I just threw together a batch of guacamole. That’s right. Uh huh. “Threw together,” that’s what I said.
I love being in this new phase of my life where I can declare that I made something edible with a casualness that I once reserved for stating, say, that I bought a new pair of flats. Such phrasing indicates that I – one-time despiser of food preparation – improvised, that I didn’t refer to a recipe. That I possess some modicum of resourcefulness. Savvy, even? Ok, maybe we won’t go that far.
Even so, inside my little brain existed notions of what comprises guacamole, and I recognized the presence of the fundamental ingredients inside my refrigerator: the onion and the avocados, the lime and the cilantro. When Emmy asked if I could please make her some guacamole for an after-school snack today, I was able to scoop and dice and squeeze and salt and smash it all together into a recognizable and favorable entity.
There are two reasons this is exciting. One is the aforementioned, that I’m – ta da! – capable. The other is that my found happiness in guacamole, and in the making of it, seals my destiny as an avocado lover. This, too, is a change of taste.
I used to be an avowed, determined avocado hater. I know, hate is a strong, strong word, but I hated the mottled, greenish black exterior, and the very thought of its slimy fattiness on my tongue. My order of a veggie sandwich at any establishment that sells such a thing was always followed hastily by, “no avocado.” “Extra pico, but hold the guac” were my constant instructions when ordering a salad at my favorite Mexican café . Sure, I’d tolerate avocado in maki, outperformed as it was by abutting tastes and textures, grassy seaweed, sweet rice, salty or creamy fish.
You see, I’m not a rich-food person, not a butter person. I’m an unnecessary–fat eschewing person, and so, I assumed that I hated avocado. Without ever even taking a bite.
How unfair of me to judge a food without giving it a fair taste, and now, cheated by my own prejudice, I’m trying not to beat myself up over all those lost years.
I am now approaching my one-year anniversary of proud membership in the avocado lovers club. I’m not sure what came over me that fateful evening last year, other than the general increase in adventurousness that’s taken place over the past several years. So maybe it was that, or maybe it had to do with my celebratory mood because it was, after all, my husband’s birthday, an occasion we were marking with the rolling of our own sushi.
There it was, carefully and slimly sliced, waiting alongside the other accoutrements, the lump crab and fresh, glossy rectangles of sashimi-grade ahi. It could easily have been the cucumber that beckoned me, the neat stacks of thin, crunchy matchsticks. But instead, I reached out, took an oddly shaped and smooth trimming of avocado between my fingers and popped it into my mouth.
I can’t explain the goodness of it, the veritable swooning that took place immediately thereafter. I was gaga. Over avocado. That, my friends, was that.
Now please excuse me while I lick the guacamole bowl.