Tag Archives: mustard

Coleslaw

Coleslaw: (n) sliced raw cabbage mixed with mayonnaise and other vegetables

I’ve actually only seen one person ever eat three-bean salad. It appears at pot luck dinners and buffets before my eyes, but I never have the courage to spoon it out.

I do like potato salad. Not too much mustard.

I always favored macaroni salad–mainly because it’s the most unhealthy of the existing sides at a picnic, so of course, I feel compelled to
 gorge.

Coleslaw has always been a tough one for me. Eating sweetened, raw cabbage by itself just doesn’t seem to ring my bell.

Now, if I’ve got a hamburger or a hot dog nearby, I’ll use it as a sophisticated dipping sauce. Or if I’m making a sandwich, dribbling some coleslaw on it can be delightful.

But just to sit down and consume a small bowl of coleslaw always makes me feel as if the world has ended, the bomb exploded, and this was the last bit of edible food on the planet. So after seven days of starvation, I finally decided to consume it. (Well, that’s a little dramatic.)

Some people swear by their coleslaw. I have sworn at it. (Not really, but once again, sounded clever.)

I’m sure if I sat down and listened to a promoter or an evangelist for coleslaw, they could explain to me the saving graces.

But for me, I like it best with a nice roast beef and provolone cheese sandwich, smearing the coleslaw over the top–ala mayonnaise.

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Cherry

Cherry: (n) a small, round stone fruit that is typically bright or dark red.

Rhonda wanted to impress me.

Traveling on the road, feeling young, my hair down to my shoulders, in a beat-up van, with a few songs I had written and dreams of
greatness, Rhonda had bought into my whole delusion and was along for the ride.

Our relationship was an interesting mingling of respect, lust, spirituality and availability.

One day Rhonda went to the store.

It was rather ironic that she was there because we didn’t really have any money. I had given her just two dollars–one to buy some bologna and one to buy some bread and mustard. (This was back when you could buy bread, mustard and bologna with two dollars.)

About forty minutes later she was back with the entrees, but also with a huge bag of cherries. It seems that she had arrived in the produce section just about the time that the manager was ready to throw away a whole bunch of cherries which he had over-ordered for the appetite of the community.

She saw him heading for the dumpster and she asked if she could have the sweet treats. I guess he must have looked at her bell-bottom jeans, hemp blouse and long, stringy hair and felt sorry for her.

He gave her the whole bag.

There were probably three hundred and twenty-eight cherries in there (not that I counted.)

We ate bologna sandwiches and cherries until we could eat no more. Some of the cherries were old and grumpy and others were soft and too mushy, but most of them were deliciously ripe and ready for consumption.

About an hour later, after eating all these cherries, a volcanic rumble began low in my belly, and crept its way up to my chest. Rhonda too.

We both were in horrific pain from a cherry juice hangover.

We needed to go to the bathroom, but there was no real indication that anything would happen.

So we rolled on our bellies all afternoon with a mixture of pain and gratitude over such a cherry experience.

 

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