J.P. Devine is seen with a box of Rice Krispies and cans of cream-style sweet corn. Photo courtesy of J.P. Devine

Let’s see. I have seven cans of Cream Style Golden Sweet Corn (but may eat one for lunch), and six large boxes of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies and no bananas, so “whaddamygonnado?”

Does anyone out there have a recipe for those items? Please send one to me right away so I can get rid of this stuff. Kellogg’s box has a message on its label that reads: “Learn more at KFR.COM.” I wrote them but it appears that they don’t have a recipe department.

Whaddyagonnado? It is what it is.

Actually, I had 10 cans of Cream Style Golden Sweet Corn, and eight boxes of Rice Krispies, but I gave some to my doctor who said he’d think of something. More on those items later.

Good morning. Welcome to the world of internet shopping, a complex and often confusing world of the pandemic stricken and paranoiac populace. (I got those words from She, who loves big words.)

You might say to me, “J.P. Howzitgoin?” It’s goin’ like this. My daughters, both professional women sleeping in masks in Los Angeles, are super concerned about us, their senior parents. No wonder, they only see late night FaceTime pictures of us in shorts and pajama tops, glasses fogged over from watching television in mask. I’m surprised that they haven’t as yet committed us to a nursing home.

My youngest, Jillana, my lawyer and agent who wears big expensive glasses and finds work for actors, sends us large jars of Clorox wipes and boxes of blue surgical gloves. I don’t know where she gets them and I won’t ask, but I have enough for a hospital.

Maybe I’ll set up a table at the end of the driveway and give free prostate exams. I mean, whaddamygonnado with them?

Dawn, the older daughter, up to now was flying around the West Coast and other areas dealing with college university online libraries. With that out of the question, she now deals with all of that on “Zoom.” Right now, her sister is watching auditions on Zoom.

Dawn, the worrier queen, had decided early in the pandemic to connect with our local supermarkets to ensure that we get fast and efficient delivery of our food. This is very cool and worked well. Until it didn’t. Dawn, a born saleswoman, is uncomfortable with impersonal communication. So she developed relationships with the “shoppers.”

The process: I would make up a list of what I needed for the week: three kinds of pasta, some Rao’s soup, cereals, soy milk, etc., then send the list to Dawn and she would communicate with one of her new contacts at the market.

At one point, She, who was suffering from a medication-induced stomach disorder, expressed a desire for Rice Krispies, and I needed two cans of creamed corn for a childhood recipe.

Somehow, somewhere along the internet road, I messed up and our individual orders became one. Soon we found ourselves the owners of an Amazon warehouse amount of Kellogg’s Rice Krispies and cream-style corn, two completely incompatible products.

Then to make matters worse, She, who loves soups, expressed to her doting daughter her newly-born passion for Rao’s Italian Wedding soup. Sixteen jars of Rao’s soup were delivered to the house — pasta fagioli, chicken noodle, tomato basil and minestrone — but only one wedding soup. A shopper noted that the wedding soup was always sold out and seemed to be everyone’s favorite.

Does that mean that more Italians are getting married? Is the Mafia reborn? Is a gang war about to break out and the five families are going “to the mattresses” (all the street soldiers going into seclusion).

Hang on. I’m going off the rails for a few minutes to make a point.

You’ve seen “The Godfather” I and II, as I have, right? There was The Castellammarese War, a bloody power struggle for control of the Italian-American Mafia that took place in New York City in the ’30s. That kind of thing.

Each gang had a great cook and the food was amazing. Those boys would know what to do with Rice Krispies and cream-style corn, I can tell you. A little garlic, some sausage and tomatoes. Right? Right.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.