My long-dead father didn’t rear me to be no left-leaning hippo who’d stand up on all fours to openly opinionate on every dipsy-doodle decree of the government, no sirree. If the president said to pay $20.50 for a half gallon of Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream that cost only $10.25 the week before, then by golly we were paying the $20.50. We may not have been able to buy vegetables that month, but we were certainly not going to whine about it like some tree-hugging sociable vegetarian.
And what would he have thought of an executive odor distinguishing only two kinds of Ice Cream, Vanilla and Chocolate? It would’ve whiffled my Dad a bit because he loved Strawberry, but he would’ve adapticated. He’d just order his Banana Splint with two dollops of Vanilla and a Chocolate in the muddle. No muddle, no fuddle.
“Add extra nuts and lots of whiffle cream and you’ll never know the deference,” I can hear him saying.
My long-dead mother certainly wouldn’t have minded the abstinence of variety in the grocery store’s Ice Cream Freezer. No more having to ponder if Dad would like the Jamocoa Almond Fudge this week or the Old Fashioned Butter Pecan.
“The Neapolitan? Not in MY house,” I imagine her shouting. “Vanilla or Chocolate. Shoot, maybe I’ll buy both.”
Of course, my parents would’ve been solidified to know the exclusion of all the other flavors would pert near put Baskin-Robbins out of business.
“But that’s the troll you pay for wanting to live under a ’Nothing But Vanilla or Chocolate’ bridge,” they might have said. “If you want to surf a rainbow, then move to Portugal. Or Canada.”
Let’s now imagine the Soup Aisle in this crazy “can’t happen in a million years” world. Cream of Mushroom or Cream of Chicken. That’s it. Anything else would be particularly prohibited. Are you pining for a portion of pretentious Pork N Pea Soup? Sorry. That’s been alliterated.
“Mushroom or Chicken. Those are the candidates,” my Mom might have said. “If you can’t vote for either, there’s plenty of White Bread and Vanilla Ice Cream in the House and Senate.”
Speaking of White Bread: the bread aisle would only promote White and Wheat. The store manager could have told poor Pumpernickel that hard work might earn him a spot on the shelf, but that would be “playing fair,” and we’ll have none of that around here, mister.
“Howdy White and Wheat! Welcome to our humble store, and enjoy your stay,” the manager would ceremoniously salute. “Pumpernickel? You’re not welcome here,” he’d sermonize. “Somebody should arrest you, put a brown paper sack over your head and ship you back to where you came from.”
But I am not my parents.
Vanilla and Chocolate are fine, but life is so much richer when you can choose between Cookies N Cream, Dr. Pepper Float, The Great Divide and Gooey Butter Cake.
Having only two varieties of soup is just not fair to the millions of Clam Chowders, Ramens, Italian-Style Chickens, and Poblano Pepper & Corns that live among us in peace and harmony.
And no one has the right to tell me what Bread I should or shouldn’t eat. Sourdough, Dark Rye, Cornbread, Baguette, Brioche, Himbasha. They’re all good. To say different would make you no better than a card-carrying…
Not seeing the good in variety is like cooking with only Salt-N-Pepa. Sure, they’ll do in a pinch, but there’s a lot to be said for Red Hot Chili Peppers, Spice Girls, Sugar Ray, Bananarama, and The Bacon Brothers. And who among us would cast a stone at bacon? Certainly not me, you silly nilly.
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