While grocery shopping this morning, I contemplated one of my lifelong disappointments: Grapes.
I have always enjoyed grape juice. To drink it is to let the liquid equivalent of the red carpet at the Oscars unfurl and roll down your throat and into your stomach. It transforms all foods that follow into celebrities, and allows them to parade down the esophagus in style.
The sad thing is, grapes do not taste like grape juice. White grapes? Who are they kidding? They’re not even white – they’re green! I mean, they’re not even pretending to be anything remotely like the burgundy-colored grape juice that is the lifeblood of my heart. If I walked around telling everyone I was a Clydesdale horse, I would be just as convincing.
Red grapes and black grapes are more despicable since they more closely resemble the color of grape juice. If anything, they are guiltier than the green grapes because they promise so much and deliver so little.
Where does grape juice really come from? No longer suspicious, I am now furious.
Vineyard workers: I am on to you. I know the truth.
Grape juice manufacturers: Your heads. On stakes. My yard. You will pay a most painful penance for your fruity fabrications. Give me the secret formula, and I will refrain from dressing you as giant grapes and tossing you into tubs filled with grapes, allowing troops of overly eager Italian women to stomp you to death and bottle and sell you. Although you might taste like grape juice in the end, which would almost serve as full payment for your culinary crimes.
Someone must pay the piper, and as long as the piper does not claim that grape juice tastes anything like grapes, I will be okay with whatever vengeance he chooses to unleash on the unsuspecting grape juice conspirators. I await justice.
For God is grape, and God is good.