Yesterday for lunch, I cut up a cucumber and some tomatoes—all grown in our garden I am proud to say—put them in a big pottery bowl, and doused them with a bit of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. I then distributed them between two smaller bowls, and upon doing so, I noticed a drop of balsamic vinegar rolling down the side of the pottery bowl. And now let me interject with a short story that speaks to my particular human nature...
It is well known at I am my father’s daughter. When it comes to food, there are two important traits that I inherited from my father: (1) I am a grazer; and (2) I am also a vulture—if there is residue of any sort left on a plate, bowl, floor, or counter surface, I will find it out and eat it. Case in point: many years ago, my family made gingerbread one night for dessert. The next morning, my dad noticed in the giant bowl of compost sitting on the kitchen counter a chunk of gingerbread that someone did not partake of the evening before. Never one to let anything go to waste and always one to indulge the appetite whether or not hungry, he grabbed the gingerbread with his bare hands and shoved it into his mouth only to discover in horror that it was used coffee grounds that were intentionally and correctly placed in the compost pile as refuse. At least it was not a chocolate eclair taken from a trash can. But still.
Anyway, I didn’t have the same experience with the balsamic vinegar, but I share the story to demonstrate the passion with which a member of the family Ryalls can clean up dishes when in the role of vulture. So as I saw that balsamic vinegar making its way down the side of the bowl, all I wanted to do was save it by consuming it myself, so I brought that bowl to my mouth like a dog takes to water on a hot day, and I hit myself so hard in the front tooth that I could feel it tingling up in my nose.
And then the moment of fear struck: did I just lose my front tooth because I wanted to lick some balsamic vinegar off the side of an empty bowl? I started feeling for my front tooth with my tongue and in disbelief and yet great relief, I discovered my tooth was still intact.
Jason, of course, witnessed the whole thing and when he took a look at me, I could tell something was awry because he was trying to maintain a calm demeanor so that he could inform me that I indeed did not lose or crack my front tooth, but rather took a chunk out of the tooth right beside of it.
And then he laughed when I produced a fake grin so he could inspect further. APPARENTLY, I LOOKED RIDICULOUS.
And then I realized that the days of whatever good looks I had were over. Or at least shortened greatly because I recently read an article in a somewhat esteemed fashion magazine about a study that determined the peak of a woman’s beauty was at 35.333 years and after that it was all downhill, which obviously means sagging boobs, fat ass, crow’s feet, Muppet ankles, and the traveling of elbow skin to the forearm all in one fell swoop; therefore, enjoy it while you can, ladies, because 35.34 years sounds like a giant helping of Suck Ass. So anyway, I thought about that study, which might have been sponsored by a cosmetics company and may not have been published in a journal of any repute (or at all), but whatever, and I wondered if my beauty peak was just shortened by 2.5 years because of an incident with a pottery bowl and balsamic vinegar that left me looking like a snaggletooth country bumpkin from Davidson County. Oh no. That means I actually am a snaggletooth country bumpkin from Davidson County. Well, at least I hope my father will be proud.
OMG! 35 years?! I'd like to see that article myself, although the thought of it is kind of a red alert to what we'd look like past 35. If we don't take care of our bodies now, we might just get what we're expecting!
Posted by: Lauri Hersh | August 03, 2011 at 04:32 PM