I only belong when the holidays come ’round. I can plop in my red velvet chair, with my red napkin, red fork, and take a large bite of whatever graces my red plate. For no matter what I eat, it always tastes red—a juicy claret, savory vermilion, a scarlet that flows down the throat in cherry pulp. The world shuns me otherwise. Then the Christmas season begins, and they seek me out. They bring me food. They ask me, tears in their eyes, “How does it taste?” If I shake my head, their faces grow red. And I grow hungry.
By A.J. Press