Dreams of a would-be ketchup king
So far, the tomato plants are doing pretty well. Standing sturdy in the spring chill. Perking up nicely when the sun kisses their perfect leaves. The way a starlet stirs under the attention of a well-off older man.
The little plants have even inspired a running gag in our house. When I mention “tomatoes,” the toddler arches his back, rubs his tummy and purrs “Hmmmm.” Believe it or not, this has elicited laughs from the same people for two weeks running.
“Pretty soon, we’ll be making our own ketchup,” I tell the baby.
“How?” he wonders.
“From our tomatoes,” I explain.
“Hmmmm,” he says, and rubs his milky belly.
I’ve known people who’ve tried to make backyard wine. Others will attempt a nice spaghetti sauce, or a fresh leek soup, straight from the garden.
But no one, to my knowledge, is attempting to make his own ketchup, America’s most important lubricant.
“Do you even know how to make ketchup?” my wife asks.
“No.”
“Then you’ve got a lot to learn about ketchup,” she notes.
I do know this. With ketchup, you can barely tell one brand from another. Meanwhile, there are premium mustards. Premium olive oils. Great steak sauces. Designer salts. But no premium ketchups -- at least none that comes to mind.
A good ketchup keeps the joints flexible and the mind sharp. In some of our less developed states, like Texas, it’s considered an aphrodisiac.
“Are we going to be rich?” the little girl asks.
“Very,” I tell her.
“We are?” she asks.
Yes. Rich in failed schemes. I am becoming one of those dads who is constantly knocking about the garage developing the next insanely great idea, in hopes of paying for three more college educations, a couple of weddings, some pesky old traffic tickets, a bad Super Bowl bet from 1983 and eventually -- if all goes exceptionally well -- an oil change for the car.
“So what do you do for kicks?” a dad recently asked. “Boating? Hunting? Golf?”
“Yeah ... um ... all that,” I muttered into my beer.
But not so much. Not when the mortgage howls my name late at night. Not when a college education can climb to 200 grand. Mostly, I scheme. Dream. Save. Scrimp. And nurse the desperate thoughts of a slowly drowning Dad.
“Dad?”
“Huh?”
“You’re wearing three shades of khaki,” the little girl pointed out the other day.
“So?”
“You can’t,” she warned, “wear three different shades of khaki.”
Like many dads, my thoughts are elsewhere. On a cure for some disease, perhaps. Or a better mousetrap. (In my mind, the answer may not be a better mousetrap. Indeed, the answer may be dumber mice.)
There’s no telling where these inspirations come from. Like Da Vinci, I’ll just be sitting around eating a peanut butter sandwich and ka-BOOM, along comes a great idea.
“Stiletto sneakers!” I blurted out one day around Christmas.
“Huh?” said the boy.
“Cross a running shoe with a pair of high heels,” I ask, “and what do you get?”
“Blisters?” said my daughter.
“Hammer toes?” said my wife.
OK, so some ideas are better than others. Ketchup, for instance.
All I need now are some backers for this designer ketchup. And a recipe. Some bottles. A marketing plan.
“You can’t even grow tomatoes,” my wife notes.
“Hmmmmm,” says the toddler.
Yet, ketchup is the perfect start-up product. It has no season. It’s not a fad. It enhances nearly everything it touches. I’ve licked ketchup off other people’s wrists. I’ve kissed it from their delicate chins.
If all goes well, we’ll eventually sponsor Friday night ketchup tastings. Overeducated people will sip from a fine bottle of red and proclaim: “Hmm, very floral. Do I detect a hint of honeysuckle?”
We’ll have to explain that a palette is a very personal thing. Where one man tastes honeysuckle, another might taste quince and a hint of almond. The tasters will nod appreciatively, and make a mental note never to come back.
“This is going to be big,” I tell my wife.
“Obviously,” she says.
“If you’re lucky, I’ll let you help in the kitchen,” I tell her.
“And if I’m unlucky?” she asks.
Well, that seems fairly obvious. She’ll continue with this life of hers. The wife of a future ketchup tycoon. The mother of re-invention.
Hmmmmmmmm.
Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
