My mother made guacamole. Its key ingredients were avocadoes, diced onion, sour cream, and worcestshire sauce, (at least it didn't have mayonnaise like her famous cottage cheese dip, which also had worcestshire sauce) but it wasn't really like the guacamole that we make or serve today.
It was fabulous, though, because it was elegant - at least, we thought it was fabulous then. It was smooth. Absolutely mashed to a pulp with a fork and blended with sour cream, almost pistachio green.
I had a dream last night that I was living in a youth hostel in London or someplace like London (I have never lived in a youth hostel, not even for a night) and that the communal shower had a cement floor that was a little funky (ditto, the communal shower part) and then somehow, and I’m not sure how this transition was made, I was delivering turkey to the strike line at Fox.
This part I understand. Not that a picket line is supposed to be a dinner party but when someone is asked to walk around in circles (literally circles, it’s not even like exercise, it’s like something else), hunger and thirst kick-in, bringing your own bottle of water (byow) and a cap is recommended.
The first day I picketed I was late...