My wife Carrie and I had been married barely two years around June of 2004 as we drove from Los Angeles to visit my family in the San Francisco Bay Area. We’d been in the Volvo for about five hours or so and we were heading north on the 101, passing the pungent garlic fields of Gilroy on a hot afternoon when I asked Carrie to put the bag of carrots on the center arm rest. I had been gorging on carrots for the last several months, a piece of dietary advice I had read in Richard A. Watson’s The Philosopher’s Diet. Apparently, consuming huge buckets of carrots a day worked. I had lost over 40 pounds over the last several months and I felt I was regaining my manhood.
I ate the carrots ravenously, cramming more and more in my mouth before I had fully chewed up the ones I had already put in my mouth. Carrie was aware that I was stuffing my face and she told me to stop, but I ignored her.
Shortly after she admonished me for eating like a pig, I felt the insane tickle of a carrot piece in my nose. I sneezed and several pounds of carrots flecks and chunks sprayed all over the windshield, my clothes, Carrie’s clothes, the air vents, the radio controls. One sneeze wasn’t enough apparently. I sneezed several more times and each time it looked like orange carrot spray coming out of a lawn mower. It was disgusting.
But also funny because I found myself laughing in a way I had never laughed before—and never since. I can only describe my laughter as both protracted and demonic, a high-pitched shriek reminiscent of that diabolical Batman villain, the Joker.
I was no longer simply laughing at the jettisoned carrots; I was now laughing at how surprised I was at the sound of my own laughter.
As my high-pitched laughter grew louder and louder, my body was convulsing and I began to swerve on the road. Carrie started saying over and over, “You’re scaring me!”
Finally, she insisted that I pull the car over and wait until I regain my composure. There was an exit sign for a place called Garlic World. We parked, walked inside, and, apparently energized by my sneezing spree, I began to buy just about everything in the store: garlic chips, garlic jelly, garlic relish, garlic salsa, garlic ice cream. Carrie watched in disbelief as I spent over $100 on garlic products. It was as if my frenzied garlic purchases were an extension of the carrot mania.
Ten years later, I’m on another weight loss mission. My weight is down to what it was in 2002, I’m eating carrots again, and we’re planning another trip up to the Bay Area—this time with our 27-month twin daughters.
Carrie has laid down a very strict rule for this trip: Absolutely no carrots will be allowed in the car. And if I had to guess, I’d say she won’t want me to be exposed to any stimulation that might prompt me to laugh like a deranged Batman villain.
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