January 2, 2004
Last night I had an unbelievable desire for applesauce. I dashed into the kitchen, retrieved the applesauce from the fridge, and sat down at our little kitchen table to eat it all up. Despite my greatest efforts, however, I was unable to open the jar.
I passed the job along to Sam, my Official Container Opener, and vicariously aided his efforts with grunts, wheezes, and growls of my own. This unfortunately only made him giggle, rendering him too weak for any acts of supreme strength. My craving for the applesauce grew with every one of his limp tugs on the lid, however, and my cries became more frantic. Quick, Sam, I yelled! The applesauce! The applesauce! He passed the jar back to me, but I was also laughing at this point, and was unable to even lift my hands. I needed applesauce bad, but we had only succeeded in reducing ourselves to two weak blobs of chuckles and wheezes. Sam yelled for me to hold the bottom of the jar while he twisted the top and I cried that I couldn’t even hold my head up any more. Finally, with the full force of his gelatinous will, Sam twisted the top off of the applesauce. I triumphantly grabbed my spoon as Sam collapsed onto the table. Pitching my spoon into the jar, I drew out the cool yellow nectar and sipped it into my mouth. At last!
It was then, however, that its extreme tanginess became known to my senses. Yikes, I said. This applesauce is way too sour. And so I put the lid on the jar and stuck it back in the fridge, just as Sam fell off his chair in complete and utter exasperation.