Velveeta was a small round woman who didn’t know what to cook. When passing Velveeta on the street you might notice the faint aroma that rose from her – it was the scent of oranges, pickles, vanilla and sealing wax.
Velveeta always wore a sorry-looking old beige trench coat outside, except on rainy weekends. Then she and her dog Bob (named after ‘Bob’s your uncle!’ which Velveeta liked to chuckle out at Bob now and then as they walked to the market together) wore matching shiny bright red slickers. Velveeta’s high round pouf of rich mushroom-brown hair matched Bob’s flapping little dachshund ears just perfectly.
Each weekend they walked downtown together to the market to seek the perfect food. Walking along, Velveeta reminisced of days past – back in the small Italian village she’d lived in as a child. The fresh eggs from the happy chickens, the floury scent of the soft golden strings of pasta blending together with the scent of home-cured prosciutto as her grandmother stirred the pot of green-flecked menastre over the wood fire at the hearth . . . but wait. No. Those were not really her memories. Velveeta shook herself, momentarily remembering her skinny long-nosed mother and her fat father whose wedding ring was imbedded, almost invisible, on the rolls of his big finger and whose pants were always too short, too tight, back in the brick ranch house in the suburbs of Philly where she’d really grown up.
But what did that matter, after all. It was the food that mattered. The perfect food. If only it could be found, it would make the world a beautiful place. A place where everyone could live in harmony, just like the John Lennon song. Velveeta hummed her favorite part of the song as she walked along, and even Bob seemed to perk right up, his tiny sharp nails hitting the pavement in time.
You may say I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope some day you will join us
And the world will be as one
(Part Two linked here)