The Vermont Cynic

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A food industry love story

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Our eyes met as we both reached for the fetid dish-rag at the same time. Standing over the moist wooden table we shared a smile, the chewed flecks of basil like Italian mistletoe beneath us. Flirtatiously, I said “I’ll wipe this down for you”.

“Okay thanks” she replied, sexily.

Then we parted ways – she to the kitchen, me to the other end of the kitchen.

As I frantically sorted dirty dishes, I heard her wail frustratedly with a voice deep and gruff, octaves lower than what was ever presented to customers. It was something about the host giving her two new tables at once, which didn’t sound so bad. “She could get double-sat on my face any time” I thought.

As I gazed at her chastising the cooks for their tardy entrees, I realized that she was truly beautiful. Her hair was matted gracefully with sweat, with her natural roots bravely exposed; the face tattoos of her six ex’s names shown brightly on her chapped skin, all leading down to a smile containing about all her teeth.

Perfection.

During a dip into the break room, I noticed that the ice in the server’s station was running low. Finally, this was my chance. I filled up the buckets from the ice machine and marched forward, hoping someone would notice how strong I must be for being able to hold this much ice. Ostentatiously, I plodded forward with lumbering gait, every muscle in my body straining painfully against the overflowing buckets. I read online that girls like to look at guy’s forearms when they’re doing masculine things, so I hoped that mine stood out.

As expected, I was immediately heralded as a savior as I emptied the jugs. The women swooned and the men cheered. As the last strangling cube was ushered out, a vat of Minute Maid Limeade-Flavored drink was dumped on me in celebration– corporate doesn’t let us carry Gatorade. And I did it all for her.

Soon after, we were married and both happy as clams. We raised three kids who followed in our footsteps, all working in the food industry. You know what they say, the olive doesn’t fall too far from the garden.

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The University of Vermont's Independent Voice Since 1883
A food industry love story