Tuesday, October 21, 2014
An Onion A Day
I sit in New Jersey - my carry-all luggage wrapped around me - a chapter finished. The spies can wait while I eyeball my surroundings. Raising my head, my first blink, like a photo, captures a couple, each with a hamburger laid out on a napkin, which tries its best to stay in place on their laps. It appears each has ordered a patty with the same trimmings. As I watch, they began to trade condiments - she dislikes onions, he tomatoes, she dislikes pickles, and he lettuce - and so it goes. With trading completed - both satisfied, they press their sandwiches back together, happy for the trade. They appear to be a good match.
A man walks by holding a submarine sandwich by three fingers. The other two fingers clasp onto a dangling plastic bag. It hangs down rigid, eight inches long, dragged down by the weight of an onion. Not just any onion, but a large one, yet unpeeled, its outer skin green and brown. Is it a souvenir - something to brag about to Midwest relatives, "Everything is large in New York, look at this onion." Then again, it could be dessert, one I would shy away from, and I suppose from anyone who consumes one raw. Wonder what flight he is on?