Aunt Paula, Uncle Simon

SHE’S GOT strawberries all over the kitchen counter, another sign of a March madness that seems to have swept our humble home. Honestly, the kids haven’t been “right” since their mother served them green eggs on St. Patrick’s Day. What’d she use, absinthe? Our little villa here in the foothills suddenly seems slightly askew.

On TV, there’s that Seacrest guy. Or at least I think he’s a guy. He’s no John Madden, that’s for sure. Ryan Seacrest is like something Mattel would build out of poured plastic and a few anatomically neutral robot parts. I want his job, I want his suits -- neither of which I could wear quite so well.

In any case, we rally around “American Idol,” despite ourselves. I was determined to hate this show, just as I am determined to dismiss any hugely popular national phenomenon. It took me a while to warm to fax machines, for example. And I refuse to check myself out at the grocery store self-checkout lines. At those prices, I’ll let someone else scan the eggs.

Speaking of eggs, ours are all on the couch, watching “Idol,” shouting at their favorites and hissing at Simon Cowell, the cruel and dismissive Brit who is really the heart and soul of the show -- the daddy figure, the Dickensian scold. To me, Cowell brings the only honest moments to these overproduced proceedings. Maybe he’s our John Madden.

“You pick a song about a blackbird? I thought it was indulgent,” Cowell is saying to hoots of derision.

“I just feel like we’ve all been trying to break [into] this business so long . . . and for me it’s like, blackbird, fly,” responds the quivery contestant.

We are a nation predicated on Cinderella stories -- from Abe Lincoln to Julia Roberts to Appalachian State -- we love the long shot who comes out of nowhere to do the impossible. I’ve never read the Constitution lip to toe, but I suspect Cinderella is mentioned in there several times. Her “anyone can succeed” story is part of the national fabric.

Unfortunately, sports doesn’t give us Cinderellas the way it used to. Unless you like your Cinderellas in droopy shorts and handcuffs (my answer: only occasionally).

So we turn to “Idol.” More fun than the Oscars. More laughs than Leno.

“Chikezie is soooooo funny,” says the little girl.

“Jason looks like John Travolta,” someone else says. “He can’t stop smiling.”

It’s been a good week. On Monday, I raced home to fix a sprinkler problem that threatened to wash away the villa. It was my first emergency plumbing call in a very long time, and I ended up impressing the lady of the house with my slick customer-service skills. Since we were married to each other, there was no actual physical contact. But I suspect she’ll use me again in the future.

As if that weren’t enough, I later washed a couple of muffin tins. Now, landscape plumbing is a breeze compared to washing a muffin tin. You have to swirl each muffin mold to get out all that eggy dough. Then you have to swirl it again just in case. It is the work of monks.

But I surprised Posh with this act of selflessness. She paid me with her silence and occasional sideways glances to see if I was really who I portended to be. Talk about your Cinderella stories.

And now it’s Wednesday night and we are all on the couch together -- me, Posh, the four leprechauns -- all gathered for something other than a Super Bowl. Finally, a family rallying point that doesn’t involve wagering.

It’s a full house. The lovely and patient older daughter is over, as is the boy. The little guy is running around past his bedtime. There is contentment in the air and Celtic good cheer. Just for kicks, I tell the boy my idea for an “Idol” spinoff.

“I’m calling it ‘American Midol,’ ” I tell him. “It’s where all the moms in America compete to see who can scream the loudest.”

“Mom would totally win that,” the boy says.

“Watch yourself,” I say.

“I love Mom,” says the little girl.

“I love her more,” I say.

“That’s not the issue,” says the lovely and patient older daughter.

For a moment, it feels like that final scene in “Sopranos,” where they’re all in that diner together -- not at a funeral or any of those other family events where the Sopranos were always so miserable -- but just at a simple meal, appreciating one another’s company.

I think that’s this silly show at its essence, a simple pop-culture meal we can all enjoy, comfort food for the American family. Cheesy, sure. But a rallying point nonetheless, like Sullivan or Cronkite once were

Nice work, Seacrest. America has voted to keep you.

--

Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected]. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.