The guac shall not be photographed

There are some things in this world that are just simply wrong. Private submarines, paper cuts, clowns on their way to work, exercise tv shows for old people, dying because of improper scissor-carrying (DBISC), girls that wear too much makeup when they don't need to, girls that need to, metal toasters, etc. Well, I learned today of another thing that belongs on that list: Pictures of guacamole.

I'm driving along and I come upon a van. It's covered in advertising for a local Mexican restaurant. Big pictures of their offerings; burritos, tacos, tortas, even rice and beans. It's one of those goofy tall vans, you know, the ones that look vaguely European. Covering the entirety of it's back is an enormous picture of a bowl of guacamole. Not like a sexy Gourmet magazine shot of a stone bowl surrounded by unblemished tomatoes, fluffy tufts of cilantro, ripe avocados, fat limes and onions. A sombrero and one of those guitars made out of a giant gourd hang liesurely from the adobe brick wall in the background. No, it was a top-down, straight on, open-heart surgery style picture. Had to be six feet wide by six feet tall. A moonscape of glistening lumps of mangled green flesh, dotted by specs of cilantro and torn chunks of tomato, like bloody carcasses awaiting dental identification. A big, nasty verde mess.

Done well, guacamole is one of the world's finest foods. It can be be delicious. Among some circles, including mine, it's considered an artform. It's what the gods must eat when they go out for mexican food or football parties. Wars have been fought over the stuff! No, wait, that's women.

If I were a chip, it's how I would want to die. It's bonito.

For anything to be beautiful. there must be unidentifiables. The secret to my own blue-ribbon guac is ********. You don't really think I'd divulge, do you? Does Bono say where he gets his glasses? Did DaVinci ever give the real name of the Mona Lisa? Does the butterfly ever share its thoughts? Does John Madden explain exactly how you're supposed to fit a duck inside a chicken and then fit that inside a turkey? (Hint: Vaseline)

Sometimes distance is the key to appreciation. It's the watchman of taste and tolerance. Look too close and you start to see the cracks in the painting, the dents in the car, the seam in the statue, the actual skin color of the Blue Man, the pimple scars on the news lady's face, the bruise on the porn star's arm. You might witness the gratuitous violence that is a six-foot tall stank shot of guacamole.

For a moment there was dismay, a twinge of fear that seeing such a beloved dip in such a way might ruin its rightful place atop my list of condiments. What would replace it? Salsa? Mango salsa? Black bean and corn spread? Ranch? Cheese? Hummus? What was I to do? A moment later the wave passed, although the van did not. I was right behind it for a good three blocks, enough time to ponder the intricacies of the twisted moonscape. What hellish tornado had shredded that landscape, spreading cilantro like roofing shingles? What mass murderer stalked those innocent pieces of tomato, leaving their bodies mutilated and their families helpless? The Closed-Casket Killer he'll be called.

As the van pulled away, restoring a healthy separation, my thoughts crept back across the sanity fence. Normal things like bills, women, work, whether or not I should get a watch or a dog. With a vague sense of relief I knew my relationship with guacamole wasn't ended.

And that relieved me.

Written across the back of that van was a simple question. "Hambre?"

Keep driving, Guacamole van. The answer is yes!