I just can’t sleep at times. I get an idea in my head and it’s insomniac city; tossing and turning, counting wine bottles – nothing seems to work. I just have to know: We all know the legend of the inventor of champagne, Dom Perignon, the cellar master of Hautvillers, in France’s Champagne region, from 1668 to 1715. Was he blind? Did he invent champagne? Did he say I’m drinking stars?

I contacted my friend Mr. Peabody and asked if I could use his Wayback machine to visit the famous monk. He agreed, so I met him and his boy Elroy.

I looked at the imposing Wayback machine. It was like a giant cloudy-gray cartoon cutout with weird flashing fire- truck-red, gruesome-green and coward-yellow lights. The machine bubbled like granny’s dying tea kettle.

As Mr. Peabody polished his black-rimmed glasses, he told me that the Wayback machine would only take me back in time for two hours and that time travel makes one hungry. So I packed a turkey and Swiss sandwich, a thermos of soup and a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne.

Mr. Peabody looked at me sternly and warned me about changing time (so please don’t step on any butterflies). I shook his paw, and then I was on my way back through time.

For those who haven’t gone back through time, it’s like having a double hangover in Tequilaville, with a cheesy, swing ’60s light at a Deadhead concert. But before I knew it I was in Champagne, France, in 1710.

I opened the shiny door and I was in a pinot noir vineyard in a late-fall morning. The vineyard was a flurry of activity; it was harvest, and a hundred monks were scurrying like chipmunks to get the grapes in before the first frost of winter. In the center of the activity was an old, bald monk, and I knew it was Dom Perignon. I called him over (I was hardly conspicuous wearing a Charger T-shirt and shorts).

My first question was answered right away – Dom Perignon stumbled and fell on his rear as he tripped over a basket of grapes. He wasn’t blind, but he was Mr. Magoo.

I rolled out my picnic blanket and asked if he would like to share lunch. I told him I was from the future, and he told me that I was in the sun too long and had an interesting tailor.

I pulled out the bottle of Dom Perignon and the monk started to blush. I popped it open and gave him a half sandwich and a bowl of soup. And then I asked him, “Did you invent champagne?”

He said, “My son, no one invented sparkling wine. It happens when it warms up in the cellar. The wine starts to ferment, and the gas gets trapped in the bottle… This wine is quite nice.”

We both munched on my sandwiches, and the monk took the bowl of soup to his lips and exclaimed, “I’m drinking stars,” as he downed my chicken-with-stars soup.

He wiped his mouth with his brown sleeve and told me he had to go back to work. I headed to the Wayback machine.

On my return, I went to my local supermarket, which has an excellent wine selection. I went to the champagne section, and there was no Dom. I started to panic, and I went to talk to the fat produce manager. He smiled and said, “Yes, of course we have Dom Perignon – on aisle three.”

I quickly made my way over, dodging grocery carts and young mothers, and there, past the canned peas was Dom Perignon Chicken With Stars soup.

“Mr. Peabody…!”