And I'm Baaaa-aaaack!

Yes, after months of not posting, I am back! And better than ever. Not really, but who wants to read a bunch of sniveling complaints?

Anywho - Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Along with what seems like the entire population of Santa Clara County I have been making daily visits to the local grocer's. Why is it I can't remember everything the FIRST time? Entering a grocery store this time of year is like going into war. A messy war. A war with casualties. Me being one of them. Well, I'm not dead, but I might as well be. There's junk EVERYWHERE. I walked in, and was immediately face to face with a tower of chicken broth. As I gazed up into the fluorescent lighting, trying to see if there was, indeed, a top to this tower of salty goodness, I wondered exactly how I was supposed to remove one for purchase. I located a can on the outside edge and tapped it,trying to slide it out sideways. I was a wicked good jenga player, but the skills I obtained in my youth were no help to me now. The can remained, but the tower began a slow lean. I looked on in horror, then decided to run for it. I escaped between the Post cereal and the Nutrigrain bars. I was casually examining the Fat content in Strawberry Yogurt breakfast bars when I heard a the crash. I tsked tsked for the benefit of the lady next to me and moved on.

I'd fill you in on my Turkey selection process, but then I'd have to kill you. Suffice it to say, I got one. A fine bird. And I only came out of it with 15 stitches! A new record! Damn, those electric scooter carts pack a lot of punch. I do not recommend standing in the path of an old lady on one. Especially after pilfering the young Turkey out of her basket. Nope, that I DO NOT recommend.

Navigation in a crowded, pre-Thanksgiving store is yet another challenge. Do not attempt this without special preparation and safety equipment. A properly maintained cart is first and foremost. Make sure your cart is not resting on three wheels, with the fourth spinning endlessly, and never touching ground. Make sure that fourth wheel is not a sticky one, making that horrible screeching sound as it drags along the linoleum, leaving black marks and marking your path. (This would be disaster in above mentioned broth-escape. Imagine!) Once I secure an appropriate cart, I check my pre-drawn map. I know this store. I've shopped here on several occasions. But those were times of peace. This was a time of war. I headed towards the bread aisle. I had a mission: Obtain little breads you bake in the oven that my Uncle Paul likes. If I do not, said Uncle Paul will undoubtedly pronounce Thanksgiving a failure due to the missing foodstuffs. Back to my mission. I approach rows and rows of crusty bakery goods. I zero in on the bottom row, where the little rolls normally call home. I squint. I squat. I look again. I move a misplaced loaf of pre-made Columbo Garlic bread. The rolls are MIA! May Day! May Day! Standing up, I bump my head on my cart. I stumble along the aisle, dazed and disappointed. Can this Thanksgiving be saved?

I check the next item on my list, and consult the map again. Stuffing mix (What- you think I make that stuff myself? Stove Top is THA BOMB!) Okay, Aisle 5, next to the Complete box meals. (With CHICKEN!) I head off to Aisle 5. Apparently, this is a Nuclear war, because there is just a large crater where the Stove Top once was. There are three other soldiers (aka hapless Thanksgiving hostesses) standing and staring open-mouthed. We glance at each other - and then out of nowhere, a crazed man careens by - "I know where it is!", he yells. And we take off after him. Hell, he may be nuts, but he's got the Stove Top. Sure enough, there's a display by the meat locker. Mission Accomplished. I throw away my map, though. Times of war cause mass confusion. Obviously, my plans dreamt up in quieter times are no good here.
I finish my shopping, passing many other wounded, struggling customers. We nod at each other as we pass. We are comrades, we are sisters and brothers. We share in this pain. As I steer my loaded cart into a line that stretches for about a half mile, I rest my head on my arms. I am tired. I have no little breads that you bake in the oven that my Uncle Paul likes so much. I mourn the loss. I inch forward in line. I look up. I can't believe my eyes. There, at the end of the chip row, are hundreds of packages of little breads! All there! Hallelujah! Mine for the baking! I grab a package. I grab another. Soon, package after package is tumbling into my cart. I'm a bread fiend! My arms fly out of control. I emptied the entire shelf. Enough bread to last Four Thanksgivings!

But it's okay.

The war is over.

Until tomorrow. Tomorrow I cook.