Naturally Me

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What the Dandelion Says The dandelion is a promiscuous oracle. Tickling the tender underchin, held there by a teasing auntie, it never fails to affirm a passionate attachment. "Ooh, tee hee, little So-and-so loves butter!" If there were a similar folk litmus to test for sex, we'd probably find that little So-and-so has a taste for that, too. Some appetites are nearly universal. The true lover of butter is more accurately identified by the fine sheen on the chin than the little spot of reflected yellow light beneath it. A wrestler, a weight lifter, may cast an oily glow from pecs to abs, but the butter lover is characteristically soft of body--butter soft-- with the oleagenous zone limited to the area directly surrounding the mouth. Let there be no misunderstanding here. To the butter lover, this orifice, like its mirror image in female anatomy, is an organ of pleasure, a gateway through which the elixirs of ecstasy pass into the body. To its devotees, and I count myself among them, butter is not a foodstuff, not a condiment, not a culinary ornament so much as it is proof of the existence of god. Shredded wheat is capable of sustaining life. A low budget pregnancy diet of oranges, milk, and hard boiled eggs will carry both mother and unborn child through nine months of co-nutrition in reasonably hardy shape. Some people, even people of significant achievement and proven sophistication, are quite happy to subsist on the smelly gray mystery meats and fictional vegetables that make up the fast food menu. One can live without butter. On the other hand, if there were no such element on the planet, would anyone actually eat popped corn? Butter is the ultimate refinement of the most refined relationship that exists between human and ruminant, one of our few with fellow animals that is not terminal but sustained and mutually sustaining. No creature dies to provide us the delights of butter, slick on our lips, everso slightly salty on the tongue, the shade of its yellow remembering the exact nature of the grass or grain that built the milk, its richness a token of the exquisite surrender of the udder when that milk began to flow. Process, and the pinnacle of process, each step of the journey from grass to morning toast is implicit in the experience of butter in our mouths. Ninety eight point six, human body temperature, is the melting point, the thermodynamic moment when solid butter transforms to liquid gold, a substance alchemically absorbed into the body, no further grinding or fermentation necessary, no caloric bill of lading attached to the transaction. The bliss of butter, miraculously, is free. In its liquid state, butter is lubricant, greasing the skids and easing the chafe as we admit the world into ourselves. It seduces us into that act of incorporation. Another potato, another day. We profiteer from the metabolisms of every living organism, and butter is token and reward of our peaceful ascent up the food chain, our salty halo, the shining mantel of our condition. Butter is our room at the top, the oily halo on the throne of Scone.

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