Love is Like Ketchup

There, I said it. Love is like ketchup. Or more, like stealing ketchup. 

From a young age I have been a fan of the red taste killer. What a royal gesture to look at my heaping plate of eggs, then douce them in tomato sauce. Why not hot sauce you ask? Hot sauce is for peasants. My mother even cut up a hot dog weenie and placed it in the form of a happy face dawning a red nose. What a wonderful breakfast it was. And one I savored for hours. But really, I was quite the slow eater. 

I remember one of the first encounters with my wonderful man friend. How he brought up the topic of sauces. Oh yes, this was something I could school him in. Until he said aloud... people in America use so much sauce. It's crazy!

Not as crazy as the panic that ran through my bones. Slowly chocking off the salsa from my taco, and letting my mind dive into the painful future of never eating sauce again. How horrible dry fries would taste. How dull my life would become. Goodbye tasty ketchup, if I ever want a chance with him you must go. 

Luckily he has given in to my condiment consumption, and life moved happily on.

So, why might you ask, is love like stolen ketchup?

This revelation did not come lightly. But as I moved out on my own, and topped off the last of my first meal alone fries, I saw something I had never seen before. Left over ketchup. Right there in a resealable cup. Ketchup I could use later. So I made a promise... to never buy ketchup again. 

Three months later I have learned that ketchup and love go hand in hand. Like love, ketchup makes things sweet. Ketchup is there when you need it. You can never have too much, yet it taste just as good in small doses. It comforts you when things are bitter, and is best when full. Though, also like love, I have learned that you become sad when the ketchup is gone. You think it will always be there, another upside-down bottle awaiting your final squeeze. But, when the day comes that there is nothing left, it hurts. And then you are left to pick up the pieces. To scrape the plastic container, or substitute your love for mustard. It is a bitter ending. And you must find a way to move on.

Now you are left to decide. Do you sulk over the one you lost, or steal a few more packets? If you listen closely the answer is in the name. It is not called a break-down for a reason. Once you are over the break, things can only go up.