Tag Archives: salty

Caviar

Caviar: (n) the pickled roe of sturgeon or other large fish, eaten as a delicacy.

Fishy, mushy and salty. That’s how I would describe caviar.

I will now pause and consider if any one of those words is appealing.

Fish, themselves, have to be careful not to be too fishy.

We normally fry our mush so it won’t be mushy.

And salty is a lovely taste if it’s bringing out another flavor which takes predominance.

I won’t even mention the abortion of sturgeon babies that’s involved in the process of putting together this little delicacy.

But I did learn a long time ago that part of being opulent is convincing yourself that you like things that other people don’t, simply because they cost a lot of money.

It doesn’t matter if it makes you miserable or if it causes your taste buds to recoil. Learn to enjoy it so when people see you doing it they will place you in a category which is superior to the norm.

It also explains much of fashion, music and politics. If there’s money for it, then there must be a reason for it.

I am hardly a country person–but if offered caviar on a cracker, or sausage gravy on biscuits, I will pull my chair up with those south of the Mason Dixon line.

 

 

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Bashful

Bashful: (adj) reluctant to draw attention to oneself; shyDictionary B

My Aunt Marjorie was the mistress of left-handed compliments.

Some of my favorites:

“Well, that little boy certainly has a lot of energy.”

Translation: “Can’t you keep your damn brat under control?”

“Your casserole is nice and salty.”

Translation: “I will not eat it for fear of kidney failure.”

“Those black people sure can jump.”

Translation: “Must be because they’re really not people.”

And of course, the one I heard over and over again. She would look me in the eye and say, “Well, you’re sure not bashful.”

Translation? “Sit down, shut up and let somebody else suck up some air in the room.”

Likewise, I have often asked children to tell me their names, had them hide behind their Mama’s skirt, as Mother proclaimed, “Oh, they’re just bashful.”

Shall we get something completely straight? All human beings are terrified–and if they aren’t, they’re probably mentally ill.

The prospect of being placed in the spotlight is not warming, but causes us to break out in a sweat.

And knowing that we’re responsible for our actions is enough to make us permanently inactive.

Bashful is not an emotional choice or a personality type–it’s an unfortunate profile that we occasionally find ourselves stuck behind because we do not feel prepared to function in the present situation.

Even though we insist that some people are introverts, we live in an extroverted world, where the squirrels who are too timid to hunt for nuts go nuts–as they starve to death.

Bashful is not a curse I would place upon anyone–it is the fear which forbids us from finding out exactly how far we can actually go.

 

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

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Ambrosia

dictionary with letter A

Ambrosia: (n) something very pleasing to taste or smell: e.g. the tea was ambrosia.

It was about 750 square feet from kitchen to front door and located directly across from the State Capitol in Columbus, Ohio.

It was a Chinese restaurant–the first of its kind in our area, and I was quite uncertain whether to go in and eat, because being raised provincially, I had some sensation that it might be un-American.

But it smelled good and I was a teenager–adventurous and rebellious to the notion that I should forbid my taste buds an opportunity, based upon politics.

I didn’t know what to order, so the dear young girl who waited on me suggested sweet and sour pork. I didn’t ask her to explain what it was, because I didn’t want to come across as if this was the first Chinese restaurant I had ever been in–but when it arrived it was beautiful: fried, golden-brown chunks of juicy pork, covered with a red sauce that was sticky like cake, sweet like candy and just a little bit sour, like lemon. On the side was fried rice, which still contained some of the grease left over from the pork tanned over the flames.

I put a bite in my mouth and I was transported to every religious expression of heaven known to the human thinking.

It was delicious: sweet, sour, some salty from the fried rice, juicy fat from the pork.

There is not and never will be any flavor to surpass it.

I have eaten other foods which I enjoy immensely and which do flirt with competing and jockey for position, but sweet and sour pork at that little store-front across from the Capitol in Columbus, Ohio, is still the ambrosia to my palate.

Of course, over the years I have learned that it’s also an overnight delivery system for death. There isn’t anything in it that’s good for you and everything is a greasy slide to Valhalla (I used the Viking heaven in respect to the pork).

So the truth of the matter is, when we actually find our ambrosia, we must be willing, as mature and healthy adults, to walk away from it and pretend that other foods which are not nearly as lethal are actually as flavorful.

Even though I’m convinced that neither Meryl Streep nor Tom Hanks could pull off such a performance, I will learn my lines and deliver them on cue in the great play … acting the part of a more balanced eater.