DeVos: Freddie takes on Martha
The Friday Report
I was thinking the other day, now that the French are helping us bomb ISIS in the Middle East, freedom fries are a thing of the past. Even Ted Cruz and Sarah Palin are ordering french fries again. That happy thought crossed my mind as my wife set lunch in front of me.
And such a lunch! It was as if post-prison Martha Stewart had set the plate down herself. It was a magnificent hamburger like you would expect from Elway’s Steakhouse or perhaps the Brown Palace. As I stared, my eyes misted in quiet gratitude that my wife had married so well.
The burger sat next to a mound of picture-perfect french fries. The bun was impeccably toasted with melted cheese broiled in a crispy ring around it. I gasped. It was the Ultimate Cheeseburger, right there in front of me. In the flesh. Or it seemed.
I wiped a tear, took a deep breath, picked up the magnificent creation with both hands and took a huge bite.
That’s where things went south. Something was not right. In fact, something was damnably wrong. In the center of the bun, under the lettuce, tomato and pickles, directly where the cow part belonged, there was a hockey puck-shaped alien made of lumps and red stringy things. I recoiled in horror as Martha Stewart morphed into Freddie Kruger.
Fredd … I mean, my wife growled, “What?”
“Whaddizdis?” My mouth was full.
“It’s a veggie-burger,” she said evenly.
“That red stuff would be beets,” she said with a steely glare, daring me not to swallow. I stared back like a chipmunk with cheeks full of birdseed. Finally, I gulped. It wasn’t ghastly, but it wasn’t something that should be wearing a hamburger bun either.
“Veggie-burger?” I said, “Isn’t that an oxymoron? Something that can’t exist? Veggie is clearly short for vegetable, which a veggie-burger has in spades. But burger is short for cow, which a veggie-burger hasn’t.”
Her glare hardened further. “So,” she said, “you’re opposed to healthy eating?”
“No, no,” I hastened, “what I am opposed to is duplicity and fraud, and a veggie-burger is both.”
The wrinkle in her brow turned to an ominous furrow, “Statistically Colorado is the skinniest state in the nation. Don’t wreck it for everyone single-handedly.”
“But it was just so unexpected!” I said, “It was like WHAM! You know, an out-of-left-field type of surprise. You should have warned me.”
“You wouldn’t have come home.”
“That’s true, but I was expecting a normal hamburger and then I had a mouthful of lumps and stringy things. I thought you were trying to pois …”
“Don’t, don’t, just don’t even tempt me,” she interrupted, “What is the matter with you? A veggie-burger never killed anyone. How could you possibly object to a healthy alternative to steroid- and antibiotic-laced, flavor-injected ground beef, stuck together with meat glue and pink slime?”
“Stop, stop!” I said, “You’re making my mouth water.”
“Take another bite.”
“You mean take another bite right now? Of this?” I nodded at the imposter, still clutching it with both hands.
“Yes,” she growled, “Right. Now.”
Not expecting cow this time, I nibbled off a tiny corner. I chewed for a long, long time before quietly admitting to myself that a veggie-burger was an abomination and a violation of the natural order. I looked down at my plate then back up at my wife.
“These fries?” I asked, chewing on one slowly.
“What about them?” she glared.
“They’re turnips aren’t they?”
Freddie’s grin was gruesome.
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As a property owner in Fraser since 1978, I skied my youth, middle age and now, my old age away. I’ve watched the beauty of Fraser Valley devolve from trees, wildlife, clean air and plenty…