of glasses on a table and pretend your hermit is out doing hermit stuff. I love all of this.

The natural next step after learning about an ornamental hermit is to acquire one, or at least to acquire a fake one. The only classical text I could find was a Latin version of Winnie the Pooh (sure, why not?). I put it on my outside table, open to a page without an illustration of a bear. I found a pair of my grandfather’s glasses (doesn’t everyone have a Ziploc baggie full of the glasses of their dead grandparents?) and put those on top. I texted a picture to a friend, who advised that it needed a little zhuzhing up and to add a crust of bread. I got the heel from a loaf of Nature’s Own Honey Wheat — aka Hermit’s Choice — and tore it in half. Before, it was funny, but afterwards, it was hilarious. I almost couldn’t take how hilarious it was. I actually had to go take a heart palpitation pill. And then I waited for my lunch companion to come over. Would he know what it was? Would he be impressed with my handiwork?

He saw it and did not ignore it or say “what is that” or “what the fuck” or “huh” or “why do you have a Latin version of Winnie the Pooh?” He said, “Looks like your hermit is out taking a walk!” It wasn’t a test, but he passed.