I’m not going to talk about my love for mythology. I’m not going to talk about my love for mythology. I’m not going to talk about my love for mythology.
But isn’t it interesting the way word meanings change over time? A food that makes you immortal becomes a dessert known for its cloying sweetness. There’s probably something poetic there, but I’ve always been a fan of the interpretation that immortality is more liable to make you bitter. How long can you appreciate all the beauty that life has to offer before it starts to grow stale with age?
It doesn’t have as bad a rap as, say, fruitcake, but canned fruit, coconut flakes, and heavy cream do not a food for the gods make. Don’t get me wrong–I like ambrosia, or at least the variation we have up here in the upper left corner of the United States. My grandma’s is particularly good. But the idea of gods sitting around eating canned fruit cocktail in cream is kind of funny to me.
So here’s a drabble.
(Noun: From the Greek ambrotos for ‘immortal’)
Food or drink of the gods, especially one that confers immortality on its consumer.
Zeus frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s a potluck. You’re supposed to bring something.”
Artemis sits atop the picnic table, kicking her legs and popping bubblegum while her dogs gambol around her feet. “I didn’t bring anything,” she says. “I brought myself—isn’t that good enough?”
Hera sets the bowl of ambrosia beside her, all whipped cream and cherries and coconut flakes, garnishing it with a look of distaste.
Artemis dips a finger into the bowl and licks it clean. “I’d have your back if you had mine,” she says, and slips away to the nymphs playing volleyball on the sand.