Whenever I hear the word "buttercup," I don't imagine a field of flowers. I see a silver ramekin brimming with melted Land O'Lakes, a plump lobster glistening by its side. Maybe that's why I plopped this pair of yellow pumps and matching bag on top of a tropical print place mat. It's like my own sartorial-meets-gastronomical getaway, a tiki hut hideaway of indulgence tucked into my mind.
If the top pic represents golden goodness, then the bottom one is seafood sans the sizzle. And by sizzle I mean, of course, butter. You know the sound it makes in the pan when you heat it up to fry a grilled cheese? Well, that's what I hear in my tiki. Because the ramekin is really a cauldron, a bubbling little crock of a pot running on rebellion and Sterno. As for the unbuttered version, it's beautiful too, albeit restrained, like a too gourmet meal or an early bird special.
That's why it's so fun to celebrate food and fashion, two of life's simple yet frivolous pleasures. What would the daily grind be without their pop and sparkle? All granola and gunnysack dresses, I guess. So I make it my business to enjoy them. Which means pass me the butter -- but make it the light kind, please. Epicurean or not, I don't have a death wish. As the song says, build me up buttercup, but don't break -- or, in this case, clog -- my heart.
So, be bold, go for the gold, and follow the yellow brick road to your tiki.
And be sure to lock the door in case Dr. Oz comes a knocking.
No comments:
Post a Comment