Perry Mason is my comfort food

Go ahead. Laugh. My love is greater than your teasing.

Some time earlier this year, we got in the habit of watching reruns of “Perry Mason,” the courtroom drama starring Raymond Burr (whose range as an actor far exceeded what he was called to do for “Perry”). We only recently turned in our cable box, and part of the reason for hanging onto that ridiculous box was to continuing access to the shows we’ve grown accustomed to watching.

Like “Perry Mason.”

During the beginning of the pandemic I started watching various sitcoms and dramadies over and over again. I’d get to the last tearful show, and then start back again to the pilot. My shows — “West Wing,” “Designing Women,” “Parks and Recreation,” and (godhelpme) “Friends” — got me through. I was relieved to read that others did this, too, as a weird means of comforting themselves.

And now we turn to Attorney Mason, who reminds me (in looks) of my dad. With the attorney, I don’t have to put up with the smarminess of Ross or the weird verbal tangents of Charlene. Perry Mason shows are as predictable as those Hallmark Christmas movies I cannot bear. In short, with little variation, with Perry Mason:

1. Someone invariably walks into a darkened room and stumbles over a dead body.

2. A fireplace poker or a gun rests nearby.

3. The person who walked in on the corpse gets scared and runs and

4. Calls Mr. Mason’s office, where the client is treated with warm professional by Mason’s secretary Della Street (who in today’s world would be a partner in the firm) and detective Paul Drake (who today would probably called up on sexual harassment charges — or would at least be shouted at/slapped by a woman passing through the office).

5. Through stunning legal arguments, the guilty person shouts out his/her confession in the courtroom.

6. The end.

It’s comforting to watch the rule of law at work, and it sure beats sucking my thumb or curling up in a ball.