Good morning! There aren't many things that make me cry, but there is one that gets me every single time. Onions.

Fortunately, I don't have to cut them very often anymore. There was, however, a memorable period many decades ago when I worked at a little restaurant where slicing onions was part of the job. Not by hand, but using a slicer, which was mounted on a counter that was nearly face-level for me— ensuring that anyone using the machine got a good view of the end product and a good face-full of errant sprays of onion juice.

We took turns at this task.

One day, when we were particularly in need of a lot of sliced onions, my long-suffering co-worker, Clarence—the former professional dancer I've mentioned in these posts before, who had already learned the hard way never to stand too close behind me while I was flinging open cabinet doors and drawers in a busy kitchen—volunteered to tackle the mountain of onions while I worked the front counter.

Clarence was technically my boss, so it was awfully decent of him to spare me from the much-dreaded onion duty.

As the afternoon wore on, a man marched through the front door wearing a stormy expression. When his turn came, he planted himself at the counter and announced that he had ordered takeout the previous evening and that it was the worst meal he had ever eaten.

Then he proceeded to explain, in steadily increasing volume and detail, every single thing that had been wrong with it.

I apologized profusely and offered to refund the entire cost of his meal.

But that wasn't enough. He wanted to speak with the manager.

So I went into the back room, where Clarence stood at the slicer, sniffing and eyes producing copious tears as another pile of onions disappeared into the blade.

"A customer wants to see the manager," I said.

Clarence simply nodded, switched off the slicer, and calmly followed me to the front.

I introduced him with all due ceremony, "This is the manager."

The customer immediately launched into his tirade again, every bit as passionately as before. Clarence listened quietly, nodding every so often to show he understood.

At first, the man didn't seem to notice that Clarence's eyes were absolutely streaming. But eventually, somewhere in the middle of his speech, he looked a little closer.

Clarence wasn't merely misty-eyed. He looked utterly heartbroken. Tears rolled continuously down his cheeks.

The customer's volume dropped. His indignation softened. He slowed down.

Then he almost seemed embarrassed that he was yelling at a grown man who appeared to be crying over the terrible meal he'd supposedly served. By the end of the one-sided conversation, he was speaking in little more than a whisper.

Without another word, he turned around and walked out the door. He never even asked for the refund I'd offered.

Clarence stood there for a second, shook his head, and having said absolutely nothing throughout the entire encounter, returned to the back room to resume slicing onions. True story.

I hope all is well in your corner of the world! 🌞