The downside of being quick on the trigger is that you run the risk of being completely wrong. Which I was on the subject of Blue Bloods. For five years or so.

Sometimes a quip can become a trap. In college I heard a smart guy dismiss the entire career of Leonard Bernstein as a master of “slow conducting.” I’d made a similar quip in recent years about Tom Selleck, master of “slow acting.” (See? Not even being original.) My wife has been a huge fan of the series of Jesse Stone murder mysteries. I’m a fan of the golden retriever who keeps staring incredulously at Jesse Stone while he slooowly drinks scotch.

Then came all the promos for Blue Bloods. Selleck looked like he was on downers. So I never watched. I mean, is it credible that shrimpy plug-ugly Donnie Wahlberg could be the son of Magnum P.I.? What would mom have looked like? Janeane Garofalo? No wonder he slowly drinks scotch in this series too.

But the desperate need to avoid the news and the homosexual onslaught of contemporary TV series has thrust us into the embrace of Blue Bloods. Which is in many ways a typical police procedural/soap opera product. But it has one redeeming feature I find entrancing and beautiful.

Sunday Dinner

This is a show about Irish cops. Selleck is the commissioner of the NYPD. His dad is the retired commissioner. Selleck’s two surviving sons are cops. His daughter is an assistant district attorney. And the grandkids are as outspoken as the Irish always are. They all sit down to dinner together every Sunday. Four generations. They argue, they joke, they eat (what I’ve never been able to determine), and the abiding impression you get is just how lucky are these grandkids to have this ritual in their lives.

I love it. I wish every kid in this country could have the same blessing.