A word about Paula

I’m not one to cut celebrities much slack when it comes to “I’m too famous, woe is me.”

I’m not famous. I take the bad with the good. Same should go for celebrities. Fame carries a price. Good thing those who have it also have buckets of money to pay the piper.

So why would I care about Paula Deen?

I barely know who she is, frankly. I once watched her make a soufflé on TV and wondered, aloud probably, a) why’d she do that to her hair? b) what kind of spray tan turns you such an awful shade of orange?; and c) why does her “gently fold in the egg whites” look so much better than my “gently fold in the egg whites?”

Oh, and I once thought it might be nice to dine at her restaurant in Savannah. Then I discovered the line was more than two hours long. Fluffy egg whites or not, unless you’re serving solid gold bars iced with platinum, I don’t wait two hours to eat.

That’s what I knew about Paula Deen, until two days ago, when she became the Anti-Christ.

Paula Deen has Type II diabetes. It was diagnosed three years ago. She kept it a secret because, well, that’s her right.

When she made it public, as the spokeswoman for a diabetes drug, she apparently crossed the river Styx and descended into Hades. Now, the world has decided that because Paula Deen writes cookbooks and does cooking shows that contain recipes for foods that any moron knows must be eaten in moderation, her weight, lifestyle and plan for treating her disease are fair game.

And the viciousness has been breathtaking.

She cooks with butter? Serves her right.

She bakes pies? For shame.

She adds bacon to her mashed potatoes? Off with her head!

Worst of all, her diagnosis has somehow made her responsible for the health of anyone who’s ever cooked a Paula Deen recipe. By that reasoning, every winery owner is responsible for alcoholism and every automaker is responsible for car wrecks.

It’s as sickening as it is stupid.

Paula Deen made her bed. She’ll have to live with the consequences of her choices. I suspect she regrets them, like we all do. But she’ll make it work. That’s a choice, too.

In the meantime, let’s put away the pitchforks and torches and take a good hard look at why we take such glee in other people’s misfortune, self-induced or otherwise.

Then repeat after me: There, but for the grace of God, go I.