THE ONION DEFENSE

I just visited a friend in Buffalo. He lives in a terrible neighborhood, which I understand isn't so hard to arrange in that rusting city. Anyway, I was cooking a big dinner (jambalaya) and needed an onion. This sorry bastard (my friend) didn't have a single onion in his house! Can you believe it? I couldn't either. So I walked a couple of blocks to this really great old Italian market called Guercio's, on Grant Street. I bought one large Vidalia, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. It was the size of a grapefruit, and hard as a baseball; I marveled at it's superiority.

In the street, from a tall skinny man who was obviously insane, on crack, and in desperate need of a dentist: "Hey, motherfucker!" 

A voice called out. To me? I didn't really know anybody on the West Side, other than my onionless friend. But my attention was definitely being solicited.  

"Yeah, you. I'm talking to you, bitch."

What do you do in a situation like this? I'm a relatively nonviolent person. It took me seven years to earn a Bachelor's degree, and not one class ever covered what to do when threatened by a street tough. My mind scanned all the cool movies I'd ever seen. But they involved actual punching, karate moves, and a substantial loss of blood. Not that I'm incapable of fighting. Not at all! I actually kicked Ronny Dermot's ass in the 3rd grade. You should have seen it! But on this day, I couldn't fight because I really wanted to get home and cook that jambalaya. 

Walking away, I said over my shoulder, "I have to go now. I defrosted some giant prawns, and I don't want them to spoil." 

He quickened his pace. Said, "What? What did you say? You got some money for me, bitch?"

So I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I faced the guy and planted my feet firmly. I twisted the bag around the onion so it looked kind of like one of those prehistoric weapons - I think it's called a bola - only it had one onion tethered to the end of a plastic bag instead of 3 stones connected by rawhide thongs. Then I started swinging it in a giant arc. I think I even managed a menacing smile, as if to say, bring it on you deranged-crack-addled-person-with-poor-dental-hygiene. Bring it on. 

Incredibly, he stopped dead in his tracks and began to twitch and jitter. He was evidently making a decision. Do I stab the fat man with the onion, or go find an easier target? But then it looked like his thoughts got confused. Find fat onions in easier places? What? Not making sense fat onions."  

"Shit!" He cursed to the street. "Crazy motherfucker. I'd mess you up if you wasn't so damn crazy."

And with this pronouncement, he walked away. And so that's the story of how that one single Vidalia onion served me in battle and then in the kitchen. No bullshit!