I hate onions. I hate them raw. I hate them cooked. I hate their “flavor” (as if horror were a flavor) and the way they crunch and the way the horror explodes in my mouth and won’t ever leave. I hate them fried. I hate them caramelized. How is caramelized even a thing?
I hate onions.
Why does everyone insist on putting onions in my food? I never said I wanted onions. Stop making assumptions.
The food people put them on my burgers and sandwiches. They put them in my salads, including potato. I’m glad my soda has a lid.
To me, this is the same as blowing cigarette smoke in my face and then saying, “Oh, I assumed you wanted smoke in your face.”
This week was the last (onion) straw. I bought cranberry-almond chicken salad at Costco. What I got was ONION chicken salad, with chaser lights. Big-ass chunks of diced, crunchy, unbridled, sociopathic onion. I cannot taste the chicken, the almonds, or the cranberries.
If I want onions (which I never would), I’ll ask.
People use the “layers of an onion” metaphor to describe people and things that are full of surprises and mystery. Why? Every layer of an onion is exactly the same as the one above and below it: Nasty.
If I were dictator of the world, I’d be benevolent. Free tacos on Sunday and all that. But, I’m sorry; no freakin’ onions. If you want onions, visit Onion Island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, the only place I permit them to grow. Don’t think about smuggling one out, either. Your punishment will be legendary!
Pray I never become dictator, onions.
I now return you to your regularly scheduled blog reading.