vituperation

January 25, 2003

Ah, Saturday morning. I love the weekend. Plenty of time to not only practice sitting on my butt - something I desperately need to improve upon because my form is lacking - but also the freedom to just go out and do anything I want, if I so desire. Today started like most Saturdays.

I slept in, rolling out of bed about 5:15 and getting dressed for my walkjog. I walkjog three or four times a week: Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and most Sundays, though Sunday is usually all walking. I go through phases on the walkjogs, depending on how my legs feel. Currently I jog about a mile and then walk about one and a half miles.

My walkjog was uneventful. It was about 20 degrees (F) out, a veritable heat wave compared to the last few days. As I walkjogged I listened to the brilliant Frank Muller read book five of The Green Mile by Mr. Stephen King. Paul Edgecomb and the boys are loading John Coffey (like the drink, only not spelt the same) up to take him to see Warden Moore’s wife Mellie. If things work out, John will heal her of a brain tumor, because he heals things.

But I digress.

When I got home, I checked the headlines to make sure the world hadn’t ended (it hadn’t) then took a shower and shaved. While I was shaving I managed to slice of a full third of my chin, almost necessitating the waking of my wife for a transfusion. Fortunately, my styptic pencil stepped in and saved the day.

I got dressed, kissed the wife, and went for groceries. Today’s list was longer than normal; we’re having Indian food tonight and I had to find many items not normally in our cupboards. I’m cooking chicken vindaloo ("Vindaloo" and "Peggy Sue" sound so much alike I’ve kept my wife on edge all week making up my own songs), raita, and saffron rice.

Incidentally, if you plan on using those recipes I linked, please note that in my vindaloo (I love you, vin-da-loo! With a love so rare and true, o-oh, spi-cy, my vin-da-loo-oo-oo-oo!) I’ll be subbing 1 tbsp olive oil for the vegetable oil and replacing the clarified butter with chicken broth. Depending on the thickness I may pitch in a little flour or cornstarch if need be. I’ll most likely skip the butter in the saffron rice, too, and put in a dash (maybe two) of olive oil. I love to experiment with recipes.

At the grocery store I had to get help from one of my grocery store girlfriends (that’s what Robyn calls them because I regale her with tales of what’s going on with everyone at Publix each week. What can I say, I’m approachable.) finding the saffron. It was with the spices, where I expected it to be, but it wasn’t in a jar like the others. It was in a little tiny plastic container about the size of a half-dollar and maybe a half-inch tall. The woman who helped me find it said she thought it was probably the most expensive thing they sold: the container was $2.59. At that price, according to the sticker on the shelf below the saffron, an ounce would cost $59.00.

Damn.

Luckily I only need a teaspoon for the rice. I should be able to make rice three or four times with what I bought.

I made my way to the meat department to pick up a London Broil and a buttload of boneless skinless chicken breasts. I got the chicken first, wincing at the stunningly high price, then went over to the beef section. Publix likes to tease me with the London Broil, sometimes calling it "London Broil" and sometimes calling it something else. This week, nothing was labelled "London Broil" but there was something called "beef round top round steak" that sure looked like London Broil. I called into the meat-cutting area for a butcher to come help me.

Not only am I approachable, I approach.

One of the butchers came out to help me, and said that yes indeed, what looked like London Broil was the same cut of meat, just labelled differently. Upon questioning, he admitted not knowing why they sometimes label it one way and sometimes another. I suspect it’s to tease the likes of me.

"While you’re here," I said, "Do you guys package the chicken yourselves?" I pointed helpfully at the chicken in my basket, in case he didn’t know what chicken was. "I need ten breasts but I have to buy fourteen because of the way they’re packaged. I’d like to buy ten if I could, but the smaller packages cost almost a buck more a pound."

"No," he replied, "it comes to us already packaged."

I frowned slightly.

"Did you see the chicken that’s on sale?" he asked. "It’s marked down quite a bit."

"No, I didn’t see that at all, or I’d have gotten it instead." I’m all about saving a buck.

He turned and started toward the chicken, talking animatedly about various aspects of it. In retrospect, I suppose my biggest mistake was pulling the cart along behind me as I walked after the butcher, rather than pushing it like a normal person might. I walked, listening to the butcher tell me about the boneless skinless chicken breasts that were on sale, and I was - unfortunately - paying more attention to the conversation than to my actions.

I pulled the cart onto the heel of my sneaker.

It skipped, that cart, and its wheels jumped off the ground and came back down with a sharp clack. Thrown slightly off balance I stumbled, and pitched headlong into the six foot tall display of beef jerky standing at the corner of one of the meat coolers. I was waving my arms to keep my balance, having let go of the cart, and my left arm hooked into the inner part of the beef jerky rack and dragged it off the stand.

I began a slow and graceless pirouette across the meat department, one arm flailing for balance and the other twirling the large display of beef jerky. Foil packets of jerky sailed off me like throwing stars from a pajama-clad ninja in a third rate movie. Ahead of me the butcher droned on about the chicken, oblivious to my plight. The cart, free of my grip, rolled away from me, most likely because it was embarrassed by my antics and just wanted to get away from me.

The butcher, now at the chicken display case, turned to see where I was.

I was standing about eight feet from the base where the beef jerky display had been. The display itself hung from my arm like the world’s largest purse, and the top section of the display was lying in the meat cooler on top of some turkeys and fish. My cart was off by the pork, pretending it didn’t know me. Foil pouches of jerky littered the ground all around me.

"Heh," I said, weakly. "It’s my first day with the new feet."

He led me to the chicken display, and I swapped my chicken for the sale stuff.

Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to go put a bandaid on my pride and finish reading To Kill a Mockingbird before the spud and I watch the movie this afternoon.