In my rundown Albertsons grocery store, in the soup aisle, I heard a voice. A most emphatic and energetic voice telling me how I could have the most fabulous holiday ever. I looked around, but there was nobody but me and my creaking cart. Was I receiving transistor radio broadcasts in my braces? Nope, no braces. Was it an archangel finally reaching down to make me pay for never really reading all of Paradise Lost in twelfth grade? Was it the Mother Ship informing me I was about to be beamed up?
Wait. I kinda recognize the voice. It's a woman--I alway knew God had to be a woman! No, wait. It's Rachael Ray! Oh my gosh (OMG). Rachael Ray in my ratty Albertsons giving me culinary peptalks activated by motion detectors. She sending me subliminal foodie cult messages. Next thing you know, I'm buying shredded parmesan, brie, EVOO, and balsamic vinegar instead of Nature Valley granola bars, Rotel Original, and grated cheddar.
My sons will return from their dad's house soon. They will smell the roasting pork tenderloin stuffed with marinaded chicken breasts, fresh sage, mushrooms and garlic, rolled in rosemary and fresh ground black pepper. (It is cooking under two heavy cast iron skillets which is as close as I could get to Rachael's foil-wrapped bricks.) They will marvel at the fresh cranberry clementine relish, the cilantro-seasoned stuffing, and the Italian asparagus/artichoke salad. The fresh cranberry clementine relish will be the real clue that their mother has been kidnapped by extraterrestrials. They know that I'm a firm believer in serving Ocean Spray cranberry jelly straight out of the can just the way God in Her Infinite Wisdom intended. And why can't they smell the sauerkraut the minute they walk in???
"Who is this person?," they'll demand. "What have you done with our mother?"
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder
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