Once
there was a Mexican restaurant on the eastern bluff of Mobile Bay. It sat on
the side of a two-lane road after the thoroughfare had curved away from the closest
town. A dirt and gravel plot in front of the restaurant served as a parking lot
for the long, low building. On one side of the structure, which appeared to
have been a house in the distant past, there was a screened porch. Usually a
guitar player of passable skill was plunked on a stool on the porch, picking out
classic rock songs by the likes of Lynyrd Skinner or Creedence Clearwater
Revival while wailing out the lyrics over the amplified music. The gathered
listeners, depending on their level of joviality which was directly tied to how
many Corona Extras had been downed, would sometimes sing along.
But
inside the restaurant area, wooden tables and chairs held happy diners imbibing
gooey cheese enchiladas, gloppy refried beans, and mounds of yellow rice. The
establishment went by the name of the Last Nacho, the name taken from a story
recounted on the back of the menu. You know how it goes. The platter arrives,
heaped with crispy tortilla chips smothered with melty cheese, jalapeños, sour
cream, pico de gallo, maybe some ground beef. Everyone reaches to grab a chip.
Crunching, chewing, and swallowing follows. And then the moment arrives.
There’s only one nacho left on the plate. Eyes dart back and forth. Finally
someone asks, “Who wants the last nacho?”
“I’m
done.”
“I
won’t have room for my meal, if I eat another one.”
“I
think I’ve had enough.”
“You
eat it.”
“No,
thanks. Why don’t you?”
No
one wants to be the person who eats the last nacho. I suppose there is a
measure of politeness in declining. Who wants to be labeled greedy or gluttonous?
But the last nacho just sits there. The cheese grows cold and hard; the chip
splays out limply on the platter like a fallen soldier left on the battlefield
after everyone else has retreated. (Excuse the cheesy simile – I’m writing this
on Veteran’s Day.) Finally, the server arrives to whisk the platter away, back
to the kitchen to be scraped into the trash.
I’ve
run across a few folks who are suspicious of the last of anything. “There must
be something wrong with that one. That’s why no one is eating it. What has
everyone else seen that I haven’t?” I have a dear family member, who shall
remain nameless, who thinks the last of anything must be stale, molded, rancid,
or generally contaminated.
But
that’s not as annoying as people who have an objection to just about every food.
We’ve all dined with one of them at one time or another.
“I
don’t eat that.”
“I’ve
never had this.”
“I
don’t know what that is.”
“I
think my mother told me I’m allergic to this.”
“My
cousin, the podiatrist, says I’m most probably gluten intolerant.”
“That
always gives me gas.”
“What’s
tha-a-a-t? Yuck!”
“I’ve
given up dairy, meat, pasta, bread, sauces, fried foods and all foods beginning
or ending with consonants.”
“So
what do you eat?”
“Oh,
I still eat foods beginning or ending with vowels as long as they aren’t dairy,
meat, pasta…..”
If
you’re one of these people, then “Bless your heart,” as we say in the South.
You probably want to stop reading now, and please don’t ever invite me to eat
with you. Now I know that some folks have legitimate allergies or intolerances
to certain foods, but they seem to just keep quiet about it and choose what
they can eat from what is offered. The OTHERS
want everyone else within earshot involved in their issues.
I’ve
found that the people who limit themselves so much in one area of life, like
food, tend to live small lives. A few months ago I sat by a woman at a luncheon
held at a local Italian restaurant. She didn’t know what most of the common
Italian dishes listed on the menu were. As she read the descriptions, she
commented with a string of don’ts, nevers, can'ts, and won’ts. Then, while we
dined, I attempted to converse with her, despite her expressed revulsion to the
mushrooms on my plate. She had never traveled outside her home state and had no
desire to. She was horrified that I had flown, in an airplane, across the
ocean, all the way to Europe, twice, and that I wanted to go back. I diligently
searched for topics to discuss with her. She didn’t like to read, doesn’t watch
television, has no interest in music. I considered bringing up politics just to
get something going, but then she mentioned that she doesn’t watch the news or
read the newspaper, so I doubt that she would have known anything about any
current issues. She’s one of those people who lives in a small world and never
tries anything new or wonders what’s beyond the horizon. A small life filled with negativity.
So, I say: Try new things. Embrace new opportunities. Never stop learning. Sing along with your radio in the car. Dance like no one is watching. Run like Phoebe in Friends. Don’t be shy, because, in the words of Dr. Seuss, “those who matter don't care, and those who care don't matter.” Laugh out loud. Live positively. And, if no one else wants it and you haven’t already cleaned out the complimentary chip bowl - twice, eat that last nacho.
May
your tea be sweet and your cotton high,
Leigh Ann Thornton
