Dear God of Condiments

Dear God of Condiments
Why are you the only God in my refrigerator?
Have I angered the God of Real Food?
My fridge is a shrine to you!
Relish, mayonnaise, mustard, oh,
how you gloriously dominate my culinary reality!
You certainly taste better than a gun barrel.

Dear God of Condiments,
have you ever tried making a mayonnaise soup?
It tastes nothing like chowder
no matter how much relish I put in.
Have you ever tasted yourself,
Dear God of Condiments?
I confess, there have been times
when I have licked my own skin,
considered how well I could spread myself.
I could easily go
with corned beef and rye.
I could be a sauerkraut.
I am told I am part German,
but I don’t know which part.
I like to think it’s my right pinky,
shorter than my left.
I am also told that I am a liar,
but that isn’t for me to determine.

Dear God of Condiments,
it’s not that I can’t afford food,
it’s just that sometimes when I think about
leaving my house
I lose my appetite.
I am sorry to say that
I am not praying to you out of fear or admiration.
At this point I pray to you out of necessity.

Dear God of Condiments,
I am staring out of the window now.
My neighbors don’t know that I exist.
Wouldn’t it be interesting if I did not?
In the Bible, they said that God spoke us into existence.
But I believe in a lot of gods, such as you,
God of Condiments,
as my fridge will testify.
Little idols in the door defining my life.
They say you are what you eat,
and,
well,
here I am,
two bottles of ketchup,
a bear of honey,
a jar of salsa,
prostrating before you.

Amen.

 

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