Why I Hate Ketchup: A Trauma Story
I used to like ketchup. I used to like it a lot. If you gave me a plate of fries, the ketchup bottle would immediately be in my hands.
I got crafty with the red stuff. Heinz Tomato Ketchup was my favorite (who’s wasn’t?) so I would strategically create beautiful works of art over my fries.
I must say for a creative young kid, my fries always looked delicately crafted like painting. I liked to think of myself as a ketchup artist of sorts.
Back when I ate hot dogs, ketchup went on them. Mom made meatloaf with it. I had one friend who used to put ketchup on her pasta. That I did not approve of, given my Italian heritage.
When I was a little girl, most of my older relatives asked me to be the flower girl at their weddings. I was a flower girl 3 times in the span of 2 years (I think. Is that right, Mom?).
One of my favorite “Aunts” (she was actually my Mom’s first cousin) was getting re-married. I was asked to be the flower girl and was absolutely thrilled.
This meant I got to hang around with my favorite boy cousins from her first marriage. They were my buddies when I was younger.
I honestly don’t remember much about the wedding itself, but I do remember this: I hid under a table and cried. Mom had to get me out.
Why was I crying? Why was I under a table? Well, reader, this is the traumatic experience that led me down my dysfunctional ketchup-path.
When I was a kid, I adored mini hotdogs. I loved the hors d'oeuvres way more than the actual meals at catered parties like weddings (Don’t we all?).
I remember my brother loved them too. We used to stuff our faces with them and when the waiter didn’t have them on the plate, sadness befell upon us.
What I loved about them was the puff pastry bun. Forget the hot dog part. I was skeptical of those things from the beginning cause no one could tell me exactly what was in them.
I ate them anyway. Now I’m a vegetarian and gag at the thought of them. Same goes for sausage. Although, I do miss my Dad’s sausage and peppers.
Anyway, I snagged a bunch of mini weenies at this wedding and what did I dip them in? You guessed it, ketchup. I cleared out the tiny tin on the waiter’s tray.
I must have been flying too close to the sun because I got a glob of ketchup on my white flower girl dress. A freaking GLOB. It was bigger than the mini weenie.
Embarrassment overcame me. My boy cousins were laughing. When I tried to wipe it off, the red spread into a bigger, thinner glob. It was EVERYWHERE.
I ran away in tears. I found a table outside the reception room and crawled under it. The pattern of the carpet is still fresh in my mind.
I thought this tiny thing — a ketchup stain — would completely destroy my “Aunt” Patty’s Wedding. Talk about putting pressure on myself. Sheesh.
About 10 minutes or so passed by before my Mom found me. 10 minutes is a long time for a kid. Under the white tablecloth, I clutched my knees into my chest.
All I could smell were the tomatoes, the sugar, the garlic and onion salts, but mostly I smelled the vinegar. The combination of those things left out in the air is potent.
My failure as a flower girl was potent. I thought my Mom found me because she could smell me from the reception room.
I smelled like ketchup for the rest of the day. My nose hairs cringed with constant discomfort. And this was just the inciting incident in our story, readers.
A short time after the wedding, I needed a dress for something special. I can’t remember if It was another flower girl endeavor or something else related to family.
The event required me to wear a fancy dress. My Mom suggested we dye the dress a burgundy color. I wanted nothing to do with that dress ever again.
Around the same time, we happened to have had McDonald’s for dinner. My Mom made it a point that we could only eat fast food once a week or so. That day was a lucky day.
I believe I had a chicken fingers Happy Meal. All was well. Although, I deferred from using my usual dosage of ketchup.
This didn’t help. When I tried to go to sleep that night, the smell of the red stuff lingered on my fingers. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands.
I tried to go to sleep again. The smell was still there. Back to the bathroom I went. Soap and water. More soap and water. Again and again.
With the intensity of The Cranberries song, the smell lingered on my fingers into the next morning. Did you have to let the smell linger, ketchup? You were literally wrapped around my finger.
My Mom noticed the disdain on my face, and definitely heard me going back and forth to the bathroom all night.
I told her about the ketchup. Heinz was no longer my friend. I broke up with him. No more lingering for you, buddy.
When I got to high school, the mere smell of someone putting ketchup on their egg and cheese sandwiches made me want to barf.
Much like hot dogs and sausages now. Why the heck would you put ketchup on eggs? I’ve done it, and I never understood it.
The ketchup overpowers the gooey cheese and buttery eggs. You’re overshadowing the star of the sandwich show, peeps.
If anyone from high school is reading this, you’re angry with me right now. I’m sorry. Don’t kill me. You know I’m different.
What was worse were the packets of ketchup that missed the garbage can. Packets oozed on the floor, getting the dreaded red stuff on shoes. They smelled for days. Barf.
Perhaps the worst ketchup experience I had was senior year of high school when our physics classes went on a trip to Six Flags.
That was an amazing day. We basically had the entire park to ourselves because of the weather. It poured all day. I have a story about Kingda Ka but that’s for another time.
We were all soaked on the bus ride back from Jersey. Imagine the smell of sweaty rain-drenched teenagers on a bus together for over an hour.
Now add left out, unfinished chicken fingers with mounds of ketchup and a boy who took his shoes off on top of all that.
Yup. Stank-Barf city. I was nauseous all the way home, and the smelly-footed chicken and ketchup eating dude parked himself right in the seats across the aisle from me.
My head was between my legs for over an hour. I tried breathing exercises, but I couldn’t do the whole “breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth” thing.
The stank was more potent and powerful than it was under the table at my Aunt Patty’s wedding. Being an over dramatic teenager, I thought I was going to die.
I had to breathe through my mouth, accepting the fact that I would have to taste a bit of the stank in the air, but at least this way I wasn’t gagging from the smell.
Flash forward to now. I still suffer from Post Traumatic-Ketchup-Stress Disorder (PT-K-SD), but I do occasionally dip my french fries in the stuff. I’m no ketchup artist anymore, but I appreciate Mr. Heinz for what he built.
Hello, my name is Amanda Montoni, and I am a Ketchup survivor. I hope you all say “Hi” back.
To do so, give me a follow on Instagram or send me a message. You can also comment the H-Word below. What’s your ketchup story?