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Sometimes You Feel Like a Nut

Well, poop.

I went to the grocery store this weekend. And if there’s anything I hate more than going to the grocery store, it’s… well, being kicked in the groin would qualify, I suppose. Or having a tax audit. Or running my bare ass back and forth over a cheese grater. Or… you know, this may be getting just a touch off topic. And suddenly I’m hungry for parmesan. I’ll should start over.

I went to the grocery store this weekend. I don’t much like going to the store, but I try to make the best of things. And at the food store, that means buying lots and lots of crap that’s not on the list. To entertain myself while I’m there. It’s perfectly justified.

In the past, I’ve come home with all sorts of ridiculous nonsense — coconuts, plantains, flavored seltzer, microwave chicken burritos… and man, was that last one a mistake. Montezuma’s revenge now comes in poultry flavor, apparently.

Among the bonus groceries this time was a big fat bag of mixed nuts. Not a can of mixed nuts, mind you, shelled and salted and pre-slobbered on to soften them up. No, no. These are real nuts, still in the shell — all natural, right out of nature, straight from the… uh, the tree. Or vine. Or eggs, or whereever the hell nuts come from. I never claimed to be a nut expert.

So, I brought the bag home — and what could be better than some nice walnuts or filberts, fresh-cracked and nutty-tasty? I might even start a fire and sing Christmas carols while I eat them — something sappy like that. It’ll be beautiful. No, really.

But that whole ‘fresh-cracked’ bit of the picture brings up a teensy little problem. I decided tonight that I was ready to start this little adventure, so I went and got the bag. And that’s when I discovered that, while I was up to my elbows in ‘nutcrackees’, I was conspicuously absent an actual nutcracker.

I’ll say it again: Poop.

I thought we had a damned nutcracker. Not a fancy, shiny, write-a-boring-ballet-about-it nutcracker, but I would have sworn there was an old rusty metal one somewhere in the silverware drawer. It seems — brace yourself, now — it seems that I was wrong.

I did find some other utensils that might come in handy one day, though. I don’t know when or how I’d use the damned things, but I’m sure they’re good for something. Here’s a short list of the more unexpected cutlery I discovered:

• a pizza cutter — in the fourteen (yes, fourteen; seriously!) years that my wife and I have been together, we’ve made our own pizzas maybe twice. Why go to the trouble when there are so many people to call and have them brought to you?
• a garlic press — again, the type of thing you’d have to do with a garlic press is just way too much work. Unless you could put grapes or cheese or mice or something in there. That might be fun.
• a turkey baster — we don’t buy turkeys much, either — exactly one, as far as I can remember. And the last time I ‘basted’ something… you know, this is getting a little too personal here. Let’s move on.
• a melon baller — I have no idea why we’d have this. Forget that we rarely have melons; why the hell would we ball them? I have never, ever had the desire to ball melons in my life, and… oh lord. I did not just say that. Now i’ts really gotten personal. This list is over!

But no nutcracker. Damn. So now, I guess I’ve got three choices — give up on the nuts, go out somewhere and buy one, or find a way to get those bastards open without one. I’ve got a hammer that might help, I suppose. Maybe the wife’s got some high heels I could use. And the little ones — hey, they might fit in that garlic press, right? Maybe this’ll work out, after all.

Later, though. After all this, I’m not even hungry for the damned nuts any more. I’ll deal with those tomorrow. Suddenly, I’m craving a recipe involving basted melons. Now there’s a dish you could sink your nutcracker into.