Luckily I've managed to completely avoid the Super Bowl. I only narrowly escaped it in Whole Foods. I'd decided to buy something to cook for dinner and I converged on a mass of people scrambling for their last minute beer and salsa, potato chips, artisanal guacamole. They clogged up the lines like massive wads of toilet paper thrown recklessly into a public toilet. Initially I thought I'd make a soup, of the vegetable variety, but on a whim I changed course in favor of my tried and true brown rice jambalaya. Instilled with a newfound sense of adventure, I grabbed carrots and spinach - two ingredients I've never used in a jambalaya before. It seemed a sound decision at the time; the carrots would add sweetness, the spinach, nutrient density and greenness. Caught up in the momentum of my culinary inventiveness, I picked up a shiny tomato that seemed about to burst. It reminded me of a swollen water balloon full of tomatoy goodness. After waiting in line with the horde of oblong pigskin worshippers, all fueling their frenzied tribalism with bad alcohol and saturated fats, I made it through checkout and out of the store without incident.
In the parking lot there was a homeless man with a sign pleading for anything. I considered offering him my tomato, maybe just hurling it at him, but when I looked in the bag and saw it glimmering, almost twinkling, like a red, benevolent sun, I give him all the cash in my pocket instead: two dollars. At some point I saw a pair of cute little dogs and, after having startled one by reaching out and petting it, the other urinated freakishly as at stared at me in befuddled fear. I snapped a picture and continued on my way home. Once I arrived at my door I paused briefly to bid farewell to the perfect weather and I entered my abode. On my stereo I summoned Van Morrison, requesting from him a performance of the album Astral Weeks in its entirety, and then I started preparing my dinner.
As I was cutting up the vegetables, ritualistically dismembering them while I hummed and danced around the kitchen, I wondered if the plant on my windowsill was getting nervous. It seemed to sweat slightly, gathering a subtle dew. I couldn't tell for sure but it seemed to be leaning imperceptibly away from me, toward the window. The carrots, hogtied and bound by a purple rubber handcuff, screamed helplessly while I chopped the mushrooms. The pepper cried while I diced the onion; so did I. Everything went as I'd planned. Tasty aromas swarmed through my apartment, waltzing merrily with the music, tickling my nose with the sweet, spicy smell of success. I was nearly done. Only the tomato remained unscathed. It would go in last, so that it would slow-cook and stew in its juices, simmering gently inside the big pot of jambalaya. When I took the knife to it, it slid through effortlessly and made that satisfying wet sound; gave me goosebumps. I could no longer resist the urge to taste it. I was shocked to discover that it not only met my desire, but it far exceeded it. The tomato tasted like heaven. It was here, all stunned and giddy with my discovery, that I noticed the other half of the tomato had painted inside of it the silhouette of an angel.
Holy shit! What had I done? This was the equivalent of a Jesus Christ potato chip, or a Virgin Mary avocado. I brazenly bit into it without realizing the blessed nature of this venerable vegetable. I felt like Eve, deceived, a herald of my own misfortune and calamitous ruin. All I could see was eternal damnation and doom, hellfire and holocaust. The innocence of this seraphic and faultless fruit had been impugned by my ignorant, sinning hands! This was terrible. I felt ghastly and devilish. So I did the only thing left to do: I cut up the rest and threw it into the jambalaya. If I'm destined for hell, I'm going to enjoy every fucking second getting there.
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Must stomach hurts now. Clearly, cannibalizing an angel must invoke wrathful indigestion.
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