An Unholy love of Guacamole

“It looks like baby poo.”

That was the consensus from my kids many years ago when I tried to introduce them to the wonders of guacamole. They were having none of it. I am an adventurous eater, but my children have ridiculous standards when it comes to trying new things.

The oldest was incredibly picky as a child, but has come around to find that there is more to life than chicken nuggets. I’m waiting for her to say, “you were right” because I tried to tell her when she was little that there was a whole, big, flavorful world she was missing.

The twenty-year-old won’t try anything green and subsists on microwave pizzas. And then there is the dancer who eats incredibly healthy. She has always loved to try new fruits with me, so I would scour the global sections of the markets to find star fruits, dragon fruits, and blood oranges to bring home. Yet she turns her nose up at my avocado delight.

I love it. I love it so much it is a problem. I think it is the cilantro that piques my taste buds. I could eat my weight in chips and guacamole.

And every time my kids are around, I stuff chip after chip in my pie-hole and say, “look, I’m eating baby poo!”

Like my other dad-jokes… it never gets old.

My unholy love of guacamole caused me a little embarrassment recently. I get to do some pretty cool stuff in my job sometimes. This year, I got to go out on the field at Suntrust Park to receive a check from the Atlanta Braves Foundation. It started with a reception for all the beneficiaries. Since we got free tickets, I invited my oldest and her boyfriend who loves the Braves.

But on the trip to meet me, he somehow missed the exit and they got stuck in traffic, making us a little late to the reception. We got there just in time, but had to forego the buffet because the presentation started immediately. I sat there ruefully eyeing a mongo bowl of guacamole the entire time the Brave’s representative spoke and handed out awards. I couldn’t sneak any of it because it was right next to the stage.

When the speaker ended, we immediately had to line up to walk down to the field for the on-field presentation!

Driven by green-eyed guacamole lust and not good manners, I allowed everyone in the room to cut in front of me thereby putting myself right in front of the bowl. Chips in both hands, I wind-milled scoop after scoop full of baby poo. With everyone in front of me and no one watching, I ate like a complete animal.

42168918_10156745445099675_205390472875606016_nFlash forward to when we stepped out onto the field, I looked down to find several hunks of that chunky, green goodness on my shoe and pant leg. I visualized the crowd’s reaction and thought of the viral video of the Braves guy with baby poo all over him. But let’s face it, no one pays attention to pregame ceremonies. So while we crossed the foul line and headed toward home plate, I desperately flicked baby poo off of me and onto the playing surface.

I wonder if it came into play during the game – if a ball rolled through it and caused the left fielder to make a throwing error. That would be funny.



Later that night, in a contented guacamole slumber, I dreamed of a brilliant product idea: ceramic guacamole bowls formed into the shape of a diaper. Because if you look like baby poo but taste like heaven, I say be proud and own it.


The Finger of God

“I have touched the very finger of God.”

It seems an arrogant statement to make, I know. Yet it is true… I have.

I was not responsible for the touch. Man is always reaching up to touch the hem of God’s robe, but to experience a touch from the Almighty requires divine grace on his part: an act of reaching down.

There have been many times throughout history when he chose people to be his instrument – where he reached down and nudged someone with instruction or direction. We chosen aren’t always the model of propriety or what humankind would necessarily expect to be God’s vessel, yet we have received an undeniable touch and must share his message.

I didn’t seek it or expect it. I stumbled into it – almost like a bully-poke in the chest… not aggressive, but certainly firm and meaningful. If I had heard his voice, I think he would have said, “This way, dummy. Don’t miss this thing I’ve created.”

I believe that when we step outside our mortal bodies and enter heaven, limitations are removed. While earthbound, our ability to understand the world around us is confined to that which our five senses can perceive. For example, on this earth, we deal in a pallet of viewable colors. In heaven, the supply of colors is endless – 1,000,000 crayons to name. But in that rare instance when God chooses to lay his finger on a mere mortal, he allows us to experience the joy to come when we will no longer wear mortal blinders. That is the full-sensory extravaganza I enjoyed. It was a luxurious, indescribable bliss which has made me yearn even more for my heavenly home.

Of course, it happened in the South – that place still described as the Bible Belt. A place given to beauty, manners, and charm where God leans a little closer. While I must admit that the “belt” is nearly rusted through and Southerners are becoming as hedonistic and immoral as the rest of the heathens, there are still enough churches per square mile that God can skip from place to place without touching the ground. That’s gotta count for something.

When you receive a touch from God, you also receive an immediate call to share it with others. I don’t mean to insert myself in the same conversation as St. Paul, Martin Luther, or Gandhi. But I now understand their unselfish need to write a few Epistles, start the Reformation, or lead the Indian people to freedom. God’s touch is an urging, a stirring within that cannot be denied.

I have felt that touch… from the very finger of God and he has asked me to share this word with you mortals walking the earth:

“Thou shalt not miss the opportunity to indulge in a deep-fried Oreo!”




On a recent trip to Stone Mountain, I stood next a shop selling funnel cakes, when God nudged me with a childhood memory of a Denver amusement park. He pushed me into the little shack where behold, the heavenly choir sang and an ethereal light brightened around menu item number 6: Deep Fried Oreos. I bought two orders to share with my people… That which is important to God must be shared.

I’m telling you, the most decadent, unbelievable party for your taste buds you will ever experience this side of heaven.


Deep-fried Oreos, people!

My work here is done. I’m spent. I wonder how big the deep-frier is in heaven?