We went to the Farmer’s Market this morning. It was cold and rainy. Bought a Spicy Sausage Quiche (Also my stripper name back in the day. Ironic.)
Brought it home. Dove in. It was delicious.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps the Quiche contained sour cream. The mere thought made me not want any more. I left some for the cats. There’s a good 60% of a Quiche that others may have for lunch.
I can’t eat sour cream, cream cheese, mayonnaise, blue cheese, whipped cream, Ranch dressing, Russian dressing, French dressing or cheesecake. It’s odd, and I don’t know where it comes from. I was thinking that maybe it came from our Winchester initiation ritual. I’ll explain.
When kids graduated 9th grade, they were now going to move on to the senior high school. And everyone knew that this was going to happen. And all summer, at any time, on any day, a small group of provocateurs would organize the other kids in the neighborhood to execute the dreaded initiation. How did it start? Who was responsible? How long had this been happening? Did it happen in other ‘hoods? I didn’t know and I still don’t.I think it might have been just the boys.
When the day came, however, you knew in short order. You were tricked into either a tent or an alley or a garage. One of the ring-leaders would concoct an amalgam of unnatural liquid and solid combinations. Say, mayonnaise, gravy, raw eggs, pickle brine, etc.etc. ahead of time. It would be dumped on your person in a most forceful, unpleasant manner. And that was…it. You would slink off to the nearest hose and wash yourself off and then live another day. I know it happened to me in the tent on the Pulaski property. It was Ron Storrs, his brother Bob, a Koeppel or two. Honestly I think this might have been the deepest they had ever gone into civic planning in their lives. Had they used that initiative to cure cancer or stop country music’s popularity in the early 90’s, this world might whisper their names in a different tone.
But that’s the only reason I can fathom as to why the sight of a mayonnaise jar or a sour cream container makes me wretch.
I wish I could afford therapy.