Thursday, December 22, 2016

Chestnuts: a Metaphor



Needless to say, I've had some emotions since the election. I wrote all about it but it was ugly crying formed into words, which is bad, BAD writing. So, I deleted the hell out of that and have been silent, simmering in a blend of sadness and dwindling hope, and frankly, more anger than I care to claim.

That being said, I'm not spending any more words on the presidential election.

I'm not here to trivialize what's happening in our world, but it's too big for this medium. There's nothing I can write that has not already been written that will shed light on what the fuck happened with our current reality. Enough.

Instead, let's chat about chestnuts.

They're hard to find in Fort Wayne. In years past, Meijer and The Fresh Market have had them in stock. The Meijer chestnuts are like avocados. They're stale and hard when they stock them before Thanksgiving. I buy them anyways, because CHESTNUTS. I roast them. I burn my goddamn hands peeling them and they're hard as a rock. I wait a couple of weeks and try again. Usually, by December, they're ripe and delicious. They remind me of my childhood.

In Paris, you can walk down any street during the holiday season and find a stand selling freshly roasted chestnuts, brimming out of newspaper cones. Chestnuts are part of the happy quadrant in my brain.

This year, I couldn't find them anywhere. Thankfully, I had a jar of them from Williams Sonoma from last year. Not the same as freshly roasted, but still, they made it into my Thanksgiving stuffing and I was content.

The other day, I had to run into The Fresh Market to spend a million and half dollars on triple cream cheese and a nice baguette. Lo and behold, there were a couple tiny bundles of chestnuts in the produce section.

I squeezed them and I knew just then that they weren't going to be good. They were solid. Still, I bought them because I'd been looking for them and there they were.

For eleven dollars. Eleven. I could buy really good socks with that eleven bucks. Or a pretty good bottle of wine. But no. I bought the chestnuts with hope in my heart. Because, as Michelle Obama said, "what else do you have if you don't have hope?"

I roasted them in our fireplace.

Most were rocks. The others were green with rot.

God. Damn. It.

Sometimes, you want something so much, you ignore the obvious faults. You choose what you think is best for your country. I mean, you choose a tiny bundle of fresh chestnuts that you know is not right, but you're desperate for something you love so you buy it anyway. And here were are.

If you're going to sell chestnuts, and the name of your store is The "FRESH" Market, please, merchandise them with the  refrigerated produce so they don't fucking mold before they're purchased.

I've made my peace with the chestnut scenario but not the other stuff. It's a damn good start.

Peace out.

P.S. Sorry about all the f-bombs in this post. You should have seen the post I deleted, though. Good grief.

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