Irasshaimase! by venitha

We are in a rut. A profound, delectable, groaning-with-epicurean-pleasure... rut.

Sure, its walls glisten with soft orange salmon, and they're topped with seductively snowy peaks of creamy mayonnaise sprinkled ever-so-lightly with the elated fluorescent zing of roe.

But down in the trenches, we slog ankle-deep through soy sauce murky with slimy green wasabi. Its sinus-clearing stench leaves me cross-eyed, I have lost my mildewed sandals in its quicksand, and Jim's size 12 feet make malevolent muddy thwoks as he wearily pulls them from the muck.


I deliver stern lectures about high blood pressure and the likelihood that the human body's vegetable requirements extend beyond seaweed wraps and edamame beans. I cheerlead rousing mantric chants: Variety is the spice of life. Variety is the spice of life. Variety...
But then we spy that familiar conveyor belt chugging merrily along, and our good intentions scatter at our feet, forming a yellow brick road leading straight to the emerald city of Sakae Sushi. Irasshaimase! the waitstaff greets us, and the hana maki melts like butter in my mouth.
venitha