(Continued from The Cocktail Hour)
Holy Guacamole - the burgeoning avocado conglomerate whose products figuratively (and probably literally) are derived from the ashes of my husband's missing and presumably dead nanny are a resounding success and can be purchased at many of southern California's most popular farmer's markets. My in laws graciously employ their underage relatives to act as 'Brand Ambassadors' for the company and suspiciously overpay them to meander through these markets shrieking the company mantra 'Holy Guacamole - God is it good!' while accosting shoppers with golf ball size samples of the green goop. Each sample of Holy Guacamole is perched on a single tortilla chip and like communion is administered by shoving the entire thing, chip and all into the gaping mouth of hungry shoppers. Like crack or heroin, once you've tasted Holy Guacamole there's no going back. You're hooked.
During her all-to-short life, poor missing and presumably dead Sylvia could never have known that her priceless family legacy, the recipes for Magic Margaritas and Holy Guacamole would be passed to a family of greedy gringos who would unscrupulously exploit her secrets for their own selfish means. While George and I poor pitcher after pitcher of a stolen recipe for Magic Margaritas into the glasses of our fucked-up friends, and thousands of organic-obsessed Los Angeles housewives devour plastic tubs full of outrageously fattening Holy Guacamole, Sylvia's bones mildew under the eaves of the San Diego Avocado trees that ironically became her undoing. Poor missing and presumably dead Sylvia, the tragic and mysterious nanny who gave her own life so that we may happily compromise our livers and clog our arteries would have the last laugh. Her diembodied, vengeful spirit lingering patiently while her murderous previous employers frollicked carelessly at their festive barbecues, pool parties, and caucasian-only Cinco De Mayo celebrations. We would soon come to know her wrath!
To Be Continued