I’m that Mysterious and Exotic Condiment Stuck to the Door of Your Refrigerator and I Didn’t Change Your Life
You fantasized about how I was going to inject a little pizzazz into your pathetic, middle-aged life.
Remember me? I’m that condiment you purchased from that hole-in-the-wall international foods store about seven years ago.
I’ve been sitting on your refrigerator door ever since, sandwiched between a squeeze bottle of Annie’s Naturals Organic Dijon Mustard and Newman’s Own Caesar Dressing. (“100% Profits to Charity”? What a bunch of virtue-signaling bullshit.)
What the hell happened? You used me once or twice. Even a condiment as desperate as me doesn’t mind being “used” a couple times. But then nothing. Weeks turned to months, and months to years. What a tease.
Don’t think I can’t see your hand pass me by as you reach for your “safer” and “trustworthy” go-tos. I’ve watched you grab that squat jar of Hellmann’s Mayonnaise at least twice a week. Who are you kidding? I know your LDL level is north of 200 and you’re popping Lipitor like candy. I’ve watched you fondle that slim bottle of house brand “fancy” ketchup time and again. (Can’t afford the real deal Heinz, is that your cheapskate excuse?). Even that ancient bottle of Hershey’s Syrup oozing like a spent volcano, and that jar of sweet relish for your once-a-year, patriotic Fourth of July hotdog, get more action than I do.
I may be mostly made of red chilies with garlic, shallots, galangal, and shrimp paste, but I’m not blind.
I remember how, back at the store, my “exotic” name and foreign script lured you in. You turned me around and dusted off my lid and scanned my list of ingredients in the dim fluorescent light like I was ancient scripture. You caressed my sleek exterior as you read how I might be used: On poultry, fish, and other meats! On noodle dishes, soups, stews, rice! Add a few drops on your morning eggs! Or as a marinade! Or use to add heat and flavor to dips, sauces, and spreads! The possibilities seemed endless.
You fantasized about how I was going to add a little exotic “spice” and inject a little pizzazz into your pathetic, middle-aged life. You tucked me into an illegal plastic bag and rushed me home, immediately flipping through dusty cookbooks you haven’t consulted in years. You scoured obscure websites for new recipes, searching for uncharted culinary lands to conquer. You were intoxicated by the belief that you could realistically, and casually, whip up a curry or a pho or a chicken yassa on a Monday night. A Monday night! What were you thinking, my naive friend?
Don’t deny it. You remember the promise, that both tangy and sweet seduction, I offered you. Alas, it was a phase you were going through. Of course, you didn’t know that at the time. But, I must admit, I saw it coming.
You pledged to reach for me more often than for those other fads you’d tried before: miso, lemongrass, harissa, pepper jelly, hearts of palm. But now I understand I’m as unremarkable and disposable as that fifth of hot sauce a family member bought for you at the airport on their return flight from Jamaica.
Now here we are, Cookie, three years after my “best by” date. And I can see that my poorly-translated brand name, the quirky folk art graphic design of my label, even my list of ingredients or proposed uses never really mattered to you. I became the neglected, nondescript 7.5 ounce container for your impossible desires, your pipe dreams of renewal, your false flag of hope. (I’m mixing my metaphors as badly as that dry rub you botched last weekend.)
Need I remind you of that brief flirtation you had with making your own hummus last summer? And how badly that affair went? Since then, I’ve watched my good friend 365 Whole Food Markets Tahini solidify into an intractable (and organic) block of despair. You ditched her just like those other hot sauces, spreads, vinegars, salad dressings, dipping sauces, jam, aiolis, ice cream toppers, and marinades.
No, I will not let that fate befall me.
Of course you probably couldn’t use me now even if you wanted to. A steady drip of ranch dressing and tamarind chutney raining down from the shelf above me over the last three years, combined with a spill from that bottle of G Hughes Smokehouse Sugar Free Hickory Flavored BBQ Sauce, has fused into some unholy, super glue-like cement. Now my ass is bonded to this white plastic hellscape for eternity.
We need to end this. Shoot me now. I mean, please dispose of me properly. Scrape out my separated innards into your compost bucket, then wash and recycle my container (I’m marked #2, one of the safest sorts of plastics). Then go back to your sad mayonnaise and grape jelly existence.
