Ever since I heard that Sherman Helmsley died yesterday I’ve wanted to make the obvious “Well, he moved on up” joke on Twitter and refrained because I felt like it might be immature and insensitive. But apparently I am both because I just wrote it. Or maybe it’s just that I have a deep, lasting love for sitcoms of the 70s. Given the fact I can still remember my favorite episodes of The Jeffersons I’m choosing to go with this theory.
(Remember the one when Tom and Helen shared with George and Weeze what they learned in marriage counseling and they all ended up hitting each other with those inflatable bat things?)
(More importantly, can you tell me why a second grader thought that was so funny?)
So Caroline and P left to go fishing on Sunday afternoon. Which left me with a lot of free time. And even though I had the beginnings of a cold, I couldn’t squander this time so I planned a little girls’ night at the house.
The only problem was that I was running low in the snack department for anyone who doesn’t consider a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios to be an appetizer. And since I wasn’t going to make a huge grocery store trip, I decided to run up to Central Market instead of our normal HEB. For those of you who may not know all the machinations of various Texas grocery stores, HEB is just a regular store with your garden variety of crackers and cereals while Central Market is their upscale cousin where you can buy assorted olives and honey made by bees that live in a hive in the produce department.
That’s not really true about the bees. But I bet it’s only because they haven’t thought of it yet.
I generally don’t allow myself too many trips to Central Market because I tend to get carried away. All of a sudden I think I need to buy Dietzenganger’s Frankfurters instead of Oscar Meyer Weiners or Santa Barbara Pistachios when I didn’t even realize that Santa Barbara was known for its pistachio. And then I walk out of the store significantly poorer than I was when I walked in with only a bag full of organic peaches and freshly made ricotta cheese to comfort me.
This trip was no exception. I stumbled right into cheese-tasting day. And I was hungry which didn’t help matters. The next thing I knew I had three blocks of cheese with names I can’t even pronounce in my cart along with a bag of prosciutto that was allegedly flown in from Italy that very morning and contained no MSG even though I didn’t realize there was an MSG issue with prosciutto. I also got suckered in by the crackers that they served it on. It was the most delicious combination I’d ever tasted.
Then I journeyed over to the bakery section which always proves to be my kryptonite because FRESH BAKED COOKIES! FRENCH BREAD! CHOCOLATE CROISSANTS! but was mercifully distracted when a woman turned from where she was trying to decide between the Pain Meunier or a Couronne Bordelaise and yelled at her children, “WOLFGANG! LILLITH! ELI!”
I thought maybe I heard wrong. But I guess Wolfgang wasn’t paying attention because she yelled again, “WOLFGANG! LILLITH! ELI!” and the kids went scurrying over to her decked out head to toe in their organic cotton ensembles. And that’s when I came back to reality and remembered I’m not really cool enough to buy Couronne Bordelaise at Central Market. Largely because I have no idea what that even is. And also because I have a child named Caroline and we like Kraft cheese and think the Pepperidge Farm Milanos are a fancy cookie.
But I still wanted my cheeses. So I took them up to the cashier and walked out of there with $40 worth of cheese I didn’t even know I wanted along with some crackers that would make a Triscuit cry.
(By the way, if P is reading this I just want him to know that I didn’t really spend $40 on cheese. That would be absurd. It was only $15.)
So Sunday night was fun. I’m sure it was at least partly due to the cheese plate even though I realized part of what made the cheese and prosciutto so tasty was the nice woman in Central Market who sliced it all up and served it to me. And she was nowhere to be found in my kitchen.
There was also a low point when I referred to the Siri feature on my phone as Suri. Which is a sure sign I’ve devoted way too much time and attention to Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. And I didn’t even watch The Bachelorette until Monday morning. It brought me much joy that Emily chose Jef because I think they could actually make it for the long term whereas I felt like she and Arie would burn out fast. European race car drivers are good husbands in theory but maybe not in reality. Actually, I’m not sure that they’re even good husband material in theory along with megastars who made gazillions starring as cocky fighter pilots named Maverick.
In addition to the fact she chose Jef, I was also encouraged to see that Emily made an attempt to bring back the denim shirt tied at the waist. This is a trend I have missed terribly since it’s demise in the mid-90s and between that and the fact that ABC chose to play Glory of Love by Peter Cetera as the EMILY AND JEF ARE ENGAGED montage made me feel like the future is bright since at least some of us haven’t forgotten what made this country great.
It’s denim shirts and the theme song from Karate Kid II.
That’s what made this country great.
It certainly wasn’t cheese with names you can’t pronounce with a side of bread that insists on being called “pain”.