The first thing I'm going to have you do is look at this:



That’s over 100 sauce packets. I’m not touching the sordid tale of those ageless entities because that’s a tale for Likes Music.

Instead I’m going to tell you a little bit about myself by showing you two photographs:



Two pictures because I don’t really want to talk about abandonment. And because the way I’m interpreting the directions, I have to talk about that specific abandonment somehow.

“INSTRUCTIONS: Every ancient condiment in the back of your fridge is a tale of neglect and abandonment. Tell us yours.”

It is particularly the stand alone sentence, “Tell us yours,” that I seem to be interpreting differently than others.

For me this task is not about the condiments but rather how they reflect our own abandonments so my tale lies here:


One of the first purchases I made when moving to Chicago. Why have I abandoned you?



After examining the bottle I take to the oracle to find out more.



The FAQ is of no use to me because I keep things well after they’ve expired. Perhaps the Kraft Gurus and knowledge keepers will have more to say on the subject.



Full transcript:

Dear Kim or Randomly Assigned Consumer Relations Person,

Right now I'm listening to Lily Allen even though she had that anti-consumer rant about how digital piracy has made it impossible for her to make money off of her music. I wonder, who is your favorite band or what have you been listening to lately?

But this is not about Lily Allen, rather this is a woeful tale about expired Thousand Island Dressing.

It recently came to my attention that every ancient condiment in the back of one's fridge is a tale of neglect and abandonment, one that connects with my own tale. Until that sentiment is fully understood, how am I to understand myself? That question is rhetorical and you being a Consumer Relations Advocate, I don't expect you to answer the meaning of life, (Forty-two! Amiright? "You're not wrong!" {A little British born humor for you there.}) nor do I expect you to answer the first question, though I'd enjoy the answer, I know you're busy.

However, I do think you can help fill in some of the missing gaps to my Thousand Island Story.

I fear my tale of abandonment is one of abandoning before it is one of abandonment. You see I was in love with a girl named Lauren from Ohio. Before moving to Chicago and after a short stint in the deep South I visited her, told her then that I'd come back for her... someday. Like the early Christians waiting for the second coming, we expected that to be soon, but it's now been nearly four years. And so I never did go back for her, she is engaged to be married, (rejoice!) and we are barely friends. (saddenss.)

How this ties into the way you can help me; One of my first purchases upon arriving in the way-north Chicago burbs -- Illinois country, you might call it and judging from the Northfield IL zip-code on the label, I suspect there is a good chance you knew that already -- was this now expired 24oz Kraft Thousand Island Salad Dressing. (Still tastes great!)

You see, I haven't finished the bottle. I've instead let it linger, slightly more than half empty, meanwhile, I've gallivanted all about United States in search of adventure and tales. Breaking hearts to try and break my own. Maybe I have, maybe I finally have. But tell me, and this is the end of my bluster, the real question:

"How could you abandon that beautiful bottle to a wretch like me?"

Kraft (as a corporate entity) bought its ingredients from farmers, gave it life in one of the factories, bottled it up, stuck it in a box, shipped it out to Target. And let it go. Is this an accurate synopsis of how that works? Can you give me a good run down on the history of Thousand Island dressing and how it gets from Kraft to my fridge? I think this will help me put the pieces together.

Thanks from your internet pal,
-dan

PS: I'm now listening to Jenny Lewis. And though it says I'm a master and an Esquire, neither are true. I just think it's hilarious that those options exist in drop down boxes.

The wiki on Thousand Island dressing confirms, to my satisfaction, that the above tale is legend and probably not the real ultimate history. Surprisingly, the wiki on the Thousand Islands mentions the same tale, only not as legend but truth.

I didn’t know what tone to take for this praxis. It seemed like a lark. To write about the abandonment of a condiment, how it might reflect my own abandonment, but maybe saying that just means I didn’t read the text closely enough. Maybe it’s because I’ve started this so close to Hope's birthday, so close to the one year mark of our abandoned friendship—I don’t know where I’m going with this. Look:

In July 2008 around the time I purchased the dressing, she wrote this:




The dressing endures but in what state of being? My response--the draft you see below her letter, I never sent it. I wrote it straight away, took a moment to catch my breath, look it over, and then before I hit send she called.

Said she was just sad and stupid and begged me to just see her again; it’d been over two years since I’d seen her. An absurd thing to do to someone you loved. She reminded me, "Lauren has Tom now. You can't hurt her anymore." She convinced me then that if I just saw her, if we just -- touched for even the briefest of moments, everything in the world would be okay again. I would see. So we met in August of 2008 for the fourth to last time.

This all comes back to me because Kraft mentioned the Astoria Waldorf Hotel.

“Dan, that’s where I have classes!” It was 2003, and she was out of breath. Her long lithe left arm still pulling me along and away while her right shot out so that her fingers could point to prove that we were almost there; that I was right, we weren't going to be late. We were fast enough. We had sprinted from the subway stop at fifth avenue and sixtieth, just at the edge of Central Park all the way to the Hotel. "I have to go; I love you!" Her cheeks red because they always got red. So red. Flushed, as if embarrassed, though she never was: not of any incarnation of us or our coming together.

I'd flown from Columbus to visit her and we spent every moment except for her few classes clutching at each other. I remember the hotel's front. The gray stone.

Vaguely, I remember the vagabond who sat with me while I waited for her. He who told me about his silk top hat. "It's Collapsable! BAM, that's where it's at. Get yourself one of those, you can take it anywhere. Yours is good though. No doubt."

And when she came out I told her, "This, you -- we are forever."

A year later she'd moved to LA but I found myself again in that far corner of Central Park breathing in that bastion of fresh air. Having just gotten off the phone with her I decided for the first time, but for what wouldn't be the last, to leave her for Lauren.

Too Long Didn't Read

All abandonment is a choice to withdraw one’s support or help from, especially in spite of duty, allegiance. You can abandon what you love. I do it all the time.