Survival. Since the first whispered storm forecasts for the Pacific NW I’ve been bulking up on carbs, throwing cautionary calories to the pending wind. The instinct kicks in every time the weather gets threatening; like a squirrel I’ve been running around stuffing my cheeks with popcorn, that bit of leftover bread I used for making croutons for the French Onion soup I made on Monday, dipping into the bag of chips I got as a treat for Joe, but he keeps forgetting about. If things get truly dire, I’ll be able to survive for weeks on fat reserves alone.
The other night we roamed the grocery aisles foraging for non-perishable goods to stock our pantry. It was no easy task for someone who makes most things from scratch, who shops the perimeters of the store – produce, dairy and meat – scooping happily away in the bulk section for dried lentils, grains and the like. Joe turned his nose up at canned chili and stew. Instead, we’ll make hummus from garbanzo or black beans, (we have tahini and lemons, right?!) using the new food mill (I recently got with my Amazon gift certificate – insert fist pump here) instead of the food processor. We patted ourselves on the back at how resourceful we were. We stared at a mind-numbing variety of boxes of granola bars alongside a woman doing the same thing. “Shopping for the storm?” she said. When we dumbly nodded she laughed. “I think it’s just an excuse to get chocolate!”
We bought fudgy bite-sized brownies. They were mostly gone before the first phase of the storm was over.
We bought 20 cans of cat food. For the cat. It was a really great deal, what can I say? I was self-conscious the cashier might think it was for us, though. If she saw how I gag every time I open a can she’d think differently. Of course, if it really were an apocalypse? Maybe she thought we were planning to fatten the cat for future roasting! Maybe I watch and read too many dystopian movies and novels.
I hear there’s no name for this storm, as it’s really three converging together, so I’m dubbing it That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm. If the power is out for any significant length of time, we’ve got 30 fat brats (bratwurst sausages, not disagreeable children) in the beer fridge downstairs meant for above-mentioned once-postponed, once-canceled party that will have to be cooked. Our corner of Shorelandia will be smelling delicious!
In the meantime, as I sit safe, cozy, and warm in my faux-fur vest, and the rain steadily increases, I think there’s another brownie around here with my name on it.
The other night we roamed the grocery aisles foraging for non-perishable goods to stock our pantry. It was no easy task for someone who makes most things from scratch, who shops the perimeters of the store – produce, dairy and meat – scooping happily away in the bulk section for dried lentils, grains and the like. Joe turned his nose up at canned chili and stew. Instead, we’ll make hummus from garbanzo or black beans, (we have tahini and lemons, right?!) using the new food mill (I recently got with my Amazon gift certificate – insert fist pump here) instead of the food processor. We patted ourselves on the back at how resourceful we were. We stared at a mind-numbing variety of boxes of granola bars alongside a woman doing the same thing. “Shopping for the storm?” she said. When we dumbly nodded she laughed. “I think it’s just an excuse to get chocolate!”
We bought fudgy bite-sized brownies. They were mostly gone before the first phase of the storm was over.
We bought 20 cans of cat food. For the cat. It was a really great deal, what can I say? I was self-conscious the cashier might think it was for us, though. If she saw how I gag every time I open a can she’d think differently. Of course, if it really were an apocalypse? Maybe she thought we were planning to fatten the cat for future roasting! Maybe I watch and read too many dystopian movies and novels.
I hear there’s no name for this storm, as it’s really three converging together, so I’m dubbing it That Day We Were Finally Going to Have My Sister’s Retirement Party Storm. If the power is out for any significant length of time, we’ve got 30 fat brats (bratwurst sausages, not disagreeable children) in the beer fridge downstairs meant for above-mentioned once-postponed, once-canceled party that will have to be cooked. Our corner of Shorelandia will be smelling delicious!
In the meantime, as I sit safe, cozy, and warm in my faux-fur vest, and the rain steadily increases, I think there’s another brownie around here with my name on it.
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