A haggard and crazy looking couple on their way to bedlam ambushed me in the Trader Joes parking lot just the other day. Without so much as a warning, they thrust upon me a glossy political piece of propaganda that said something about making America great again, before citing a few lines from the Mein Kamph.
After I shooed them away from the vicinity of my inner peace and headed to my favorite breakfast joint after shopping for the bare necessities, they pounced on the next unsuspecting patron who's only intention was to go grocerying on their day off.
It may come as no shock to anyone whatsoever that I have rather stubborn political convictions.
Really big and absurd delicious ones if I'm being honest here.
So since I have you all here and seeing as how I just ordered myself some breakfast, I guess I should share them with you, if I may, and/or if you're even interested.
After all, this is a branch of the tree called social media where everyone’s personal opinions are more important than anything that has to do with empathy, or anyone that empathetically gets in the way of what they think.
This election year though, my dear friends, I’m voting for a half order of biscuits and gravy with a side of crispy hash browns and two eggs sunny side up. It's the kind of breakfast that comes with so much comfort a man can't help but take a long afternoon nap afterwards.
Also, I'll be voting for homegrown heirloom peaches—which are an esoterically bipartisan fruit mind you.
Because I do, I love fresh fruit. But not necessarily the spoiled rotten kind that are preserved in piss and vinegar and locked up in a can, because that shit tastes like pickled nightmares.
I’m talking about the kind of fruit you only get from a highwayside farmers market on a semi sunny day. A peach so goddamn tender, it’ll make a grown man salivate. Once on a long drive in the middle of a dream on my way back from a farmers market in Southern Italy by way of Saturn’s rings, I took such a healthy gushing bite out of a freshly picked peach it dribbled down my chin and I had to change my britches not once, but twice.
It should also be noted—as far as local partisan issues go—that I have every intention of voting in favor of our God-given right to smoke meats. Which I freely exercise without needing to purchase a license from the federal government on a yearly basis. Yes indeed, without the art of barbecue we’d be a divided nation on the illusory skid marks of our individually windblown political ideologies. Because the only thing separating us from the heathens of insurmountable insurrection, is a healthy rack of of baby back ribs mopped and slathered in a peach infused barbecue sauce.
Furthermore, there are no rules to smoking meats. In fact, with the right peach flavored rub, it’s perfectly unreasonable to season your own two feet, which I have attempted once or twice before. Lord have mercy was that a drunkard’s dream the night I kept tiptoeing over the burning embers of a smoldering dream.
And boy do I sure hope that a loaf of fresh baked Italian bread makes the ballot too. Modern health extremists say gluten will turn our brains into garlic butter. But garlic bread my friends, I will fully support til the day I fall into an eternal food coma.
I once had a friend who would always tell me, “We were so poor growing up, momma could only afford a bag of flour, a pound of butter, and a pound of fresh peaches. And each morning, when I prayed for my daily bread, by the delicious grace of God, she would make us her not of this world homemade buttermilk biscuits with peach jelly.”
Hell, to continue writing from such a place of honesty, I’d much rather enjoy a cheeseburger from that new joint on the other side of town than argue with someone about absolutely nothing that really fucking matters. I’d rather have my fries drowned in ketchup with a handspun vanilla milkshake to wash it all down, then head back home to fall fast asleep on the sofa to dream about the long last American dream rather than talk about the rhetorics of politics with anyone.
If you think that’s not American, then get in fucking line because it’s cheeseburger so goddamn good, the line wraps around seven heavenly city blocks just for folks to get their hungry hands on.
See, I believe that the hope of a better day starts with all things delicious, like heirloom tomatoes ripe enough to eat off of the vine with a little Himalayan pink salt, sweet corn on the cob suffocated in clarified butter. Smoked brisket, peach cobbler with a heaping amount of redi-whipped cream, and barbecue chicken drumsticks doused in Alabama white sauce sound mighty fine to me.
Lord have mercy, give us this year our daily biscuits with some of that universally famous peach jelly.
How’s that sound for a campaign slogan plastered on a fancy piece of political propaganda folks?
Because it sounds just peachy to me.
And, if it’s not too much trouble up there Big Fella—let’s try and make America love again if it's not too late.
But first and foremost, let’s savor the most plump, delicious, and flavorful peach ever known to man.
Til the next time.
Yours truly & cordially & full.
Ryan Love
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