Guacamole recipes are ubiquitous, and I've tried dozens of them.  Most of the time they're bloated and full of crap that has no business being in the mix.  After years of experimenting, the nearly naked truth hit me squarely between my beady eyes--simpler is better.  I love avocados--their slightly herbaceous, nutty flavor is nirvana and when melded with small amounts of a few other ingredients, the result is an aphrodesiac.  (Then again, I could say that about a lot of things, but that's another post.)

The trouble with most recipes is that they attempt to improve upon or, worse yet, mask the flavor of the avocados.  Avocados are divine already, so the best that one can do is to complement their deliciosity.  Stop trying to make guacamole be avocado-pudding-with-bunches-and-bunches-of-other-stuff.

First step?  Ripe avocados.  Picking the perfect avocado is a fine art.  I look for a slight sheen to the skin--too dull means the meat within is likely starting to deteriorate.  This dullness of color usually is accompanied by air pockets in the top or bottom of the avocado itself.  If you feel air pockets, put. . .the. . .avocado. . .down.  Conversely, if the handful of green goodness is too shiny, then it is usually too hard.  You want the avocado to yield gently to your touch, like a lover submitting to your caress.  If you hear the avocado moan, then that's the one you want.  I usually go for two in order to have enough to satisfy my lust.

Second, secure the needed complementary components:  red onion, tomato, cilantro (no, parsley just won't do), jarred jalapenos, lime, and tabasco.  Keep in mind, these will be mere pawns to the queen avocado.  Don't cut corners, either, say by opting to leave out the lime juice or not adding tabasco.  Each element has its unique calling and contribution.

Once home, get those avocados peeled.  Dice them into large chunks and place in a bowl.  Add a healthy squirt of lime juice and a few dashes of the tabasco sauce, then mash.  Now, here's a tricky part--don't overdo the mashing.  Whether you use a fork or a potato masher, don't make the mixture too soupy.  Leave goodly size hunks of avocado.  (Ed. note:  this is a good time to invite your partner over to watch.  The sight of the exquisite, yet forceful, blending of fruit and juice can become foreplay.)

Set aside the bowl for a long, velvety kiss; let your partner lick the morsels of avocado and spice from your fingers (inevitably where some of it will end up) and share a sip of a crisp Spanish white such as Albarino or perhaps a softer Macabeo.  If things get too intense, the guac may begin to turn, so don't let your activities go too far. . .well, hell, if they do you won't care about the guac, now will you?

Chop a small amount of tomato, red onion (2-3 tablespoons at best), and an even smaller amount of cilantro and jalapeno.  Ever so gently, fold these ingredients into your guacamole--remember, you don't want to whip the fruit (save that for your partner), but rather you want to let the various elements gradually introduce themselves to one another.  Cover the bowl with plastic wrap, and push the plastic all the way down to the guacamole, pushing out all the air bubbles.  Now, refrigerate at least an hour if you can wait that long.  Meanwhile, use that interim time to nibble on some Manchego and to drink more wine.  And, by all means, please use that time to pay attention to your partner.  In my case, that means looking into her expressive and desirable eyes, smiling, placing a perfect kiss on the nape of her neck, and strumming my fingers along her bare thigh. 

Then, share the guacamole.  Make it a bacchanalian feast if you will.  I am here to tell you that I have made converts, that some who claimed to never having enjoyed guacamole before now beg me to make it.  Maybe it's the texture.  Maybe it's the taste.  Or it could be the cool, smooth feel as it slides into your mouth and down your throat.  Whatever.  This is a guacamole for the senses. . .all of them.  And you'll both enjoy the journey.