Yum
Gather round, my bitches, for the Story of Tabasco Sauce.
Really this story could best be summarized by Gotehed's poem, "The Tabasco Fiasco" (I think that's the title). I used to hate the hell out of hot sauce. I used to wrench it from strangers' fingers in restaurants, used to punitively saw off their hands with steak knives. Used to shy away from spicy foods. Then Andy and I went gallavanting around NYC in the dead winter of February with someone from Mexico City and all hell broke loose. In NYC you could drink until three AM and walk ten feet in either direction after leaving the bar and stumble into a pizza place and then stumble back with your pizza in tow and then take a bottle of tobasco from the bartender and drench your pizza in that shit and it was great!
Andy wrote a poem about us becoming so addicted to hot sauce afterward that we rotted our stomaches clean out, and I am dismayed to say IT IS STARTING TO HAPPEN. Not the stomach rotting part, but the addiction part. I used so much Cholula on a bowl of rice and beans yesterday that a coworker across the room looked up and asked what that disturbing ketchup-y smell was.
Also yesterday I experienced a distinct craving for V-8 after it was used in a math story problem.
Also in the past three years I have started to enjoy red onions.
All this seems to support the common supposition that our tastes change as we age. But what the fuck? Who the fuck are our taste buds to determine what we eat? What if I start craving dog hair or something?
. . .
Unrelated: for anyone who may be wondering what kind of crazy person lives in Florida: I often feel that I am mad to live here at the moment, but at least I don't have to wear a coat outside, and this is the view from my office in January:
Hell yes!
Really this story could best be summarized by Gotehed's poem, "The Tabasco Fiasco" (I think that's the title). I used to hate the hell out of hot sauce. I used to wrench it from strangers' fingers in restaurants, used to punitively saw off their hands with steak knives. Used to shy away from spicy foods. Then Andy and I went gallavanting around NYC in the dead winter of February with someone from Mexico City and all hell broke loose. In NYC you could drink until three AM and walk ten feet in either direction after leaving the bar and stumble into a pizza place and then stumble back with your pizza in tow and then take a bottle of tobasco from the bartender and drench your pizza in that shit and it was great!
Andy wrote a poem about us becoming so addicted to hot sauce afterward that we rotted our stomaches clean out, and I am dismayed to say IT IS STARTING TO HAPPEN. Not the stomach rotting part, but the addiction part. I used so much Cholula on a bowl of rice and beans yesterday that a coworker across the room looked up and asked what that disturbing ketchup-y smell was.
Also yesterday I experienced a distinct craving for V-8 after it was used in a math story problem.
Also in the past three years I have started to enjoy red onions.
All this seems to support the common supposition that our tastes change as we age. But what the fuck? Who the fuck are our taste buds to determine what we eat? What if I start craving dog hair or something?
. . .
Unrelated: for anyone who may be wondering what kind of crazy person lives in Florida: I often feel that I am mad to live here at the moment, but at least I don't have to wear a coat outside, and this is the view from my office in January:
Hell yes!
0 Replies:
Post a Comment
<< Home