The Perfect Song Blog

Kids should not be allowed in grocery stores. I have good reasons for saying this.

I’ve taken over the grocery shopping to give Leigh more time with her business. I don’t mind extra duty but I do shop like a male.

I have a list. I want to find an item as quickly as possible, cross it off and move on.

I don’t mind other shoppers who pull off to the side of the aisle and park as they study ingredients on a package or compare prices. I don’t mind the elderly who move at a slower pace. I can pass them, just as someday, a new generation will pass me.

What I absolutely can’t stand are shopping carts that have little kids attached to them – to the front, the sides, the back and to mom’s pants. One, two, sometimes three hyperactive, nose-picking rug rats all vying for attention while Mom is trying to find the best prices and make sure she remembers her husband’s favorite beer.

I don’t even like the ones who are trying to be good, standing still—in the middle of the aisle. The last thing I as a male am going to do is ask the child to get out of the way and trigger the terrifying ire of a mother whose child is being threatened by a male.

No, I am going to stand there politely, gritting my teeth and trying to maintain an expression of empathetic patience until the mom sees the traffic blockage and says: “Come over here, Megan. Stay out of the way.”

She then gives me a look that says: “Thanks for your patience. And polite as you are, please get lost and don’t interrupt us again.”

Grocery shopping is the one recurring life experience in which a woman has to question the practicality of motherhood. She’s looking for low sodium pickles while trying to watch the whirling, kicking kids and hoping they don’t pick up a jar and drop it. . .or throw it at a sibling.

If they’re not trying to get mom’s attention by asking questions, the kids are doing it by crying or pleading for some sugar-laden treat that’s making them hyper and fat. They’re wild cards, not staying on their side of the lane, darting in and out, bouncing , grabbing stuff off shelves, begging mom to buy something or (I’ve seen it), sneaking it into the cart.

Kids are shifty little buggers and we don’t give them enough credit.

They also do not belong here. Grocery stores should be for adults only.

Really.

And those damnable “grocery cars” are the worst thing to ever occupy into a grocery store. In the next post I’ll tell you why.

It’s a story you won’t believe, but it is, I swear, true.

My quest:  to make great barbecued spare ribs.

Not just great, but outstanding. Fall-off-the-bone. Melt-in-your-mouth.

The first couple tries were failures with dry, tough meat that left jaws aching from all the chewing. But last Sunday, I knew I had it down. I put the baby-back rack in the oven at 300 degrees. I would do them for six hours, checking every two hours to make sure there was water on them to keep them moist and tender.

At 5:30 I asked Leigh if she’d made the barbecue sauce. She hadn’t. I said I would. I knew where the recipe was. I was in a rush because all the side dishes were done. I tossed in a quarter cup of ketchup, measured out the mustard, crushed the garlic clove and added a dash of worchestershire sauce.

The last ingredient was ¼ cup of strong coffee. I measured it out and poured it in. I brought it to a slow, simmering boil.

Leigh came out to the kitchen. “What’s wrong with that sauce?”

I shrugged. “Nothing that I know of. I followed the recipe.”

“It looks dark.”

“I followed the recipe.”

It was a beautiful day so we ate on the deck. I brought out the ribs and as I dished them out I was quietly ecstatic that they did, indeed, fall off the bone. I picked off a test piece. Ahh, melt-in-the-mouth it did.

“I don’t understand why the barbecue sauce looks so dark,” Leigh said again.

We spooned some out and put it on the done-to-perfection ribs.

“Ooh,” Leigh said quietly. What’s that funny taste?”

I took a bite. Something wasn’t right.

“Why’s it crunchy?” She asked.

As soon as she asked that, I had a suspicion of some wrong doing.

“Are these crunchy things coffee grounds?”

Bingo!

“Mmm, yeah. It said ¼ cup strong coffee.”

“It’s supposed to be coffee! Boiled coffee. Not coffee grounds.

I had to admit that her observation made perfect sense. I tried another bite. The most tender baby back ribs in the world still tasted wretched in a sauce made of coffee grounds.

She ran into the kitchen and in five minutes made a barbecue sauce that did justice to the ribs.

Okay. I got the ribs down.

Now I work on the sauce.

Life can be complicated sometimes.

Kim flew in from Alaska Thursday as a surprise for her brother Nathan’s birthday. She was due to arrive at midnight Wednesday but storms in Chicago stopped all flights and she wound up with a several hour wait in Philadelphia.

Nathan was scheduled to come up Thursday night but at the last minute said he’d forgotten he’d scheduled band practice. Leigh tricked him into coming up.

Kim sat out on the deck in the darkness wearing a ski mask and holding a bottle of Alaskan beer. I’ve never seen such a puzzled, disoriented, shocked look on Nathan’s face when he realized it was Kim.

Anyway, one of Kim’s passions, aside from her dog, the outdoors and reading, is food. So this morning we drove up to Wegman’s in Ithaca.

Yes, some people like to go to baseball games.

Others go to museums.

We go to the grocery store.

I don’t know what it is about Wegman’s. It’s always chaos, especially in the produce section. If you’re moving, you’re always about to hit someone. God help you if you stop. People are milling, armed with grocery carts pushing them like benevolent torpedoes, intent on the produce and absently ramming you as they study the state of the organic shitake mushrooms.

I stocked up on dried Chinese soups, knowing this is stuff is a double threat. In it’s best state it’s not healthy. It’s all sodium, for God’s sakes. In addition, lately the Chinese have been inadvertently killing people all over the world with the tainted food they’re sending out.

Ah, well, live dangerously. I love the flavor. At the check out counter I got a cooking lesson from Jason, a tall, lanky kid with dark hair. “Hey, my favorite food!” He exclaims, holding up my hot and sour mix. “Give me a microwave and I’m an excellent cook! You know, it’s not the minutes on the microwave that’s important. It’s the seconds. You put it in for too long and it’s too hot to eat. Get it a few seconds too short and you have to mic it again. I’ve got the seconds down to a science. Now, if my microwave dies, I’ll starve.” He holds up a plastic bowl of chicken mushroom instant soup. “Ah! My favorite!”

He looks at me and I know there’s a bond that no one can take away.

It was not the most intellectually stimulating conversation I’ve had with a cashier, but what the heck, everyone has his specialty.

Here are a couple of photos of Kim.