the old man and the sauce

Today at the grocery store I came upon a product that caused me a great deal of distress: Ernest Hemingway Marinades. (Though technically not a sweetsies, this is a topic too important to ignore.) Initially I was furious: How dare they slap the face of the greatest writer in history on some cheesy, sodium-filled supermarket sauce? And it's not even like the proceeds are going to some camp for sick children. However, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I bet that after a long day of hunting wild boar in Africa, there's nothing that pissed off Hemingway more than lacking the perfect seasoning for his kill (or a fifth of whiskey). Somewhere at a bullfight in heaven, he's smiling.