Not in My Ball Park

Sometimes you don’t need to buy Harry Potter Jelly Beans to be grossed out.

Yesterday I called Peter in to our bedroom for a midday chat. I think it was about planning our Malaysia trip. We’re stalled on booking the resort for the Perhentian Islands. Mostly because every single resort has mixed reviews from: this place is a DUMP--I’d never visit again! to Loved it--Best resort on the Island. And the bathroom reviews are always conflicting. From “Clean” to “”Moldy and disgusting.” But we are beginning to believe the part about it being the best on the island, despite the food “Sucking!” Because even the glowing reviews start out with “This is a jungle Island. If you’re looking for luxury, look elsewhere.” I just hope we get the clean bathroom and someone else has to deal with the mold.

Back to our midday chat.

Peter arrives smacking his lips with the odd smell of garlic and ketchup on his breath.

“What have you been eating?” I question, accusingly. He has a habit on stashing junk food in the shelves of the garage to unearth on weekends.

“Oh, nothing, just a few chips,” he says.

“CHIPS?” I’m accusing again as we don’t have any chips to my knowledge and since when to chips smell so…so…weird.

“We had some from last weekend. When I bought some for lunch with the girls.”

I remembered we had his sister Grace and niece Courtney visiting so it wasn’t out of character for him to sneak in some contraband articles under the guise of “entertaining.”

“Well, what kind of chips are they?” I ask, beginning to feel a little repulsed by the smell of his breath.

“Extra thick cut,” he answers.

“That’s not a flavour.”

“Oh, ya…well then I think they said ‘Ball Park.’

“BALL PARK??? What kind of a flavour is that? Never heard of it.”

“Ya. That’s what the bag said, extra thick, Ball Park flavour.”

“Come on! There’s no such thing as “Ball Park” flavour. You’re making it up.” I say.

“Seriously. That’s what they said. And I only bought them because it said thick cut. I thought they were thick cut, like a Chicago pizza.”

“So they’re pizza flavour?” This was starting to go somewhere. I knew there was more to the story.

“Not exactly,” he says.

“What the…” I say rising from the bed to go find this bag of “Ball Park” extra-thick cut chips resembling Chicago style pizza.

Mistaya was already in the kitchen. “Where are those chips your dad is eating?”

She lifts a crinkly bag from the cupboard that stores my cookbooks. A typical hiding spot. Peter’s been know to hide all sorts of contraband in there: Turtles, cans of root beer, store bought apple pies that he proudly shouts out in a shrill voice when I discover them, “Trans-fat free!”

I smooth the front of the nearly full bag. Yup, there it is, they’re extra-thick all right, and underneath that it says ‘Ball Park’ printed right on the front of the bag. But  it’s what’s underneath the ‘Ball Park’ that blows the whole thing wide open. Written in large font are the words, ‘Hot-Dog Flavour’ and then in fancy smaller font, ‘with mustard and ketchup.’

I race to the bedroom, contraband in hand. “Ball-Park my ass! These things are hot dog flavour! Who in the hell ever heard of hot-dog flavour? What kind of joke chips are these?”

“They’re for real and they’re disgusting,” Mistaya has followed me into the bedroom.

“Hot-Dog! With mustard and ketchup for God’s sake! Who ever heard of hot-dog chips?” I’m not yet completely convinced that they didn’t come from some kind of a joke shop, like the Harry Potter Jelly beans that taste like earwax and vomit.

Peter lay speechless on the bed, too afraid to continue smacking his lips.

“You bought hot-dog flavoured chips?” I say. He looks guilty--frightened even. But he’s suppressing something else. He breaks into laughter.

“They are disgusting…” he manages to say between roars, “They were an accident. I swear, I only bought them because it said extra-thick cut. You know...like a pizza.”

“Yes. So you said…Chicago style.” I might have rolled my eyes at that point.

Eventually the chips made their way back into the cookbook cupboard. God knows why. No one will eat them. Perhaps I am partially entertaining Pete’s idea. “Next guests we have…we’ll put them in a big bowl...”