Thursday, April 2, 2015
I met Nutella last weekend, and now there's no turning back. We're a couple; don't judge us.
Life's important moments are like that. You're at a party, not expecting much in particular, and then you meet the sweet but not too sweet, the bold and saucy, wild and salty. At which point, you just don't care -- about what music is playing, the guy who brung you, or anyone else in the room. You just go for it.
Nutella and I, we shared a spoon and frenched, yes we did, on the first date in the first hour, before God and everyone. I'm not ashamed. It was natural and beautiful.
For years, people tried to set us up. "May I introduce you to Nutella, you're meant for each other," they said. But I resisted. The name Nutella -- rather disturbing. Like some unholy alliance of nutrition, lecture, and possibly meat. Related somehow to that vomit-in-a-jar, Vegemite.
Oh, we're martyrs to our preconceptions.
But that's all in the past. Today, the name is like a poem -- Nutellawwwww.
Apparently in England and weird places like that, they prefer Nutella left in a cupboard, so it's limp and weepy, poured over toast points and crackers. That's the English in a nutshell, is it not?
I say, refrigerate Nutella until what you've got is a candy bar that you can lick straight from the jar. Or, if you put on your party manners, something to excavate with a hammer and spoon.
I don't claim there's nothing better. There's always something better, that's what we live for. But during one of those 3 a.m. moments, one of those dark-night-of-the-soul wrestling matches that apparently you're losing, stand at the base of the fridge and shout, "Nu-TELLAHHHHH!"
You'll get an answer. Not the perfect answer, but better than sufficient; it comes with hazelnuts.