When we first met you were optimistic, kind. You cradled me through those grocery store aisles along with all your hopes of becoming someone who cooks. When I entered your kitchen, it smelt clean, like lavender Lysol, with fresh flowers on the counter. I felt sunlight trickle through the window onto my lid and got butterflies inside. There was hope. You gave me a home and a new lease on life. But, as the months passed, smells started to fade and were replaced by repugnant ones: the stench of despair.
The flowers, now wilted, grew moldy on the counter. And dishes piled up on the sink. I never saw the light of day after that first afternoon. The butter began mocking me, gloating over how often you gave them attention while I remained unopened, unused. Even the Tapatio, who was my brother for so long, relegated together in the back of the fridge, began slurring Mexican slang in my direction once you started Taco Tuesdays: “You’re harshing the mellow.” Everyone in the fridge could tell I’d gone sour. But could you blame me? A condiment’s only goal in life is to be savored. Is it so wrong to ask for just a little bit of love?
I’m way too delectable to be treated this way! My flavors are something ketchup could never compare to! Did you even know that I’m tangy, sweet, sour, AND salty when you bought me? Or did you just throw me in your cart like another one of those drunk dames you bring over every night? No, seriously! Everyone’s heard of me, but no one actually knows what I taste like or even how to spell my name! Close your eyes and try to picture it right now. Ha! Told you! No one can spell it!
This might be a good time to remind you that I’m an XL bottle of Worcester sauce, not even a sample size. It’s not like I can hide unassumingly in the back. When you finally bought a fresh slab of meat last week, I thought things were looking up! I said to that juicy steak “we’d be delicious together” and the whole refrigerator went into chaos! The bland baby bottle of mayo now says they feel “uncomfortable being next to me.” I heard mumblings from the Habanero sauce that I’m “intense.” Me, intense?! Please dispose of me if you’re not going to use me. This isn’t any life to live.
Sincerely Your Beloved Condiment,