the guacamole chronicles

Long long ago —

In a galaxy far far away [okay Austin but quit it I am trying to set a tone here] I moved to [yes] Austin and I and a bunch of friends went to the Austin film festival. [Okay two years ago stop it what about setting tone here was not clear?] And a bunch of us were roaming about after a festival movie looking for a place to land and decided that place was my place but we needed supplies so we hit Whole Foods for snacks and beverages and spent way too much money and brought our supplies back to my place to carry on the party and —

Someone tried to make guacamole.

One of the friends here on that fateful night was Kitty, and Kitty [who has known me a long time and also was my hostess on an occasion over an entire summer] had never actually seen me do anything more crafty preparing food than make coffee [which she taught me to do but that is not my fault, that coffee machine was crafty] or pull string cheese out of a refrigerator.

 

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[Seriously, that’s me making coffee below on Kitty’s “coffee” machine, look at that machine? It has extra controls to go to Venus and also to re-establish the space time continuum if anyone is dumb enough to break it.]

 

 

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So Kitty was utterly agog when I took the guacamole fixings away from a native Texan and said, That’s not guacamole, this is guacamole, and —

Made guacamole.

Which, grant you, is not cooking, but since the most food preparation Kitty had ever seen me complete was to pull string cheese out of a refrigerator, was like the second coming to Kitty. And also, the guacamole was good.

 

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My friend Kitty is from Louisiana. Where everyone can cook and dance. I kid you not. Men. Women. Children. Small house pets? They all dance and cook. This is really cool if you like to dance. [I do.] Also Louisiana is the only place in the US of A where you will see eighteen year old men arguing over whose red beans and rice recipe is better, or see three year olds arm wrestling for their grandmother’s secret recipe for the perfect file spice combo.

When you come from a land where everyone can cook, like Kitty does, and can really cook, like Kitty can, if you have a female friend who cannot cook, you sort of get worried about her. She’s handicapped, and you do not know how she will find love, with this tragic handicap. And if you love her, and want her to find love and be happy, you really worry. Which Kitty does. So Kitty worried about me a lot because of this strange cooking handicap, and then —

Holy crap Max can make guacamole!

 

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The guacamole discovery would appear in funny ways over the coming months [okay years, quit it]. Saint Patrick’s Day rolled around and Kitty planned a party. And, told me to be there three hours early to make guacamole. And, she got all the guacamole fixings!

It does not take three hours to make guacamole. But this was Kitty’s strategic way of showing off my guacamole making skills to the menfolk.

It didn’t work. I’m Scots. That’s right next to Ireland. I’m not showing up three hours early to make guacamole. I hit Sixth Street, drank way more than was healthy, and no guacamole got made.

Kitty was sad.

Flash forward —

 

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There have been multiple guacamole incidents. You do not need all those details. We are moving forward. I met a man. He’s nice. I like him. Kitty likes him. I told him the guacamole chronicles. He thought they were funny. I think they are funny. But I said, Watch, Kitty will want to do the guacamole thing.

The next day, Kitty said, Make him your guacamole.

Score! I am a total sooth sayer here! YAY!

I tell him. He laughs. I laugh.

Here is the thing. He told me a secret.

He hates guacamole.

We are trying to figure out how to tell Kitty.

 

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Still here? Bonus guacamole read yay! : :::gangrene and the avacado thumb of death:::