Putting the Onions Back Into Romance

French onion soup is so NOT an aphrodisiac, well, for obvious reasons.

This is how I inconsiderately flavored my tongue during tonight’s dinner and last-minute Christmas shopping combo date with the hubster.

Nothing says, “Kiss me, you fool,” like a sour, wicked wind that this way comes, fully tainted with the stink o’ onions and liquefied Swiss.

No amount of germ swashbuckling Listerine could exorcise my taste buds of this demon possession of the reeking Allium cepa kind (Latin name for onion ... I'm a total Internet research dork, I know ... Hey, I also just learned that onion is in the Lily family ... go fig).

Open up and say “ew.” (Remember that terrible 80s hair band Poison album “Open Up and Say Ah?” Yep. I once owned it, along with a lifetime supply of stiff beyond stiff Aquanet aerosol hairspray and pegged, acid wash jeans.)

My husband got even with onion-breath me by capping off his gigantic German chocolate cake dessert with a rich, bold and deadly Camel filter cigarette.

Tonguing the inside of an ashtray is also NOT an aphrodisiac. French kiss to that.

Since I’m so heavy on French tonight (and light on a legit. blog topic) (French onion soup, French kissing, not to mention the fact that I AM super French-Canadienne), let’s turn to the taste bud tingling topic of French pie.

“What on earth do you suppose a French pie is?” I asked the hubster as I eyed the dessert menu tonight. I was being genuine. I really wanted to know if he knew.

“You,” he said, sneering with a dirty smirk. “You’re a French pie!”

Okay, tool. Yeah. I get it. It’s me. The French pie he didn’t get to mack down with after my pungent onion soup delight, which is probably a good thing considering the bad breath tongue tango that might have ensued.

Nope. No kissing was to be had. No sooner than I scraped the last gummy remains of my overly sweet French cherry pie from an undecorous white 50s diner plate did we whisk off to tackle the impossible: the completion of ALL of our Christmas shopping in one night, just four days before the holiday.

(According to our brilliant brunette waitress, the word “French,” when describing a pie probably means something like: “Um, yeah, uh, like, I think it’s when a pie is, like, served, like, with crumbly, like, stuff, all over it. Like cobbler. Yup, like cobbler crumblies and stuff. I can go check if you want.”)

I’m still shell shocked from wrestling Last-Minute Louie lines at Target. Somehow I came down from the night's first shopping frenzy by last-minute shopping yet more at the 99 Cent store. That’s right. The 99 Cent store. I'm not too swank to shop at the ultimate retail bottom feeder. Thanks to everything under a buck, and thanks to a heavily hair gelled manager who kindly rang up my 60 purches (that's only 60 smackers, folks) some 40 minutes after the joint closed, all my kids' stocking stuffers are in the can.

Too bad I couldn’t find anything worth 99 Cents that could banish the ghastly sulfuric acid aftertaste of onion overkill. Not bad for a vegetable that leaves little or no trace due to its puny tissue size.