So there I am in my car. I used to call it the Red Rocket, but since I saw Cartman on South Park pleasure a dog to raise his “Red Rocket” I’ve taken to calling her Erika. Come to think of it, it’s sort of weird I have to name my cars…but there you are.
I kind of wish everything were as easy as being in my car. The past week has been really odd. I’ve felt a little lost, as of late, and had decided to “get back to the basics.” I’ve been eating out, pretty much exclusively, for the past two to three months and have always enjoyed eating at home. It was time to get back in the kitchen where things made sense. Like when I would make the Ramen Noodles when I first moved out because I was scared to death of my own budget to pay the mortgage.
Ahh…the good old days.
So I’m in the car, and I set the GPS (that’s “Gretchen” by the way) to the nearest Pick ‘n’ Save. Time to do a little grocery shopping. In my head, I’m trying to recall my favorite recipe as Gretchen calls out my next move.
My GPS is a life-saver. It sits on my dash, patiently, and calls out what I should do next. Turn right. Turn left. Make a U-turn. Best of all, if I miss my turn–it doesn’t get mad. It simply states:
Recalculating…
…and it figures out a new route. A new way to meet my goals. I would love to have a life GPS. Go to school. Graduate. Get a job. Get a better job. Buy a house. Get a girlfriend.
Oops. I missed my turn again.
Recalculating…
Some routes just are too difficult for me to follow. So I get to the store.
The way men shop is very different from women. I think it comes back to a matter of goals. Men shop only as a means to purchasing an object. Women shop as entertainment. Thus, men go into a store, find their object and if the price is tolerable, they are out of there. Women seemingly have no purpose to entering a store other than “browsing.” This is the opposite approach the sexes have to the Internet by the way. Women jump on, read their e-mail and they are off like a shot. I need to browse. Mainly for porn. It’s free, so why not?
Okay, maybe it doesn’t really translate. Well, I guess my point is I had a list in mind. It was clear. It was simple. But this was not my home Pick ‘n’ Save.
I found most of my items quickly because I’m all gifted and such, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find the last item: Nutmeg. Excuse me, but what the heck is nutmeg anyway? If it is nuts, just say you are nuts–no need for this Frenchified hassle and high minded wiggle words. What if turkey wanted to get all sophisticated–would it become turkeymeg? I think not.
So I’m pulling my hair out–which is not a good strategy by the way–and also not a good idea. If you saw my father, you would know I don’t need to pull my hair out. It will come out soon enough. I see this young lady in whatever it is they call that modified apron they make the Pick ‘n’ Slave (which is what my buddy Bob, who used to work there called it) employees wear.
“Excuse me, Miss. Could you help me?” I could tell by the way she turned, human relations was not a skill she particularly excelled in.
“So? What do you want?”
I wouldn’t mind a night with Angeline Jolie if she would kick that annoying Pitt fellow out of bed, but that wasn’t what I was there for. “I’m looking for nutmeg.”
–Had she said, “Good luck with that,” at this very moment I would not have been shocked. No, she put herself way out by vaguely pointing toward a sign half a mile off. I followed her pointer finger over to the intended target and by the time I turned back to see what the heck it was she was pointing at, she had vanished.
Now that’s talent. She has a future in upper management. I was still without my nutmeg.
Recalculating…
So, I found a matronly type and asked her. “Nutmeg? What are you going to use nutmeg for?”
“I thought I would use it as an alternate fuel in my automobile.”
“Yeah. Okay. I can see that.” She looked like the brunette from the B-52s. Or Boy George. Definitely from the 80s. I figured there was a screw loose there somewhere or some serious drug usage. That must affect the circulation to extremities, because this one chose NOT to point. “In aisle 10. By the spices.”
Spices? Why not by the nuts? What the heck? That little “meg” business made a big difference.
Turn left.
So I went to the aisle and I’m faced with two hundred little tiny little containers that look exactly the same except for a label in a type font the size of the fine print on a cigarette print ad–if such things were still allowed. Spices and soup. And cereal. I think I have spent at least three of my thirty-five years staring at these in grocery stores. Cereal was always the coupon for some kind of cereal that the grocery store didn’t have. At the soup, it was always trying to find that darn “Cream of Cheese” soup. –and making sure it was the good condensed stuff.
And spice. Well, this was my first trip here. What is this junk anyway? And where’s just some normal salt, for crying out loud?
Finally, I find the nutmeg after standing in place longer than one of those guards at Buckingham Guard that tourists with too much time on their hands always try to make laugh. I always want to tell those people, just do something really UNFUNNY. They don’t expect that. And they are British. They have that weird sense of humor. They’ll be putty in your hands.
Next time you are there, just whisper in their ear, “I believe I need to buy an egg.” See what happens. That’s big comedy to those British types. Then, offer to brush their teeth.
So I get back in the car, program the GPS to find my house (because I have this darn tendency to get lost) and take off for home.
I get out the mixing bowl, the wooden spoon, a pot for boiling water, the spaetzle maker, and a measuring cup. And I have at it.
4 eggs. Check.
3 cups of flour. Check.
1 tablespoon of that Frenchified nutmeg stuff. Check.
1 cup of water. Check.
Lots of Maggi. Trust me on that.
All in the mixing bowl. Boy, that looks pretty full. Maybe I should find a bigger mixing bowl.
Nah.
Once swish of the wooden spoon was all it took. Flour apparently has no relationship to gravity because once it became airborne, it was everywhere. Particularly on my clothes, which apparently fulfilled the role gravity would generally have. It looked like I just got hit by Milton Berle with that “MAKEUP” pad.
Recalculating…
So, I pull out the Dustbuster and clean up what was readily accessible telling myself that it is only flour and if I miss some, the maid will find it next week.
I should have bought a cordless model.
Right turn in 500 feet.
I reached for a far flung little bit of flour and out popped the electric cord. The plug landed right in the kitchen sink. In a bowl I had filled with water to soak milk out of it. I pulled the plug out and watched the viscous water with a white tint drip off of the thing.
Turn right now.
So I dried it off by blowing on it. To make it really dry, I stuck the plug in my armpit, lowered my arm to get my shirt wrapped around the plug and pulled it out. There. Perfectly dry.
The water in the pot was beginning to boil. Time to finish off the mixing. And this clean up!
So I plugged in the dustbuster again.
The sparks were pretty.
Recalculating…