ketchup ovenbird The year I turned nineteen I worked as a waitress in an Irish Pub. At the end of each shift we had to “marry the ketchup.” There were no vows or officiants or guests. There was no public ritual. What this meant was gathering up all the half empty glass ketchup bottles and merging their contents (questionable, I would say, from a health and safety perspective, but this was a long time ago now). All the full bottles would go in the fridge for the next day, each one looking clean and fresh and new. Maybe it’s silly, but it seems romantic now—the discarded dregs making each other whole. 260903 what's it to you? who go blather from