Okay, I wasn't raised the right way, I guess. Or I'm still kind of like juvenile when it comes to dealing with some food things. And you know what I have to say about that -- well, you don't really want to know; so, fuck it.
I got peanut butter on my hand yesterday. If you recall -- and if you do, what kind of sick-o are you, remembering stupid fucking details like that about someone you don't even know -- I can't stand peanut butter, except if it's in peanut butter cookies; but peanut butter cookies aren't really peanut butter due to the magic of chemistry. So, I hate peanut butter. It's a texture thing. And how easy is it to get it off human skin?
Not easy. It does not dissolve in water. You can run water on your hand all day, and the stuff will not rinse off. You need like Boraxo, which is going back a-ways, because today's fragrance-free, chemical-free, super-safe-for-kids soap just is not -- uhhh, you know -- adequate to handle the job. And then if it dries on you, well, consider yourself really fucked because a jackhammer can't get it off.
But this story isn't about peanut butter, as you have probably inferred from the title, it is about another evil substance, which was probably invented by space aliens, the beings who drew the Nazca lines and images, like this monkey with four fingers on one hand and five on the other (proof that it was drawn by space beings), visible only from way up in the air or from outer space:
You know, it really doesn't pay to bring up stuff like this because -- well, like -- uhhh -- only those with vivid imaginations and those who have been kidnapped by alien beings with four fingers on one hand and five on the other really understand. Others, the Others, well, they look sidewise at you and chuckle when you bring it up, as if they are superior know-it-all beings. Yeah. That's what it is.
So, anyway, I was at one of the upscale, hoity-toity grocery stores today; and that's where I got the Egg Salad. Stacey likes it -- just the Egg Salad made at that particular store by the Egg Salad Master Chef, who is not of this world. I know that because Stacey said once, "This Egg Salad is out of this world." And being the courteous, thoughtful individual that I am once in a great while, I bought a small container of it. There were bigger containers -- the Egg Salad Master makes two different sizes -- and I got the smaller one.
If peanut butter is bad, Egg Salad is worse. I admit that I have not ever eaten Egg Salad, not even once, which I guess, from my limited Egg Salad experience, is always eaten as a part of a sandwich. At least, peanut butter can be transformed into cookies -- I haven't seen a recipe for Egg Salad cookies.
There I was, earlier this afternoon, in the kitchen. And frankly, looking back on the experience, I am surprised that I am alive to tell you about it. I took two slices of the Italian Bread I got from Mazzone's Bakery on Clark near Fulton and put them on the plate. And I took this little plastic container, 8 ounces, I think, that held the Egg Salad and looked at it -- studied it, actually, because it didn't have a normal top that you just pry off. I tried that -- taking it off -- and it wouldn't come off. In hindsight, I now understand that they do not want this stuff getting out of the container on the way home, contaminating everything it touches.
I took the table knife, the kind that my Mom called a butter knife because it can't cut anything but butter, I guess, and pried the top off -- broke something off the lid, which was probably a mistake, or maybe it was supposed to happen like that. Apparently so because it happened that way -- if you believe that things happen for a reason. So, I got the top off. That's when the smell smacked me up side of my head, like I almost passed out from the smell. Next time I am asked to do this and I am in a good mood, I'm getting that stuff that they put under their noses in the morgue in CSI.
And next time I am asked to do this and I am in a good mood, I'm using a spoon.
And at this point in the process, right before I put that butter knife in the little container to get some of the vile-smelling, yellowish stuff out, this is when I think I saved my life and am lucky to be telling you this story. Something made me pause with butter knife poised over the little white chunks in some weird goopiness in the container. Maybe it was the peanut butter experience that made me do it. I think it was the peanut butter experience that made me do it. Just had to be, looking back at it.
I opened the drawer, the one with the junk in it, the junk drawer -- and I have some cool, purple latex gloves I got from some doctor's office stuck in the back of the drawer. I pulled them out, fw-a-a-a-a-p, one of them stuck in the back of the drawer. I pulled them on, like a purple second skin. Hah!
And so, that was the moment that I can reflect upon in future times when I am telling my story to my great grandchildren as a turning point in my personal history -- better safe than fucking sorry, they say about stuff like this -- because I am sure that if that Egg Salad had gotten on my bare-skinned hand instead of on the latex surgical glove, I would have died instantly. I don't know how she does it -- eats it, that is. Loves that stuff. It doesn't get on her hands because of the bread, I guess. The protective power of Mazzone's Italian Bread -- there's gotta be like a fucking story there. Or maybe it's something about building up a tolerance, just like Westley did with iocaine in The Princess Bride. Something like that, anyway.
Whatever. It's true.Posted by Bill at March 26, 2010 07:50 PM