God do I hate the Warehouse Club. My wife and kids seem to want to go every weekend piling in the minivan like they’re going to Disney Land. It must be those samples they proffer, the frozen, processed, over salted, crap prepared in electric skillets, and microwaves, by bitter oldsters who lost their pensions. Perhaps it’s novel in this obese society to hold a giant can of pork and beans that one cannot possible consume next to your, in the massive scale of it all, misshapen head
Yeah, I know you can save some dough. Stock up! I got a giant bottle of soy sauce, a massive bottle of ketchup, and four kinds of dessert “fruit” topping all taking up the beer space in the fridge. Due to double dipping, that massive jar of peanut butter is half jelly by now. The majority of the blimp sized potato chip bag is potato chip dust.
But Mrs. Ramon says, “But look, I got boneless skinless chicken breast for $2.99 a pound!” Ugh, same product down the street at the local market on sale $1.69/lb, and you don’t have to buy an obscene amount. “But look at this deal on a case of toilet paper!” Better deal at T-Mart a couple blocks away, a bit softer to boot. “And the gas is so cheap!” Don’t use gas and cheap in the same sentence, and didn’t you notice the c-stores on your lengthy travel with both gas and milk priced less? And you don’t have to be a member and carry another wallet expanding card?
Well, I admit, when pressed for time, sometimes the club is the place to go. Still, I enter with a list, and keep to it. The old lady, on the other hand, always comes home with some expensive impractical item and a giant package of something nobody even knows if they like -- always best to try new things in large quantities. I’d like to use my freezer to keep some homemade stock, but all the space is taken by a hefty box of MaiTaiVille Coconut Shrimp – even sober I wouldn’t eat. Wasted again …
Really, I try not to over-analyze my wife’s purchases, after all I do not want to hear, “Yeah, your taco lunch cost you less than five bucks, but thirty miles of gas, and two hours of time.” For some reason though, whatever she brings home, I have to carry from the car into the house. I think this goes back to the “I fly you buy” rule, but it doesn’t quite parse out.
One day, a handful plus years ago, I went out to the van to do my duty and found a large crate with rope handles. I tried to lift it and it barely budged. “Wenzel” was burned into the blond wood. “What the hell is this?” I asked meekly, hopefully expecting a Stephen King inspired beast. “A cast iron cooking set,” she said. “But you don’t even cook,” I sighed. I hired an itinerant band of Sherpas to lug the crate inside.
After the Sherpas, with the help of their yaks, lugged the monstrosity into the kitchen I examined said requisition:
(All pieces came with carrying bags. Just what I want to lug around! Explain that to the airport screeners.)
A small sauce pan – what I am I going to do with this? I’ve never used it and never will. Any cheap sauce pan is better. Anybody want this piece of junk (in travel case)?
A Dutch oven. I’ve actually used this a number of times (perhaps once a year) more for novelty sake than practicality. Gimme iron enamel coated and we’re talking Dutch oven.
The standard cast iron frying pan. This resides on my cooktop, breaths with my lungs, my blood runs the same temperature. I would not live without this pan.
And the reversible griddle/grill pan. Continued
here.
-ramon
Last edited by
Ramon on July 9th, 2006, 10:05 pm, edited 1 time in total.