I’m going to start off by saying, hesitantly, that I love the taste of prunes. They’re delicious, sweet, wrinkly snacks. Since I was a little girl I would smuggle them from the refrigerator or take deep, cool swigs from the jug of prune juice my great grandpa kept way back on the shelf (certainly in an attempt to thwart my reaching).
It had been awhile since I enjoyed my childhood treat and on Sunday (lifestyle change in becoming vegetarians. Neither Richard nor I have taken the veggie plunge, but we take any excuse we can to assemble and this sounded like an interesting theme. We packed our bellies full of a variety of grilled squash, veggie burgers and a spaghetti squash veggie medley I found online. The festivities were a hit! Then something happened. I don’t know who invited this unwanted bane-of-my-existence, but my great aunt Flatulence made her entrance. ), my brother and his wife came over and brought an enormous sack full of them. We were having a vegetarian BBQ in order to celebrate their recent
Did I mention that Richard and I were going to a Halloween costume party later that evening? I’m sure the excessive vegetable intake didn’t help. My body was not adjusted. But to further worsen this tale, I decided I’d eat three of nature’s laxatives, PRUNES, without batting an eye.
Ah, my old friend the prune. The prune is stealth itself. He looks so innocent sitting there bagged, like a dark skinned old man, hunched and pitted, mushy and polished with age. Beneath that frail skin is a sleeping giant. I awoke the giant that night. Under my hippie caftan garb a slow and steady rumblin' started rolling through my belly and by the time we got to our Halloween party I thought I might soil myself before I crossed the threshold. I don't think my patchouli oil scent would have covered a horrendous odor wafting from beneath. I scurried to an off limits bathroom and grappled with the stealthy old devil. Beware the mighty prune.