on ketchup
I love Garrison Keillor’s “Ketchup” song, but I have never loved ketchup. Its bloody appearance has turned me off since childhood. When I learned as a young adult that it’s not super-healthy (lots of sugar, but good for you with lycopene!), I used it as an excuse to continue avoiding the stuff. The only time I remember trying it was in Spain ten years ago, in a bizarre side-dish comprised of sticky rice balls topped with ketchup. It did not improve my opinion.
Recently, I tried ketchup for real. In the U.S. On more conventional ketchup vehicles. The impetus came when Nick tried vegetarian sushi and sort of fell in love with it. I felt inspired to also try something new, and he suggested ketchup. It took some cajoling to get me started, but I found it quite pleasant, and was surprised by its slight spiciness, which doesn’t come from paprika or chilis, but another still-unnamed ingredient.
That was a few months ago. Since then I’ve eaten ketchup when I have fries, and they’ve become so much more appealing. The blood-association remains enough that I haven’t dispensed it on my plate yet. I suspect that this aversion makes me seem neurotic, but if I keep eating ketchup, who knows what the future may hold? I could become a normal American consumer.
It reminds me of my epiphany as a teenager, when I finally started putting milk on my cereal.
