Tuesday, March 2, 2010
I have enjoyed our years together, the good times and the bad times. It saddens me to tell you, we must take a break.
Please, oh ketchup, do not blame me. Blame the husband. He is tired of our affair and has persuaded me to begin the Atkins diet with him. Little did I know, that means leaving you. Oh how my taste buds cry out.
We struggled a bit when we meet, but all was well when I learned to just hit the 57. Then you came tumbleing out, and life has never been the same since.
I never needed a french fry or chicken finger to enjoy your taste. A finger always worked just fine. And even with the french fry, it was never necessary to eat the potatoe. The french fry is just a way of eating more of my precious ketchup.
Dear ketchup, let us remember the good times. The days of Mom limiting how many times I could pour you onto my plate. The days of counting how many times a french fry saw you before it was devoured. The days of being limited to one dip per french fry. Oh ketchup, those were the good ole days.
We went there a dark spell. I do not know why the little babies growing in my tummy angered you so, but you fired back with horrible heartburn. And how my heart did burn for you.
Now, when all is well, I must give you up. I tasted my food at lunch and sorely missed you my sweet and tangy ketchup. Do not leave me for these two weeks. We will make it. Will my tongue yearns for your taste, and my hand quivers to pour you over my food, we will make it. And in a few weeks, once some inches have melted around my waste, I will welcome you, my ketchup, back into my skinnier life.
Until then, sweet ketchup, don't expire on me.
With Tangy Love,