Margarine

December 11, 2009
Yep, margarine. I survived eating this slimy, yellow, artificial, liver clogging material lavishly slathered on toast at the local diner where eggs are packaged and about the only real thing was the abundance of bacon. There is slim pick-ins in this part of the country. A mixed green salad is a serving of ice burg lettuce with a leaf of romaine and sweet tea is sugar water with a dash of black tea.

A man next in line at the grocery store balanced a loaf of white bread, a jar of mustard and boloney in one hand and Cherry 7-up with anti-oxidants in the other. I stared at this one for a while, 7-up now comes anti-oxidants? This must be really good for you. So good to see what I have been missing. In yet another check out line, the clerk inquisitively fondled my acorn squash and called over another cashier to help identify this rippled green-orange monster. For a start, I said, look under vegetables.

Meanwhile my brother is as good as he’ll get. At 72 he still works at the local plant rebuilding its machinery and is still capable of lifting a 125 lb. tool box from the back of his truck. If he didn’t eat margarine himself, he’d probably feel better, but he is who he is and there is nothing wrong with his emotional heart. We shared a few meals, gave Ivory a bath for fleas, watched Pete Seeger’s documentary, and, then with a hug and kiss, down the road I go.