I was once tasked with having to draw a picture for my dad in the first grade for father’s day. We were supposed to draw something that we had in common or an activity we enjoyed doing with our dad. My drawing was two stick figures sitting at a stick kitchen table that had on top of it, a giant bottle of ketchup. We both really liked ketchup. For a long time, that was the art he kept in his office.
Not ever really being a “joiner,” I did the bare minimum of extracurricular activities in high school to get into college. I participated in the literary magazine contributing a profound and moving ode to ketchup. I read it recently and it is only matched in ridiculousness by absolute and affected teenage suffering. I showed it to my parents and they asked if I was on drugs.
A girlfriend of mine used to joke that I didn’t like food. I only used the food as a vehicle for ketchup. It would look gross if I sat down with a bowl of ketchup and a spoon.
My husband loves to cook and is terrific at it. Frustration would overpower the accomplishment he felt whenever I slathered oodles of ketchup on whatever he had just cooked up. He doesn’t take it personally anymore. I love ketchup.
Ketchup on eggs, ketchup on macaroni, ketchup on everything.
A while ago I bought a beautiful piece of art to add to the dining room that fully expresses my thoughts: