Happy Little Trees

I have a new addiction and a revelation.

Somehow, I have become addicted to guacamole. I eat it literally everyday. My favorite guac is from Chipotle. They use a nice blend of lime and the consistency is most always perfect. I find myself scraping the plastic container with a chip fervently trying to make it give up whatever remaining bits of green stuff that seems to be sticking to it. My finger would be much easier to use than the chip, but I don’t want to generate stares from strangers, in spite of my addiction pressing me to clean up the guac with my finger.

My revelation is that my taste buds have changed. I used to not like guacamole. I would be the first to offer it up to anyone else at the table. It was green. It looked disgusting, and I didn’t like the smooshie texture. But then, somehow, somewhere, guac has become my rice, my staple, and my amigo.

Last night, in a conversation with a native Texan friend, he was quick to correct me that my pronunciation of the word “guacamole” should be “wok-ah-mo-lay.” He said that even his two year old niece can says it the “correct” way. Guac-ever. I am not saying that. I’ve never heard any other of my Texas peeps say, “Wok-a-mole.”

I think I’m most insulted because he is insinuating that I can’t pronounce the name of my sweet love. My love is guacamole, and that’s with a g-u-a-c-a-m-o-l-e. (It’s most fun to sing this to the tune of Glamorous by Fergie).