Nathaniel

Shockey

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October 22, 2007

Here in NoCal, Your Assimilation Begins with the Avocado

To me, one of the funniest parts of the movie, “Evan Almighty”, is when Evan, wearing his new ancient robe, comes down with a sudden desire for “anything unleavened.”

His wife helps him and gives him a pita. The same sort of thing happened in a Calvin and Hobbes strip in which Calvin turns himself into a tiger and instantly craves tuna. That’s when you know something inside you has changed, something as deep as your genetic code, when you start craving things you never even liked before.

If you ever move to California, before long, you’ll wake up in the middle of the night craving avocado. They put that stuff on everything out here – burgers, salads, omelets, ice cream sundaes. Maybe it’s because avocados are green and, as all Californians now know, thanks to grand visionaries like Al Gore, anything green is good and should be eaten.

The scary thing for me is, if you had asked me if I liked avocado a year ago, I probably would have responded by saying I’ve never been there. Hell, I honestly didn’t even know that guacamole was made from it. Who could have ever guessed that I’d be in the kitchen chopping onions, helping my wife make homemade guacamole a year later? I’m doomed.

There are actually two distinct Californias – Southern California and Northern California. You see, in “SoCal”, the dramatic culture shock might just be enough to convince you to get out quick before it’s too late. The ridiculous tans, bright blonde hair, fake boobs and celebrity mayhem are unlike anything you’ve ever seen. It’s a different planet.

But in Northern California, it’s a lot more like putting a frog in water and slowly bringing it to a boil. The poor thing just sits there while its skin is melting off.

I’m beginning to worry that the insane amounts of sunlight in the Bay Area are starting to melt my skin off. Last year, if you had asked me if I liked chianti, I would have said I’ve never heard any of her music. Now I’m the guy who makes snide remarks about anyone who pairs chardonnay with prime rib.

I just hope it’s not too late.

The truth is, I did leave my heart in Philadelphia. I’d take a cheese steak over a cobb salad any day. I still prefer a cold beer to a cabernet sauvignon. And I’m pretty sure if I never had some delicious guacamole again, I’d be okay. But I’ll tell you one thing, I sure as heck wouldn’t want to try.

There is hope, however, and the following anecdote is proof.

I was at a wine bar the other day with my wife and some friends. I arrived there a bit late in the evening, and everyone was already sitting around, telling jokes, having a good, loud time. There were five or six different bottles of wine scattered around two tables, along with about 15 or so wine glasses. The owner of the wine bar greeted me and politely offered me a glass.

“Here, try some of this,” she said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh, just try it.” Everyone was sort of giggling, like they were all in on a joke. I wasn’t sure if I was in some sort of danger, so I spent quite a lot of time scrutinizing all of the expressions around me. It seemed safe, and the whole situation was beginning to get much more attention than it was worth. So I finally decided to take the bait, just to keep the night going. I vigorously swished it around my glass, smelled it and took a sip. Everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to react.

“It’s pretty good,” I said. “Kind of sweet, it doesn’t do much, but it’s alright.”

This wasn’t the reaction they were hoping for. Apparently I had just tasted the worst wine these people had ever had. A few ladies came in several minutes later, sniffed the same wine, and scrunched up their faces before even taking a sip.

Obviously, I’m no Californian. So to all of my friends and family back in Philadelphia, please stop worrying about me.

And for what it’s worth, next time I visit, I’ll make sure to supply the avocado.

© 2007 North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

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