REDNECK PERSPECTIVE: Organic toe of frog

By on October 21, 2014

Jackson Hole, Wyoming – I occasionally wander the aisles of the new Whole Grocer. I drool over the baked goods (but usually wipe them off), practice advanced calculus by adding the prices of various gluten-free pastas and I stare hungrily at the cream floating atop the un-homogenized milk bottles (sometimes, I empty a bottle behind the potato chip section, pop off five or six new bottles, and skim the pure cream into the empty bottle before buying it; it’s the best bargain in the store).

But most of all I am seen with my cloth shopping bag, its yin/yang symbol giving the impression to the lonely and somewhat depressed Westbank women who roam the store that I exist in harmony with organic yogurt, am balanced, am at one with Mother Earth, am socially and politically aware, favor gender equality and seek spiritual awakenings assisted by burning incense, practice yoga, and memorize Buddhist expressions such as “a jug fills by the drop” as if someone who was enlightened couldn’t figure out how to dunk the jug in the creek and fill it all at once.

Last week, as I dawdled in the herbal medicine section between the Male Silk Moth tincture and the Changbai Mountain Ant Drops – which, for the untutored, restores Qi, increases vitality and nourishes the blood – a young lady walked in. She was not beautiful in the classical sense as she had a wart on her nose, bucked teeth, and a greenish complexion.

“I would like some 100 percent organic eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, tongue of dog, and some fair trade, humanely farmed, Adder’s fork, blind-worm’s sting, lizard’s leg, and sustainably harvested owlet’s wing,” she asked politely.

The clerk filled her order but tragically was out of organic tongue of dog. “We expect a new shipment tomorrow,” she reassured.

She’s no Maxim model, I told myself, but I am always up for an adventure. Plus, it’s off-season, a slow time for picking up Utah girls and in Jackson, a choosey man is a lonely man.

“I have some tongue of dog at the trailer,” I told her.

She looked me up and down. “Well, it is off-season,” she said.

She was one to talk.

When we got to my trailer she heated a caldron on the stove, poured in a tablespoon of cold-pressed, organic, unfiltered, cultivated and packaged in Italy, $20-a-pint extra virgin olive oil. She then mixed in the other ingredients while reciting clever rhyming incantations. I gave her a hunk of Hormel hotdog to toss into the mix. (Tongue of dog, hunk of hotdog … what’s the diff? Plus who knows what they put in those things.)

We drank it down and suddenly she appeared more attractive to me, and judging from her actions the rest of the night, me to her as well. The evening was, well let’s just say the next day I returned to Whole Grocer and bought their entire supply of wool of bat and toe of frog.

About Clyde Thornhill

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