a figure of speech in which a name, action or term ordinarily applied to an object is applied to another in order to suggest a likeness between them

Me-ta-phor, n. (distinguished from simile by not having like or as to introduce it)



When I said "no guacamole until after Baltimore" (see previous post), I was speaking in metaphor. I was really saying "no this":



until after Baltimore.

I can, and should, eat all the non-metaphorical guacamole I want between now and then -- I heard on the news recently that there will be a global avocado shortage coming soon and in my world, that's an unspeakable tragedy.

But since avocados don't keep well, we can't ration them and therefore the responsible thing to do is to eat up while we can.
Am I right?

Dry winter skin? Eat guacamole (and use extra moisturizer)

Winter ennui? Eat guacamole (with colorful chips)

Bad financial news? Eat guacamole (to put you in a good mood while you pay bills)

Speaking of bad financial news, in an effort to trim expenses and as part of an overall improvement in living that we seem to plan every January, Russ and I have decided to cut back on eating out. There was embarassing room for improvement in this area, so it will not be a terrible hardship.

Part of this cutting back involves Friday night cooking-at-home dates, the first of which we had last Friday complete with candles and garlic-red-skin-mashed-potatoes. It was a smashing success.

So when we were discussing what to cook for our date tonight, I was pleased when Russ suggested "Mexican Lasagne" -- partly because any meal with "Mexican" in the title will automatically require a guacamole appetizer, but partly because I haven't made it or even thought about it for so long it made me smile.




"Mexican Lasagna" comes (as you can see) from the back of an old tortilla package, but it's how it got on the package that made me smile.

About 25 years ago, we were terribly poor students living on nothing but love and loans while Russ finished graduate school. I was then, as I continue to be, a total catalog junkie, and spent many happy hours in our dismal apartment poring over home furnishings catalogs and dreaming of our future well-furnished life together.

One day I saw a shaker jelly cupboard that just SCREAMED buy me, and buy me NOW. It was $300.00 so of course I tried to silence the voice, but it just screamed louder. When I showed the picture to Russ, he said what any responsible person would: "We're certainly not buying a shaker jelly cupboard while we're living on student loans."

I knew that, of course, but it was worth a shot, right?

A few days later a commercial came on TV advertising a contest for recipes using Lynn Wilson's Flour Tortillas, and I knew the universe was smiling on me, because the prize was $300.00. I told Russ that I was going to enter, win, and buy my jelly cupboard with the prize. He smiled sweetly and said that if I won the prize, I could of course buy anything I wanted with it.

So Mexican Lasagne was born out of a screaming necessity for a shaker jelly cupboard.

When Lynn Wilson himself called me to tell me I had won and offer congratulations, I'm afraid I was rather rude because I was sure it was a joke and Russ had put one of his friends up to it. Luckily, Lynn Wilson was understanding and still issued me the $300.00 check. The recipe continued to be on the package for years and years.

The jelly cupboard wears a different coat of paint now but happily houses our cd collection. And hopefully my husband learned a valuable lesson:

Never underestimate Susan's love of and determination to enjoy



as well as cool but sometimes impractical home furnishings.

One of the great things about being empty nesters is that our Friday Night Fiesta can easily become:


a thrilling Sunday Night Supper, giving us an opportunity to use up any leftover avocados that aren't quite ripe enough the first time around.

I'll be contented with my freezing-Minnesota-homemade-guacamole-goodness . . . until Baltimore. After that, all bets are off.