Hold Your Tongue

On Catsup On Tamales

Calmate, mijo.

It’s just catsup.

Folks get zealous and righteous about food they are not eating.

Mention catsup on tamales and suddenly everyone’s a guardian of Pre-Columbian civilization. Raised fists, crying emojis, somebody’s abuela dragged into it against her consent.

Amigos, slow your roll.

My argument is simple, even if it makes you uncomfortable:

If catsup is good on anything, then it’s good on everything.

By “good,” I don’t mean “you should enjoy it.” I mean allowable. Permissible. Not grieving of the Holy Spirit.

Most objections to catsup on tamales collapse into vibes within ten seconds.

“That’s disgusting.”

Okay. So are your sneakers.

“I just don’t like it.”

Cool. I don’t like corn with warm mayonnaise but the city of El Monte still stands.

The go-to move is fries. Everyone points to fries.

“Catsup belongs on fries.”

Belongs how? Spiritually? Constitutionally?

Fries are just hot potatoes. They didn’t earn special protections. That’s just your habit masquerading as principle.

If catsup gets a pass on fries because it tastes good, then taste is the standard. And taste is personal. Which means the argument is mine.

If catsup gets a pass because “that’s how it’s done,” then you’re admitting the whole thing is vibes and repetition. Also fine. Still not a violation of the Torah.

What you can’t is say:

“I’m allowed to like catsup here, but you’re wrong for liking it there.”

I mean, you can, but I still wont give a shit.

To be clear, nobody is asking you to order it.

Nobody is squirting on your plate.

Nobody is rewriting your childhood, and if we were, we’d start with a name change, Hortence.

This is about tolerance.

Once you accept catsup at all, you must accept that it will show up where you don’t want it. That’s the deal. That’s the social contract. That’s the condiment clause of democracy.

But there is exactly one respectable position against this, and it’s extreme.

You reject all condiments. Always. On principle.

No salsa.

No hot sauce.

No mustard.

No aioli.

Dry meats. Dry under pants. Dry soul.

If that’s you, I salute you.

Everyone else needs to unclench their nalgas.

And yes, castsup is a kind of salsa.

But I’m not trying to ruin your whole week.