It is my extreme pleasure to announce the opening of the 2008 Greg Bardsley Guacamole Season.

I know, I know. Who am I give to myself my own guacamole season? Has some kind of guacamole governing board certified me as an aficionado? Do I know if guacamole really is better suited for certain parts of the year? Do I even know what the hell I’m talking about?

The answer, of course, is no.

But the way I see things, if baseball can have a season, if “Desperate Housewives” can have a season, if a theatre company can have a season, and if whales can have a breeding season, then why can’t I have my own season?

And so I choose guacamole.

To start off the 2008 season, I targeted a scheduled night of garage poker this past Monday. At an emotional level, I had been treating my debut outing as if this were baseball’s spring training, looking at the exercise simply as a way to “clear the cobwebs,” or “to stretch the legs.” The poker dads, after all, would be coming for the cards and male-bonding, not for guacamole, so I felt safe. As the hour neared, I was slicing and dicing and mixing and seasoning, having a good old time, mindful of the warm weather, of the cold bottle of Modelo at my side.

When the poker dads showed, I didn’t say much. I just paid silent attention to the two small bowls of guacamole and smiled to myself as they were quickly exhausted.

Adding to my glee, the next day, a friend and I visited a newly found Mexican-food joint, where I had a phenomenal chile-relleno experience.

[Long sigh if contentment] I love guacamole season. I guess it’s because that, along with the great food, guacamole season means fun, laughs, cold Mexican beer, friends and family, warm weather, sunny skies and Latin jazz.

And who could possibly have a problem with that?

Postscript: Several of you have asked repeatedly for my recipe. I’m afraid that, even in today’s open-source world, I’m still not ready to share it. Maybe later in the season I will share it, or maybe I never will. But I will offer a tip: You are doing your guacamole a disservice when you pair it with a mass-produced, paper-thin chip. Authenticity, my friends. Authenticity.