As usual, I walked into the grocery store intending to “buy just a few things”, spend maybe fifty bucks, and be out of there in ten minutes. I’m not sure why after years of failing to get in and out for less than a hundred smackers, I continue to delude myself.
I always opt for the hand-held basket, because I surely don’t need a whole cart. I mean, I’m only shopping for the two of us. How much could I possibly think I need? And then somewhere between the produce section and aisle 9, I’m abducted by aliens, and an hour later I’m standing in the checkout line with my fingers about to fall off from the hundred pound basket I’m carrying.
A couple of days ago I came home bogged down with twelve bags of groceries when out of one of the bags flew this item that refused to fit into the freezer:
It’s not like we have some college dorm-room freezer. And it’s not like I picked this up at Costco, whose membership generally requires that you own a second industrial-sized freezer out in the garage and by the way, they don’t have hand-held baskets; you have to wield a flatbed on wheels around the store.
In any event, you can probably guess what we had for dinner that night.
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Speaking of weapons of mass mastication, last week we went to a birthday dinner party at a restaurant whose name perfectly describes this country’s unhealthy relationship with food: Fats. (I’m not kidding)
As I have not written a post in honor of Halloween today, I can offer pictures of the birthday cakes we got for the previously mentioned party:
The second cake? That, dear readers, is a spider. Mmmmm. Yummy.
