Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Master Baster


I cooked a chicken the other night. To be honest, this is the first time I have ever cooked an entire bird; generally I pass on the onus of bird-cookery to Dearest Husband or I just cook bits of bird (and there was that one time I incinerated an entire turkey in the barbeque, but we won't discuss that here). So you understand why I do not own a baster. I have never had need for baster, never wanted a baster, never even considered owning a baster.

Come to find out, in order to properly roast a chicken, you REALLY need a baster. Particularly when your roasting pan is merely chicken-sized and leaves no margin for spoonage. So mid chicken-cookery, I rushed down to the grocery store to purchase ... the baster. (Scott actually asked me to buy two basters: one for me and one for his brewing kit, but I declined. Luckily, the store only had one in stock. You be the girl who goes to the store to buy two turkey basters.)

You like to believe that the people who work at the grocery store don't look at your groceries. They just ring you up and send you on your way and don't recount later to their husbands or wives or thirteen cats the crazy dude that just came through that bought nothing but pork tenderloin, D-batteries, and Vaseline. They didn't notice the extra-thick condoms. They didn't see the Costco sized box of super-ultra-tidal flow tampons. But I've worked at the grocery store. And trust me, we remember. And we know that you bought that extra $150 worth of groceries to cover up the fact that you only came in for K-Y Jelly.

So I reach the check-out with that in mind - and turkey baster in hand - and I say to the cashier: "Gosh, I should have bought some K-Y so you don't think I just came here for the baster." And not a snigger, a chuckle, not even a twitch of the lip. Just a blank look and a "Have a nice evening, ma'am" without irony.

Stupid grocery store.

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