Marriage Stew
Dear Rex the Real One,
My fiancée has a favorite condiment. She adds it to many meals, even things you would not expect.
Her dark master is Worcestershire sauce.
The Woosh (as I call it) was a staple of her mom’s cooking. My fiancée will not budge on its greatness.
I am quite sick of the smell.
Sick of that unnatural shade of brown.
Sick of the huge bottle always lurking inside the fridge.
The breaking point came when I made a pancake breakfast. Discovering we were out of syrup, she shrugged her shoulders and put The Woosh ON HER PANCAKES! I was instantly and horribly repelled.
Will our incompatible palates quash future happiness?
Signed,
Betrothed Always Ruins Food
Dear BARF,
The frequency and display of this marinade?
That is not the matter at hand.
The issue is not a particular catsup or garnish.
The question to ponder: If you love someone, is it ever okay to try and change them?
When does a flaw grow too big?
Who is the winner when True Love meets Annoying Habit?
Some say it’s better to be honest and forthright.
To speak your mind about the vinaigrette varnish.
That bottling up your resentment is much, much worse.
On the other hand, this is never a bad idea: Look before you leap.
She sounds pretty attached to her habit.
If you don’t have to eat it, what’s the problem?
Something else is the problem.
What that might be, I have no clue. Your letter did not say.
You need to look inside your heart for clarity and meaning.
Unless I’m deep-down mistaken. And her zeal for Worcestershire is truly the elephant in the pancake breakfast.
For now, speak little about this zesty relish.
If you call it The Woosh, do it with a smile.
Taste is subjective, as they say.
You have found someone special?
Do you really want to be with her?
Choose your words appropriately, or you might find yourself dining quite alone-a-ly.
Counterpoint commentary by …
Shandoleesa, Mistress of the Trapeze
You hold your tongue.
You hide your feelings.
Cowering behind a limp mix of politeness and sarcasm.
Worrying about flapjacks and sauces and nonsense.
My ideal man? He would buy a 50-gallon drum of this substance and fill a hot tub with it. I’d bathe in The Woosh and he’d be glad.
Do you comprehend what I’m saying?
This is not a deep discussion.
The matter is simple.
She is a goddess.
You? A mere mortal.
Act accordingly.
A man who could not share my Worcestershire is a man who would never EVER share my bed.
