The Raisin Theory

Instead of going to aerobics tonight, I decided to sit at home and eat the rest of the Halloween candy. Rockets were the only ones left over. I love rockets, a bit sour, a bit sweet. Yes, I feel guilt ridden (actually,not guilty, just missing adult interaction), but between dogs and kids and laundry, I just didn't have the inertia to do the Grapevine, or the Pony. I still am having trouble with my coordination. It is hard being so freaking fantastic and, yet so clumsy. Adding to this, none of my shoes seem to fit anymore, and this includes my workout shoes, which are falling apart. I have glued the soles on with Goop & Carpenter's Glue, and the buggers still seem to fly off. They weren't cheapo shoes either, Nike's, I am so dissapointed. As I recall, the molasses candies were always the last to go. Wrapped in orange and black paper, they practically extracted most of my teeth growing up. I am sure they still sell them, they were so sticky and gross, I don't know why anyone bought them. I feel the same about raisins, as my brother says "they are unwanted grapes". I ate a box (like a kilo), of raisins as a child (sitting under the counter), and try to avoid them now at all costs. Again, with jujubes, I over indulged and ate a whole bag,(hiding behind a chair at the cottage) and will not eat them now. Raisin, what a funny sounding word. Raisin. Raisin. Raisin. Say it three times. Who ever thought of the RAISIN? Here is my theory. Ronald was an old man, who busied himself by picking grapes during the day for his wife, who would then stand in a barrel, and pulverize them with the large bunion, that grew out of her right foot. He was a wine maker by trade. Growing up in the hills of Italy, he picked the bulbous fruit from the vines, and strapped them on his back. He was also a recovering alcoholic, and although temptation was always there, he stayed away from the vino, and was content with the collection of the FINE fruit. (It comforted him to be close to the primary ingredient of his old vice). One day, in the heat of the sun, he was stung by a vicious fire ant and had an anaphylactic reaction. His face swelled up, and he was unable to breath. It was also unfortunate that a large grape was stuck in his throat. He passed out, and remained in the scorching elements for hours before his wife noticed that he had not returned home. "Ronald! Ronald!" His wife called. She had become worried and angst. Through the vines she ran. . .faster . . .faster. The vines lashed out at her swollen ankles, and the perky fruit that hung heavy, stained her dress. "Ronald! Where are you? Have you taken up the drink again?". . . And there he was, lying in twilight, barely breathing. His wife sniffed his breath. . . the bastard had been drinking, she thought. He had fallen off the wagon! What a blight on the family! She thought she smelled the remnants of fermented grapes. But wait, what is this? Beside his gasping mouth lay a wrinkled, turd like, crusty brown thing. Anna had discovered the RAISIN. She quickly realized that the amylase (an enzyme in your saliva) mixed with the juice of the grape, gave off a pseudo booze odour. Simultaneously, the grape had lost some of it's precious juices, and after dropping out of Ronald's mouth had dried in the sun. She popped it in her mouth, and kissed her precious Ronald on the mouth, and revived him. Ronald and Anna became raisin makers, and Ronald did not have to live so close to his temptation. They threw out the vats, and got drying racks instead. The End