Wait. What?!

I’m supposed to be posting every week and it’s been over two, because I’m a bad person.  And my husband unexpectedly had surgery two weeks ago.  And kids.  And life.  And Thanksgiving.

Anyhoo.  I’m back.  And I’m done writing about vacation, even though I didn’t exactly finish; because that noise went on for wayyyy tooooo long.

Today I’m getting back to writing about what really counts.  Pitchers.

Betcha didn’t see that coming.  Unless you thought I was talking about baseball, then I guess you might have seen it coming.  dsc09437.jpg

I actually only mentioned baseball so I could put in this pic of my kid.  It’s a few years old because I’ve been entirely too lame to take pictures for the past two seasons.  Digression is an art form, I’m told.  Actually no one told me that.  I’m telling YOU that.

Anyhoo.  Some months ago, something possessed me to subscribe to bon apetit magazine.  Since I can’t even remember yesterday, I can’t remember the impetus for the action; but I’d bet dollars to doughnuts it had something to do with a cheap subscription rate and misguided ambition on my part.  Ambition as in, THIS is the year I’m going to prepare beautiful, gourmet, healthy meals for my family each and every day.  LOLOLOLOLOLOL.

When I see it in the mailbox, I typically greet it with excitement.  Oooohhhh, I bet there are some recipes my family’s gonna LOVE in here (see above LOLOLOL…).

Inevitably, though, once I start leafing through; I always have one of my Wait/What moments.

Wait/What moments are those when something completely outlandish has been expressed.

Wait = what you just said was so batshit crazy that I need a moment to process.

What = did you really just say that?  I don’t think you meant that, so I’m asking ‘what’ in an effort to give you a chance to backtrack.

Per usual, my writing fails and this is best explained with a GIF.

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Also worth noting: my wait/what moments have increased exponentially since November 2016.  The latest example, other than a magazine suggesting I need a $300 pitcher involves POTUS and Pocahontas.  Digression is an art form.

Today, after sifting through 20 pages of being told I need all new kitchen appliances (even though mine are less than two years old), a new Subaru (even though I still have two years left on the lease of my Toyota), a new cell phone, a new Visa card (yeah, I already have one, but is it sapphire?  no, no it is not), that I’m hungry for chocolate and thirsty for coffee, and that I need to book travel on Lufthansa and Swiss Air (ok, they could be onto something there); I landed on page 24.  Where I learned that Yes, the Pitcher Matters.

Wait.  What?

If, upon arrival to my dinner party, you are looking for the Kenny Son decagonal brass pitcher, which goes for $315 at eatingtools.com, it’ll be in the cabinet next to the Clam Lab pointed spout pitcher, which goes for $290 at spartan-shop.com.  That cabinet with the $300 pitchers, by the way, is located adjacent to the wine cellar.  Hopefully this is the appropriate time for me to mention to you my house doesn’t have a wine cellar.  Which you can extrapolate to mean there is no cabinet in my house with the $300 pitchers.  Because they don’t exist in my world.

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And my longtime butcher?  He isn’t three towns over.  Because I actually keep him imprisoned in my own home for easy access.  He wiles away his days in the northeast corner of my non-existent wine cellar and uses my collection of $300 pitchers to toss his offal when processing those thick-cut pork chops.  Which is to say I DON’T FUCKING HAVE A LONGTIME BUTCHER.  And take that shit about peak-est produce at the farmers’ market and go home.  It’s damn near December and I live in Minnesota.

Why am I writing about pitchers?  Because it’s easier than writing about Al Franken. And I’m still suffering from a turkey/travel hangover.  And the things I’m currently dealing with in parenting my teenagers (once upon a time that was going to be the focus of this blog, I think) are a little too private for even an over-sharer such as myself to write about.  Look, I’m respecting boundaries.  Yay me!  And, should you ever be invited to my house for a dinner party, I want you to be emotionally prepared for the fact that the only pitchers I own cost less than $20 and came from Target.

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Appropriately this feature about overpriced pitchers is next to an ad for an overpriced Vitamix blender.  My Vitamix sits right next to the brass decagonal pitcher in the cabinet next to my wine cellar.  What can I say?  Vitamix and brass pitchers just belong together.  In the seventh circle of hell.

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