I can get my head around peak oil. I have come to grips with the polar caps melting. But what I can’t believe is that we are right in the middle of an avocado-based end-of-days scenario, an avocado armageddon. The worst has been realised. Forget global warming. We’re running out of avos!
For the next six weeks we are going to be facing an avocado shortage that has sent unit prices as high as $7 in some capital cities.
People in cafes are actually having to order other stuff, such as eggs and tomato. Some are pioneering a new product called ‘I can’t believe it’s not avocado’. It’s bacon. Hipsters are in foetal position rocking back and forth – wondering what they’ll smear on their balls that complements Persian feta well enough to encourage sexual favours from their millennial girlfriends.
I don’t know how we fell in love with avocado. Or when. I just remember my life in two parts: the time before avocado and the time with avocado. I sense guacamole was the gateway drug that eased the passage. Nothing like a bit of salsa, sour cream and a corn chip to seduce one’s palate into the constant quiet craving for the green mush.
When I was growing up no-one ate avocado in my family except my grandmother, and she was renowned for eating disgusting things such as chokos and kidney. She came from a generation that loved gross food. I remember watching my nanna scrape avocado on her toast and it was the most disgusting thing I had ever seen. She offered me some declaring it sensational. She’d said the same thing about Peck’s Paste and Spam. All I saw was an old woman eating green slime. The colour was off-putting and the texture was worse.
This crisis in cafe cuisine has meant that the humble fare of avo on toast has risen as high as $22. You can get heroin cheaper than that. Some may call this a first-world problem, but that’s just insensitive and it really underestimates the true power of avo.
Avocado has become the go-to comfort food of a generation. I don’t know how it happened. I am thinking whoever does the PR campaign must also have coconut oil and turmeric as clients.
During 2012–2016 we spent 78.3 million bucks importing avocados for the in-between seasons when our trees weren’t fruiting. Forget Bitcoin, that market is crashing. If you want a dynamic currency to invest in you need to buy avocados. In fact we are so obsessed with the humble avo we’re quite happy to fork out the big bucks. Every year the prices just seem to creep up but we still buy. It’s like crack. Avacrackdo. It’s outrageous.
Our avo-diction makes us vulnerable. Avo dealers are only too happy to take advantage. Something has to change. Prices need to be regulated – I demand an end to blatant profiteering! I’ve been known to pay as much as $5 for an avo, come home, cut it open and it’s brown inside. There is no greater rage than a woman trying to find green bits in a rotten avo, give up and then smash it on the floor, knowing it’s not the pepper that’s cracked, it’s me. I feel particularly ripped off when I’ve gone through and squeezed every single one of their scaly little bodies and I think I’ve got the one with both the promise of firmness and softness, but in fact I’ve been duped! (I sometimes wonder if that’s what my husband feels when he undresses me.)
Avo is chocolate for vegans. Let’s not forget it is the base ingredient for many of those awful date-laden things raw foodies call cake. The other day I was tempted to buy a tray and smuggle our avocados into Melbourne. I’m flying there this week, and I’m sure the avocado shortage will hit them the hardest. I could get at least two up my bum and the rest in my hand luggage.
If you’re in Melbourne tell your friends to look me up on bumtree.