Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Transferrence and Disemboweled Roughage

I've been taking a software class on Tuesday nights that's absolute torture. Three hours of sitting in a freezing cold room after walking a freezing cold mile from work to get there. Once again today, the ignoramus in me decided to let the plug out of my gene pool and walk to class in heels, which is an activity so barbaric and heinous in nature, it can only be rivaled by one, which you may witness here. The class is not only difficult because it is a 3-hour long class and I have the shortest attention span of any woman on the earth, but because the instructor is a bit of a gasbag and he loves to shower us with P.R. for O'Reilly and various other publishing houses or products he endorses.

Last night after I got home, I felt I had no choice but to transfer the abuse I felt had been thrust onto me by subjecting an innocent vegetable to an equally painful practice. Now for those of you who don't know, in spite of my chronic fear and just horrific dislike of acetic acid, I have a penchant for anything marinaded in brine or, as we say in the Midwest, pickled. I will eat just about anything that's pickled, and that includes most types of meat, veggies, and I don't hesitate to say that I would probably even enjoy pickled ice cream. But, no matter my passion for pickled foods, I will NOT, NOT, eat these, these, or these (may be a bit disturbing). Last evening, as I do most evenings, I chose a standard pickle, kosher so as to observe my belief that in my past life I was not only a master pickler, but a Jewish one.

Check this out: Yes, peeps, that's a full-sized pickle that's been hollowed. It's taken me years to perfect this. Fortunately, I've been eating pickles for as long as I've been able to throw them up. (Another story for later.) I persistently annoyed my parents by eating my pickles this way, and I think they'd be a bit dismayed to know I've continued doing this so far into my adulthood. But, I wonder what fun finger food is if you can't have fun with it? Well, if I had to choose, I'd invite my masticated pickle to my son's bris instead of my parents.