I hate clichés. A cliché is basically a sign of complete and utter lack of originality. There are a great number of things people could (and have) accuse me of being, but unoriginal is not one of them. One of my least favorites: "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade." The only variation I've ever heard on that one that I actually liked was Ron White's, "...then find someone whose life has given them vodka, and have a party."
Regardless, life for me of late has been all about making lemonade. I attempt it, but I don't always succeed, which is just as well, because it's easy to get sick of lemonade. Sometimes I just toss the lemons in the corner and let them rot. The nice thing about rotting fruit is that it pretty much just smells like fruit, only sweeter. Sometimes when life gives you lemons, the best thing you can possibly do is huck them in the corner and wait until they start to smell pretty.
Today's best example was dinnertime. I shuffled through the door in the usual chipper ::snort: manner I exude after having a truly unsatisfying day (try as you might, you simply cannot make lemonade out of horseshit). My mother was standing at the stove with a bag of pasta waiting on the counter. Normally, that would be enough to lift my spirits, and it would have, had my eyes not settled on the can of stewed tomatoes sitting directly beside it.
Oh, the horror.
"What's for dinner?" I asked, much in the same resigned tone a die-hard DC baseball fan would ask, "So... how bout them Nationals?"
"American chop suey," she replied, and I couldn't help but make my trademark grimace of intense dissatisfaction.
Let it be known, gentle readers, that I hate American chop suey. It's always been kind of a mystery to me why, since I love Italian food, and it's got the same basic ingredients -- pasta, meat, and tomatoes. I turned my back on the discontent brewing in the kitchen to engage in my customary nightly routine -- slipping into a pair of pajamas and pouring a glass of wine.
As I approached the wine rack, I was faced with lemons again. I have rarely met a red wine that I didn't like. So last week, I felt no fear when I picked up two bottles of Tall Horse Cabernet in a "2 for $10" offer at Winn-Dixie. Cheap wine always appeals to those on a budget. Upon my first sip, however, it soon became painfully clear that I had made a grave mistake. I can only compare the tangy, bitter metallic taste to that of a finely brewed cocktail of soy sauce and my own blood (as I have never tasted anyone else's blood, I can only confidently use mine as an example). Still, I choked down a full glass, because I was just too damned stubborn to pour a glass of red, even a horrible red, down the drain. I had two full bottles of this to look forward to until my next pay day would allow me to purchase some form of vindication. When that day arrived, I made no hesitation in purchasing a bottle of Blackstone Cabernet. The store didn't appear to have any Ravenswood, which is my personal favorite, but I do thoroughly enjoy Blackstone's Merlot, so I figured there was no way I'd get burned on this one. And then it occurred to me, in the same way it must have occurred to the brothers Wachowski when they cast Keanu Reeves opposite Laurence Fishburne: pair something awful with something fantastic and maybe, just maybe, you'll come out with something that doesn't make you want to gag. (This only applies to the first Matrix film, however; don't get me started on the sequels.) And this is how it came to be that I blended half a glass of Tall Horse with half a glass of Blackstone and ended up with a full glass of passably decent wine.
Fresh off my sommelian (not Somalian, mind you) victory, I seated myself confidently at the dinner table and stared intensely at my next opponent. The pasta shells grinned up at me from their bed of stewed tomatoes, like a troupe of three year-olds in a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit, and dared me to make something of them. That was when it occurred to me - the chief difference between fine Italian pasta and American chop suey. Tomato sauce (and I mean good homemade tomato sauce) takes hours to cook. The flavors simmer on the stove and "get to know each other," as my mother puts it. American chop suey, however, is the speed dating of dinnertime. It's the crass, uncouth loudmouth that shows up in workboots and ripped jeans to a black tie affair. Undaunted, however, I suddenly felt myself filled with a sense of duty. I owed it to this dinner to make it into lemonade. I reached for the oregano.
Challenge me, will you?
A few generous shakes of Italian seasoning, salt, pepper, and romano cheese later, I found myself munching not too unhappily on a concoction that could almost pass for Italian food. I sipped my hybrid Wachowski vintner's blend and dabbed at my lips with my napkin, feeling rather pleased with myself.
The moral of the story? When life gives you Keanu Reeves in workboots and ripped jeans, throw a black trenchcoat and a pair of sunglasses at it and hope for the best.
