Hot Flashes

Food groups


 

 

I live dangerously.

Without warning, I snuck a bunch of kale into Grumps’ veggies. Yup, that dark fibrous ruffly stuff that begs for a shot of Round-Up or doubles as caulking for your composition roof.

So Grumps suspected something was up when his green beans were cluttered with unidentifi ed goop. Grumps does not care for unidentified goop.

Shuffling through the strange guests, he threw the sideways glare in my direction. You know the one that says, “If you love me, you’ll make my food beige.”

It’s hard to make green beans beige, but they’re the only vegetable that flies under the old geezer’s radar.

During the staredown, I stood my ground and claimed the green beans just came that way. They’re French green beans, you know doofus.

“ You know those crazy French,” I griped.

And so he lived to tell the tale. To his surprise, he didn’t smell like peat moss or chant Buddhist psalms—do Buddhists have psalms? There are no fronds growing from his fingertips this morning. Thoughts about buying a camper and relocating to Muir Woods never came up. Better yet, all body parts are still attached and all systems go. Literally and figuratively.

You see, the big galoot I married has five basic food groups: beef, fried chicken, carnitas, potatoes and vodka. Of which the last two might be interchangeable but never irreplaceable.

This column is really a public service announcement. Because there’s a movement, don’t ya know. The “where’s the beef or I’m going to cry” gang. When Grumps was thinking about moving to the Conejo Valley years ago, a friend told him, “Think twice, buddy; that’s where they think beer nuts are one of the four basic food groups.”

Slam dunk deal done. Within weeks, he was chasing rabbits in Wildwood. And contemplating if there was room in the backyard for a cow. Or two.

“I like vegetables,” he claims as we enter Whole Foods, assaulted by the smell of fresh bok choy. To his complete disgust, the kale is stacked to the ceiling, causing a quick turn, right into the broccolini.

Now that’s an odd couple. Grumps and broccolini. Let’s just say we won’t be serving it at his wake.

“Where’s the guacamole and those chips?” he asks, knowing that they placate the beer-nuts boys at Whole Foods by strategically offering samples.

“I like vegetables,” he repeats as if he’s going to convince me while shoving chips in his mouth. “But not those. Or those, but I like these,” and he points to the potatoes while running straight to the meat counter in search of the perfect rib eye.

To Grumps, the perfect rib eye solves everything. Watching the Dodgers is free again, Vin Scully invites him into the booth, his car grows new tires and the IRS sends a refund check just for grins the moment you bite into the perfect rib eye.

So I amble out of the produce section and find a happy husband glaring at a bouquet of red fleshy stuff. You’d think Kate Upton was lying in the meat case.

“Maybe we need to stock up on Cowboy Burgers?” Grumps suggests, trying to be helpful.

Bacon, beef, cheese and jalapenos. The jalapenos are green. OK. Beer nuts, anyone?

Elizabeth Kirby has been around a long time—a resident of Thousand Oaks since 1983, whose glass is usually half full if she can find it. Her column appears twice a month in the Acorn. Reach her at kirby@theacorn.com or kirby.hanson@verizon.net. To read all her columns, check out her Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/#!/ elizabethkirbyandhotflashes.


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