Tabasco

Sometimes, the farmer and I have little discussions. Sometimes, they can be kind of entertaining. Sometimes, I will share them with you.

Let me preface this dialogue by telling you that I made turkey empanadas last night. Very yummy turkey empanadas. Let me also fill you in that the farmer has a love for Tabasco that cannot be explained and it becomes a point of contention for me every once in a while. The farmer gets his plateful of my deliciousness and the following ensues:

Me: “Would you at least try it before you smother it in Tabasco?”

Farmer: “I did and it’s really good!”

Me: “Obviously not, since you’re fixing to completely alter the taste.”

Farmer: “I’m not altering the taste. I just want it to be hot.”

Me: “You know, I spend a lot of time every week planning the meals we eat and trying to make things that have really good flavor and it’s really pretty insulting that without Tabasco, it’s just not good enough for you.”

(There are few things over the course of our relationship that I have not seen the farmer put Tabasco on. I’m pretty sure the man has no taste buds left. And I watched an episode of Oprah in which a husband couldn’t eat his wife’s cooking without Tabasco because it was so awful. This left me with some scars.) Moving along through the middle of the argument in which more of the same is said in different words and the farmer begins to use examples on me. For the life of me, I can’t remember the first comparison he tried, but this is what I had to say about it:

Me: “That’s not even a relevant example! You should have asked me if I would eat an Ozark Turtle (Andy’s) without hot fudge!”

Farmer: “Would you eat an Ozark Turtle without hot fudge?”

Me: “No!” (Prove his point and make absolutely no sense. How’s that for strategy? It adds an element of confusion, which, in my mind, buys me some time. You should have seen how he was looking at me. A mixture of “I’m confused and I’m talking to someone that’s completely insane.” At this point, we’re starting to crack smiles.)

Me: “Ok, I don’t mind that you use Tabasco, but can you please not put it on every single thing I make?”

Farmer (with a look of “Do I really want to make this deal?”)”Ok, how about this?”–

Me: “We are not negotiating! I already compromised!” (He loves to do this. And if he’s got some leverage, all the better.)

Farmer: “I will stop putting Tabasco on my food if you’ll stop ordering cream cheese with your bagel at Panera.”

Me: “No.”

Farmer: “Does it not add something? Does it not make it even better? Does it not “alter the taste?” What, is the bagel not good enough by itself?”

Me: “Shut up! And get that smarmy little look off your face!”

I think it’s pretty clear who won here.

Me.

It occured to me a few minutes later that I sacrifice my husband to the making of that cream cheese and by buying it, I am in turn supporting the industry that affords me the luxury of staying home with my daughter, so if I want to partake in it’s dairy goodness, I will do so as I dang well please! Take THAT, Tabasco! And until I start a pepper farm, you are DEAD to me!

In the meantime, I have composed a poem to Tabasco on the farmer’s behalf with the help of Elizabeth Barrett Browning on the first two lines. The rest is my pure genius. Be jealous.

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways,

On biscuits and gravy

And PB & J’s.

You spice up my life

With your red pepper flair,

My taste buds are singed

But I really don’t care.

Tabasco, Tabasco

There’s one thing I know, 

I love you too much

I can’t let you go.

Over and out (of my mind),

The Dairymaid

 

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