If life gave me lemons, I’d head to the local market on Sunday and walk right up to the guy selling avocados.
“I have an idea,” I’d say — and I’d say it with so much ferocity he would pause, mid-transaction with a customer, and say, “Alright, let’s hear it.”
“Meet me by the big tree at lunch break,” I’d say, and run off.
Then I’d rush over to the girl with the tomato cart and say, “Hey, I have an idea.” And again, I’d say it with so much conviction, so much excitement that she’d say, “Yea, yea, you and everybody else.”
“Hear me out! This one is a winner.”
She’d pick up one of her bright red tomatoes and toss it up into the air, before gently catching it back in one of her hands. Then she’d wrap her other hand around the one blue jean overall strap that was tight, waiting before saying, “Well I ain’t got all day.”
“Meet me at the big tree at lunch break, “I’d say, and then run on back to my lemon satchel by the market entrance.
When lunch would roll around, and everyone broke off to take their breaks, I’d carry my heavy bag of lemons to the main tree.
Mr. Avocado and Miss Red Tomato would be standing there, silently asking themselves why they decided to skip lunch.
Out of breath (from carrying such a heavy bag of lemons), I’d walk up to them and say, “I… have an idea.”
“We know,” they’d say in unison.
I’d cue my imagination and paint for them a world in which avocados were smashed and red tomatoes were cut and the whole dish was drizzled with lemon juice.
“You could dip chips in it! You could spread it on toast! We could call it…. guacamole.”
Their eyes would widen. They’d see the future clear as day in their minds eye. And they’d say, together, at the same time, “What are next steps?”
I’d tell them I would need 20 avocados and 40 tomatoes to make the first batch — and I’d love their feedback all along the way to create the perfect recipe.
“Mr. Avocado, you’d be in charge of selecting the best, only the best avocados. Nobody knows avocados like you.”
He’d nod. “I know exactly what you’re going for.”
“And you,” I’d say to Miss Tomato, “you’d be in charge of making sure we’re only using top-notch tomatoes. I mean, only the best.”
She’d cross her arms and say, “I know tomatoes better than anyone.”
“That’s why you’re the one for the job,” I’d say, and she’d start bobbing her head in excitement.
Once we’d made our first batch of guacamole, and our recipe was a hit throughout town, we’d bring Mr Onion on as Head of Garnish.
Then we’d hire interns for our Salt and Pepper department. We’d even bring in the town glassblower to create custom guacamole containers.
We’d expand our distribution to other towns.
We’d start collaborating with other farmers, creating guacamole recipes with different spices.
10 years down the road, a food reviewer would come to our tiny town and say, “I came all this way to see where the famous Guacamole Company began. Who started this thing anyway?”
And someone, probably a kid with a skateboard who just happened to be listening, would say, “The guy with the lemons.”