Author Archives: kzmclain

Saturday Smile: It’s 5 O’Clock Somewhere

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Bill and I were at the airport in Denver very early last Tuesday when we were heading back to Denver. In fact, after we went through security, it was 6:30 a.m. when we sat down to have breakfast at Jimmy’s Bistro in Concourse A. Bill went to get some cashola from the ATM and left me the job of ordering our breakfast. When the server arrived, I placed our order, and then jokingly said, “I was going to order a Bloody Mary since I’m afraid of flying, but 6:30 a.m. is a bit early, even for me.” She smiled, and told me, “I know, but the fact of the matter is if you had ordered it, I wouldn’t have been able to serve it to you until 7 o’clock. We aren’t allowed to serve alcohol until then.” She added, “The irony is that here in Colorado, you can legally buy pot any time of the day, but no alcohol before 7.” That made me laugh.

And finally, if you are the one and only person in the entire United States of America who hasn’t seen this video, enjoy…..

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Secret Life of Violet Grant

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9780698153479I’m pretty sure the more high-falutin (and also better) book reviewers out there in the internet universe would not say this, but I will: What draws me to a book is not necessarily just the plot. I’m a sucker for book titles and book covers. Back when I belonged to a particular book club that was made up of busy working women ( many of whom were also mothers), we would literally look at the size of the font of a book we were considering (back when everyone read paper books) as we made our book choice for the next meeting. Little font = too long to read a book. I’ll bet the New York Times book reviewers don’t do this.

But I will admit that I chose The Secret Life of Violet Grant, by Beatriz Williams, at least in part because of the title (which implied an element of mystery) and the cover, which featured a beautiful woman who could have been my mother back in 1914 (except that my mother was not even a gleam in her father’s eye in 1914, but still…..)

But more to the point, the book tells the story of another one of the Schuyler sisters, two of whom I met in Tiny Little Thing, and with whom I fell in love. Or at least like.

But the one I didn’t meet in Tiny Little Thing was Vivian, and this is her story, along with Violet’s.

It is 1964. Vivian, who is fresh out of college and works for Metropolitan Magazine, comes home from work one day to find a notice that she has a box awaiting her at the post office, coming from Switzerland. She goes down to pick it up and meets a young man – a doctor – also there to pick up a package. Her package turns out to be an old suitcase packed with random items that she eventually learns belonged to her Great-Aunt Violet, someone she hadn’t even known existed.

The story is told in two voices and from two periods of time, which seems to be a favorite style of the author. The suitcase – and Vivian’s mother’s family’s reaction to it – intrigues Vivian and she vows to figure out Violet’s history.

Violet’s story takes place in pre-WWI France and Germany. She had moved there several years earlier to follow her dream of being a research physicist, much to the Schuyler family’s horror. In their world, women’s roles were to be mothers and wives. There she meets and marries a fellow scientist who is old enough to be her father and turns out to be not so nice a fellow. Romance, mystery, and social trauma ensue.

Back to the doctor I mentioned who Vivian met in the post office. A lot of Vivian’s story is connected to the doctor, with whom she falls in love – and he with her. But things are not always smooth sailing in the literary world, and ending up with the doctor doesn’t come easily.

The romance part of the story rather got on my nerves I’m afraid. I’m not particularly opposed to romance as part of a story, but oh, for heaven’s sake! Having said that, the author is in my opinion a tremendous story teller and I am able to endure all of the sexual antics (and the sex is in no way graphic, just frequent) so that I can find out what happens. Just as in Tiny Little Thing, the entire mystery isn’t solved until the last page of the book. Really good story telling.

It was fun to read a book about both of these periods of time in which I find myself very interested. I recommend this book highly.

Here is a link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

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I’ll Have a Cold One Please
I was shopping for a piece of salmon the other day and couldn’t help but notice this sign in the fish case. I wonder what they used to refresh him? An ice cold Budweiser?
Refreshed Salmon

Man v. Tree
And since we’re in AZ, as I write this blog, Bill is of course outside battling his archenemy — the acacia tree. He just keeps cutting it back. Pretty soon it’s going to be nothing but a stump, which is what I think both he and Jen want. Then we will have to deal with what to do about a stump in your front yard. Maybe put a pot with a cactus in it and fight with the homeowner’s association later.

The Real Colorado Rockies
We have had nice weather here in AZ so far, though I think it’s supposed to turn a bit warmer as the days go by. Bill and I had already been enjoying our Denver backyard, and so we are glad that we can sit outside here as well. Cole was over one day while we were in Denver, and he was having an extraordinarily good time entertaining himself. He would take rocks from the side of our yard and move them. Simply move them someplace else. He found it quite a bit of fun. But I will tell you what happened the evening after he left. I have a rocking chair in the backyard, and during the early spring, the squirrels got ahold of it, made a hole in it, and began using the stuffing for a nest. I wasn’t too upset as the cushion was in need of being replaced anyway. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. But that evening, despite the hole, I sat down in the chair with my gin and tonic in hand. Hmmmm, I thought. This doesn’t feel very comfortable. I wonder why. I got up and looked at the cushion and what do I see but three or four rocks nestled into the hole. I wonder how they got there?

I love my nana

Let Me Explain
While in Denver, one afternoon I drove over to our nearaby Chick-Fil-A to get Bill and Alastair some lunch. Two Chick-Fil-A combos and an order of six nuggets. Now, let me explain something. The 2003 Volkswagen Beetle is an adorable little car. There are many things I love about my car. But one of the things that the Germans didn’t think through was the cup holder in the front seat. It swings out so that you can fit one normal sized drink as long as normal means a drink in a cup no larger than six inches high. As for the other cup holder – fugittaboutit. It’s, for all intents and purposes, useless. So, because my two combos included two drinks – and I only had one workable drink holder – I asked the cashier in the drive-thru for a drink holder. But I didn’t stop there. I began apologizing to her and explaining about my cars drink holding limitation. After already going into much more detail than I needed, I began wondering about what in the world makes me feel I need to explain everything. The truth of the matter is that the 16-year-old girl couldn’t possibly have cared less if or why I needed a drink holder. Oy vey.

I’m Counting Calories
And one final story that I will tell on myself. Bill and I made a trip to Winco today. Winco is a large economy-priced grocery store that is owned by the employees. (And once again I am explaining myself when it doesn’t matter what Winco is.) Anyway, one of the things we like about Winco is that they have bin after bin of bulk products, including such things as pastas and spices and candy and chips and pretzels and legumes. Think anything bulk and they have it. So Bill picked out a bunch of chocolate-covered peanuts and bananas and caramels and I picked out Jelly Belly jellybeans. A shameful amount of all, really. But we also bought some healthy things like milk and eggs. When we got to the check stand, I realized that I had bought 2% milk rather than fat free. I actually was considering giving up my place in line to go to the back of the store and exchange my milk. Suddenly I looked down at all of the candy and snacks we had purchased and told Bill, “Uh, never mind.” Sometimes I can only laugh at myself.

Sncacks

And I’m worried about 2% milk?

Ciao.

I’ll Get You There on Time

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img_supershuttleI haven’t always been terrified of being a passenger in a car. In fact, I used to be able to sleep in a car, feeling no need to provide assistance or advice to the driver. I didn’t clutch the door handle in terror as I do now.

Three things are responsible for my passenger terror: 1)Bill was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease; 2)I had a perforated bowel; and 3)I was in a car accident — not my fault — in which the front end of my yellow bug was destroyed by another car. How did these three things cause me to become the passenger from hell? I learned that stuff happens over which you have no control.

The thing is, for inexplicable reasons, I’m not generally frightened when I am a passenger in a bus, a shuttle car, or a taxi. I’ve tried to think why that is, but I can come up with no viable reason.  But I can almost always sit back, relax, and leave the driving to them.

I say “almost” because yesterday’s ride to the airport was an exception to this reality of my life. I wasn’t just nervous; I, in fact, was certain that I was going to die.

Bill and I have taken to using the services of the Super Shuttle to get to and from the airport In Denver. Our primary reason for doing this is because our recent airplane trips have been at unreasonably atrocious hours — either at the crack of dawn or in the dead of night. It seems unfair to ask any of our children (who have their own children) to join us in the wee hours of the morning or late at night when we can shuttle for $60 round trip for both of us. Therefore, Super Shuttle provides our rides.

Yesterday’s ride started out innocently enough, with our driver arriving on time and greeting us cheerfully despite the fact it was 5 o’clock in the morning and the sun was only barely showing its face. After we got settled, he began our drive. Bill, being friendly and having a couple of cups of coffee under his belt, asked him if we were his first passengers. Nope, he assured us. He had been awake since 2:30 am and had already made a trip to the airport.

It didn’t take long before we realized this was going to be a trip like no other. As he roared down Tower Road, it appeared he was not going to be put off by nuisances such as red lights, even if there was a car stopped at the lights.  I literally sucked in my breath and grabbed Bill’s leg as it appeared he had no inherent plans to stop as we approached a red light. I believe the noise that came from deep in my throat alerted him that he had a nervous passenger, and he slammed on his brakes just before the intersection. But then it happened again. And then again. I finally realized he wasn’t sleeping; this was simply his driving style. If Super Shuttle has some sort of award for the driver whose brakes last the longest, our driver should begin practicing his acceptance speech.

At one point, Bill (who pretty much lets nothing bother him) leaned over and whispered, “Is your rosary somewhere within your reach?”

For the first time in my life, I realized with utter certainty that it is true what they say about air travel being safer than car travel. I’m happy to say we arrived safely at the airport and I will begin my novena that we get a different driver on our trip home in a little over a week.

Our plane ride, by the way, was flawless.

Do You Know the Muffin Man?

Posted in Recipes, Side Dishes by

I want to tell you two stories about scratch cooking and/or baking.

The first story is about a woman I worked with for many years. She boasted about the fact that she made everything from scratch. This fact annoyed my inner not-so-nice self. To be perfectly honest, many things about her annoyed me. She told me once that she, her husband, and their two kids could eat dessert twice from one of those small cartons of Hagen Daz ice cream. Seriously? They got eight servings out of a pint of ice cream? Did she dip it with a thimble? But the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back was the day she proudly announced that she and her family had s’mores for dessert the night before. I wouldn’t have given this a second thought until the next words came out of her mouth: I made the graham crackers and the marshmallows from scratch. I believe I just turned around and left, entirely speechless. Who makes graham crackers? Nabisco, that’s who. And King Soopers sells their marshmallows for a buck a bag. Maybe it wouldn’t have annoyed me so much if she hadn’t already told me about the Hagen Daz.

My second story concerns a very good friend of mine. Early in her marriage, money was tight, as it was for many of us when were young. She stayed home while her husband worked. To compensate for her not bringing in an income, she took her role seriously as the stay-at-homer. And in order to save money, she made most of their bread items from scratch. She had a Kitchenaid mixer that she either inherited or purchased for a great price at a thrift store. She used the Kitchenaid to make all of their bread, including hamburger buns and bagels.

Isn’t it funny how I’m annoyed at the one and proud of the other?

Anyway, I was thinking about both of those women the other day when I decided to make English muffins from scratch. Bill and I have a toasted English muffin at least three or four times a week. I like the Thomas muffins. I smear mine with peanut butter; Bill prefers cream cheese. My idea to make them from scratch didn’t come from any concern about preservatives or cost; rather, I simply am challenging myself this summer to give some of these projects a try. Other recipes I’m going to attempt are homemade pho and homemade gyros meat. The idea of making croissants from scratch crossed my mind for a fleeting instant, and thankfully dissolved quickly.

Bread baking eludes me for some reason. My bread simply doesn’t seem to rise. I have begun to think that perhaps I’m just too impatient. Because our house in Denver tends to be chilly, I think bread rising just takes longer. My brother-the-baker has suggested that perhaps I am putting the yeast in water that is too hot, thereby killing the yeast. All I know is that I am determined to successfully make bread. I decided to give English muffins a try.

I found a recipe, and spent a few hours the other day making the muffins. I can’t say it would always be this way, but everything went perfectly. My dough rose just as it should. I formed the dough into disks, and they again rose just as they should. I briefly browned them on both sides on my griddle and baked them for 10 minutes. They are yeasty and delicious, with nice little holes and crevices as befits a good English muffin.

I will leave you with my recipe for English muffins. I’m now going out to skin a snake to make a belt for Bill….

toasted English muffins

English Muffins, courtesy Baked by an Introvert

Ingredients
2 c. whole milk
3 T. honey
2-1/4 t. active dry yeast (1 package)
1 egg, room temperature
4 t. butter, melted
5-1/2 c. bread flour, measured correctly
1-1/2 t. salt
cornmeal for dusting

Process
In a small saucepan, heat the milk and honey over low heat until it reaches between 105 and 115 degrees. Remove from heat, stir in the package of yeast, and set aside for 5 minutes to let the yeast ferment. Whisk in the egg and the melted butter.

Add the flour and salt to the bowl of a stand mixer. Using the dough hook attachment, mix on low speed and gradually pour in the milk mixture. Continue to beat on low until the flour is incorporate, stopping to scrape the sides as needed. Turn the speed up to medium and mix for 4 minutes until the dough is smooth and sticky.

Scrape the dough into a lightly oiled bowl. Turn so the dough is oiled on both sides. Cover and set in a warm place to rise for 1 hour or until double in size.

Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface, using as little flour as possible. Gently knead the dough together. The dough is sticky, but just add enough flour to make it easy to handle. Divide the dough in half. Then cut each half into 8 equal sized pieces. Roll each piece into a ball and then flatten the ball into a disk. Place the disks on a cookie pan lined with parchment paper that has been dusted with cornmeal. Sprinkle more cornmeal over the tops. Cover and set in a warm place for 1 hour, or until double in size.

Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

Heat a griddle over medium-low heat. Using a spatula, gently place the muffins onto the pan, being careful to not deflate them. Cook them for about 2 minutes on each side, or as long as it takes to make them lightly browned on both sides. Work in batches. Place the muffins back on the cookie sheet and bake them for 10 minutes.

Split the muffins with a fork. Serve warm immediately, or later toasted.

How Great Thou Art

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When through the woods, and forest glades I wander,
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees.
When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur
And see the brook, and feel the gentle breeze.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art….

Though Bill is now a faithful Catholic, he wasn’t always. In fact, he was brought up to be a devout Baptist, a member of Morgan Park Baptist Church on the south side of Chicago. It was in that church that he spent a considerable amount of time in the youth choir (where he sang a solo – The Old Rugged Cross) and involved in other church activities. When he was 12 or so, in the manner of Baptists and other evangelical Christian churches, he was baptized by being fully immersed in water.

Bill, in fact, was not Catholic when we married almost 24 years ago. It didn’t bother me, though I am aware that it is nice when a couple can attend church together. And it was only a year or so later that Bill – on his own – announced that he wanted to convert to the Catholic faith. He had apparently been interested in Catholicism for a number of years. I couldn’t have been happier.

I think Bill would say he has come to love the Catholic Church and its practices. What has taken him a bit of time to get used to, however, are the hymns. Let’s face it, there is nothing like good old Baptist hymns to praise God in song.

Different Catholic churches have different philosophies about music. The church with which we are affiliated in Denver is old school. The congregation is largely older people who don’t want to hear guitars at Mass. The church we attend in Mesa has a much livelier musical philosophy, singing many songs with which I am unfamiliar but love. At the end of the day, I have to admit that I enjoy the Mesa church’s music more than our Denver church. I like joyful praise, I guess.

There are two songs often sung in our Denver church, however, that I can count on Bill singing loud and clear – Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art. I love both of those hymns as well, and I am particularly happy when the music board says we will be singing one of those songs. Why? Because I LOVE to hear Bill sing both of those hymns. He has a beautiful baritone voice and perfect pitch. I have never had a beautiful voice, and my pitch – which used to be acceptable if not great – is now nonexistent. I crack. I warble. I squeak.

Bill is a member of the Round-up Riders of the Rockies. RRR is an organization of men united in their love for horses and nature. Each year the group rides horses and camps somewhere up in the Rocky Mountains for a week. Among other activities, the RRR’s have a men’s choir that performs for the Sunday church service that is held wherever they are camped on that particular day. When Bill used to participate regularly, he was a member of the choir, which sang both Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art. Bill always said that he loved singing How Great Thou Art out in the wilderness because the words are so appropriate and it made him feel closer to God.

He told me that again after Mass on Sunday after we sang that hymn. It made me think about a hymn that my mother particularly loved when they lived in the mountains of Colorado. Here are some of the lyrics…

Sing to the Mountains, by Bob Dufford

Sing to the mountains, sing to the sea.
Raise your voices, lift your hearts.
This is the day the Lord has made.
Let all the earth rejoice.

This is the day the Lord has made.
Let us be glad and rejoice.
Death has lost and all is life.
Sing of the glory of God.

Sing to the mountains, sing to the sea.
Raise your voices, lift your hearts.
This is the day the Lord has made.
Let all the earth rejoice.

It’s wonderful to praise God in song!

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: Could I Enjoy a Nice Rosé With My Lunch?

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The other day, Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole were visiting. As is typical, they were playing with Play Doh. At one point, Mylee brought one of her creations over and asked me to guess what it was. So I began guessing, quite incorrectly I’m afraid. Finally she said, “I will give you a hint. It starts with P.” I began incorrectly guessing P words. She began getting more frustrated, and started giving me hints.

“Pu, Pu, Pu,” she said. Nothing.

“Pru, pru pru,” she continued. Nothing.

“Prush, prush, prush,” she said, thinking I must be the biggest ignoramus of all time. Nothing.

Finally, she said, “Nana, it’s what I have in my lunch box every day.”

“Peanut butter?” I asked desperately.

Sigh.

“No,” she said. “Prosciutto.”

“YOU TAKE PROSCIUTTO IN YOUR LUNCHBOX?” I all-but-hollered. “YOU’RE IN KINDERGARTEN!”

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“What do you have in your lunch box?” I asked Kaiya.

“Edamame,” she answered.

Cole looked at the meager hot dog I had given him for lunch, and raised one eyebrow.

Have a great weekend.

Friday Book Whimsy: The Reluctant Midwife

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The midwife we came to love in The Midwife of Hope River, a book I read and reviewed last July, reappears as a secondary character in The Reluctant Midwife, by Patricia Harman. And The Reluctant Midwife takes an interesting twist as one of the secondary characters in The Midwife of Hope River becomes the star of the show in this second in the Hope River series.

Becky Myers, a friend of the primary character in the first book, returns to Hope River several years after she left, this time husbandless and bringing with her the doctor for whom she had worked. Unfortunately, Dr. Blum had suffered his own catastrophe and had subsequently become inexplicably catatonic. He had no one to care for him, and Becky feels responsible.

Times are tough as it is the middle of the Great Depression of the 1930s. Times are even worse in the particularly hard-hit West Virginia mountain region. But Becky has nowhere else to turn. She reaches out to Patience Murphy, who is still performing midwifery and now married with a child. Patience and her husband provide food, housing, and friendship to Becky and Dr. Blum.

As the novel progresses, Becky finds her way back to herself and creates a new life in the West Virginia mountains.

I loved the story of the tough Appalacian people and the author, herself a midwife, provides a great picture of the importance of friends and hope, especially during difficult times.

The novel is quite predictable, and told from a fairly biased point of view when it comes to the progressive agenda of the day. Nevertheless, it is quite readable and the characters are likable. I enjoy reading stories about the grittiness of the people during the difficult times of the Depression. They were so much stronger than we seem to be today.

The Reluctant Midwife is an uplifting story of friendship and love, and a decent – if not fabulous – read, particularly if you are interested in the field of midwifery.

Here is a link to the book.

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Thursday Thoughts

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Settle Down
We will be leaving on Tuesday to go back to Arizona for about a week so that Bill can finish some dental work. This going back and forth is about to kill me. I want to be settled one place or the other for some time. Frankly, where I want to be settled is Denver, because as I look around at our house and our yard, there is a lot of work to be done. I was staying with Cole yesterday while his mommy volunteered at school. As we played outside, I found myself thinking, “I should come over here and pull some weeds for Court.” And then I stopped myself. What was I thinking? Before I volunteer to pull someone else’s weeds, I should pull my own.  Kaiya and Mylee helped a bit on Sunday, but even Kaiya was overwhelmed at the number of weeds that needed our attention. They decided the playhouse was much more fun.

Terrific Twos
And speaking of Cole, I spent much of the day with him yesterday. Seriously, is there anything cuter than a 2-year old? They are just learning to talk. They think Nanas are the BOMB. And they have developed a sense of humor. I laughed so hard at some of his antics. And he laughed just as hard at some of mine. He thinks I’m so funny, I should get a show in Cleveland. When I first got there, he was absorbed in what I guess is his very own phone – a hand-me-down following the purchase of one of his parent’s new phone. He, of course, knows how to maneuver his way through everything. It never fails to astound me…..

Cole playing with phone 5.16

Television Notes
In the course of moving from Denver to Phoenix for the winter, I was unable to watch the second half of How to Get Away With Murder. So the past couple of days I have been binging on HTGAWM, watching the final shows of this season almost nonstop. Wow. That’s all I’ll say. Wow. But while I’m on television, I want to put in a pitch for a really good program on Netflix called Grace and Frankie. It stars Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin as two 70-something women whose husbands leave them for each other. If you are avoiding the program because you’re still mad at Jane Fonda, you need to let it go because you’re missing an exceptional show aimed at baby boomers. That doesn’t happen very often. Fonda is good – very good, in fact. But Tomlin is so funny that I seriously laugh hard enough to cry. Thus far, there are two seasons on Netflix.

And the Band Played On
Tuesday night we watched the three youngest McLain kids perform at the Southmoor Elementary School band and choir concert. Alastair plays trombone (or at least tries to, as he had gotten his braces the day before). Dagny and Magnolia sing in the choir. And Dagny plays flute in the band. For the most part we enjoyed the concert, though there was one song that was so awful that people were visibly cringing. As for me, I very unprofessionally began to laugh so hard I had tears. Addie leaned over and asked me if I was laughing or crying. I told her both. Here is a photo of Dagny and Maggie singing. You can identify them from the arrows….

maggie dagny arrows

Ciao.

Making Nice

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I’ve been grocery shopping since I was somewhere in the neighborhood of 21 years old, after I finally moved into my first apartment. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Prior to that, I would go to the grocery store and pick up a few necessities on occasion. Ice cream. Tortilla chips and salsa. Ibuprofen. Sometimes when I was a kid, my mom would send me off on my bicycle to the neighborhood IGA store to pick up a few things. That abruptly stopped after she sent me to the store one time to pick up a head of lettuce and a can of corn and I returned, flushed from riding my bike, with a head of cabbage and a can of hominy. Hey. I was 8. Cut me some slack.

But I didn’t do any once-a-week kind of shopping until I had my own place and cooked my own food. So that means that I have been grocery shopping for 40-some years. And I will tell you that it isn’t one of the jobs that I hate to do. Those include emptying the dishwasher, folding laundry, and defrosting the freezer in the garage. I find grocery shopping to be kind of fun and relaxing.

Now, having said that, I have to place some caveats on that statement. First, though I do so regularly, I HATE shopping at Walmart. There is simply nothing fun about it. If it wasn’t for some of the things that I buy that are cheaper at Walmart, I would never go. I am not a Walmart hater. I just think they are uninteresting, seem to often have empty shelves, are staffed by crabby cashiers, and are visited by people who maybe should have looked in the mirror before stepping out of their house. Including me.

Second, I am retired and so can shop at a leisurely pace and at a time of day and week that is quiet and less stressful. It’s a whole different ballgame if one works full time and is trying to grocery shop with two fighting kids and at the same time as everyone else who works.

I have found Tuesday mornings are a great time to shop. Mondays the shelves are often empty because of the heavy shopping traffic over the weekend. By Tuesday, most shelves are stocked. And if you go around 10 o’clock, you miss the morning donut-and-coffee crowd and the stockers (who apparently no longer work at night) are almost finished with their work.

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, I worked at Safeway in Leadville. That was back in the days before computers, so cashiers had to look at the price tags and key in the price. I was FAST. VERY FAST. And because of this, I was very popular. The lines were long at my check stand. I was proud to be so good at something.

This is a long post about nothing in particular, so I will get to a semblance of a point. There is a cashier at the grocery store at which I shop in Denver – King Soopers – who has worked there for at least 23 years (as long as I have shopped there). He isn’t particularly quick; in fact, he’s quite slow. But that’s because he chats with his customers. Now, it’s true that if I’m in a hurry, I avoid him. But I wasn’t in a hurry yesterday, and went through his line. And what I noticed is that he is apparently the cashier-of-choice for the over 55 crowd, because, while there were other cashiers working, his line was the longest.

He’s nice. You don’t meet a lot of nice people these days. And here are a couple of things that I learned from him as he leisurely bagged my groceries. One, it’s not good to microwave things twice. So when he buys the already-prepared mashed potatoes that are in the dairy case, he – being single – opens up the container, takes out what he wants to use, and then reseals it. He then microwaves the smaller amount.

Two, the jars of sweet pickled cherry peppers like I bought used to contain garlic, but no longer do. It is an addition that he apparently misses. So he opens the jar and adds a bit of garlic powder and mixes it in.

groceries (2)

 

I’m not sure that either of these suggestions are earth-shattering or even something I wouldn’t have thought of doing myself if, for example, I wanted my pickled peppers to be garlicky. Still, I loved that he and I built a brief relationship for that small period of time. I would say that I wish more service people would do the same thing, but then I would be writing a blog post about how annoyed I get at cashiers who talk too much and are slow.

Today, however, I’m going to accentuate the positive!