Have a Kitchen Sink

Hey you should click on the video at the end of this post and listen to the music as you read. Just a suggestion.

So last weekend TG and I were cruising through Augusta, Georgia, ultimate objective home, when we decided to make a stop.

I'd spotted a Fresh Market on the way to what had been our intended destination when we reached Augusta, which turned out to be someplace we couldn't go because the gates were LOCKED -- three guesses what kind of place it was -- and I said:

I want to go to that Fresh Market back there because remember the fresh-not-frozen pizzas we used to buy when we lived in Knoxville a long time ago?

Oh those were really something, said TG.

Yes, we have a Fresh Market in Columbia and yes, I've been there -- although its location is not convenient to where we live -- and I already knew they don't have the pizzas anymore.

But hope springs eternal in the human breast. Nostalgia is one of the most powerful forces on earth.

So it was agreed and we had pointed our auto toward The Fresh Market at National Hills Shopping Center on Washington Road in Augusta, and were in fact all but there, when it happened.

TG glanced to his left and exclaimed in a voice gone momentarily dizzy with awe:

That's Augusta National!

And it was. Turns out TG had only ever seen it on TV.

Augusta National Golf Club, dream and legacy of Robert Tyre "Bobby" Jones, Jr. (whose name is synonymous with the game of golf but who never took a dime for playing it), revered invitation-only institution where The Masters is held every April.

TG says that there, on the former-cow-pasture, now-pristine acres bequeathed by eternal-amateur Mr. Jones (I've been to his grave at Oakland Cemetery in Atlanta, by the way. It's sprinkled with dozens of golf balls and even a putter or two.), not a single weed is allowed to grow.

Anyway, as TG soon discovered even while I cautioned him to keep it between the navigational beacons -- as in, remain in our lane and please kindly don't overshoot The Fresh Market -- you can't see inside.

Not even an inch of space is left open around Augusta National for the curiosity-minded.

One would think they are determined to keep the riff-raff out.

Not so at The Fresh Market, where we were allowed to walk in even not wearing a green jacket or paying a fee equal to a year's wages, and nab a small cute rolling double-green-basket apparatus, and begin scanning the viands on offer.

We zeroed in on the fresh-not-frozen pizzas and even though it was again confirmed that they aren't the same as in the olden days, we put one in our top green basket.

Then I started thinking about treats to take home to (and share with, since we were going directly to their house upon reaching Columbia, because Dagny) our girls, and so naturally that steered me to the bakery section.

First I selected some Ancient Grains Cranberry Bread, a petite loaf. It later proved to be tasty toasted, but then that's a no-brainer. Also I have a thing for cranberries.

Beyond the festive breads an array of delectable house-made cookies were on display, and I began looking in earnest at those.

A tall sign had been placed on one end of the table and underneath it was stacked many transparent plastic boxes containing what was clearly all the same variety of cookie.

The sign proclaimed them (thought I) to be Cranberry Macaroons on sale, one-fifty off.

The treats over which the sign towered did not look like macaroons to me -- I think of a macaroon as a smallish blond-colored coconut confection that, when savored, being chewy and extremely moist -- nearly sticky -- comes across like a fusion of candy and cookie -- but they did appear to be studded with dried cranberries.

I wasn't wearing my reading glasses, though. The lighting at TFM is dimly atmospheric, not at all Krogeresque. Also my judgment is clouded by emotion when in the cookie aisle.

A box was plucked off the top of the display and placed reverently into our top green basket beside the fresh-not-frozen pizza that I knew was close but no cigar, but which I was buying anyway. We continued shopping.

Later at the till, a nice lady began scanning our selections.

It's my habit, throughout the checking-out process, to eyeball the screen where the prices come up as each item is scanned. And even without my cheaters I could see that the Cranberry Macaroons had rung up full price, not one-fifty off.

So without taking the time to think Just let it go, and to actually take said mentally-administered advice, I spoke up.

Oh dear. Large mistake.

The cashier looked stricken. It was the crickets of Augusta tuning up early.

How much were they on sale? She said.

Three forty-nine, I think, I said. But I wasn't sure.

Before I could protest, she called for backup.

The first cashier -- just doing her job -- wanted to believe that the cookies I'd picked were on sale. But she wasn't allowed to take my word for it.

Only, people were waiting behind us in line. I was embarrassed.

A second cashier bustled over and she was also very nice through her air of hurried authority. She picked up my box of cookies. She listened to what I had to say relative to their price.

But these are Kitchen Sink, she said, lifting the box high and reading from a tag on the bottom. Her reading cheaters were in place, and we were near a window.

Oh then that's my mistake, I said. I just saw the sign --

By now TG had gone back to the cookie table to confirm the price of the cookies we'd chosen, and had returned. According to the sign they're three forty-nine, he said.

But these aren't Cranberry Macaroons. They're -- do you know what a macaroon is? She said. Not rudely; like she really wanted to know how macaroon-savvy I was.

I don't remember what I said. I might've mumbled that I thought so. All I remember is feeling stupid and I'm sure I looked dumb too because that's easier for me than falling off a log. My embarrassment intensified.

These are Kitchen Sink, she repeated. They have everything in them.

Everything? I thought. As in, everything?

The lady in line behind us, holding an apple in her hand -- one apple, a honeycrisp the size of a softball, three ninety-nine a pound -- and maybe a bottled beverage, was studying the floor.

I looked at the first cashier. I'll take them, I said. It's my fault. Don't worry about the price. I'm sorry. I wanted so desperately for it to be over. 

The second cashier did something with fluttering fingers on both her hands that told me, Pay attention 'cause I'm about to do you a solid.

Give them to her for that price, she instructed the first cashier. She provided an overrride code, then helped the first cashier to enter it in such a way that a dollar fifty dissolved off my bill.

But we'll have to do paperwork, she quickly added, allowing an amount of aggravation to enter her voice roughly equal to the view of Augusta National afforded the passer-by.

I thought: Paperwork. Paperwork? It's a buck fifty. We are standing one hundred yards from Augusta National where the weeds are bribed with green folding money not to dare show their faces, and we are haggling over a buck fifty?

Yeah, I connect dots tangentially like that. It's another one of my mental deficiencies.

Meanwhile the second cashier had produced a small official-looking piece of (white) paper -- right then and there -- and had begun writing on it as though the outcome of the 2015 Masters Tournament, yet to be played, hung in the balance.

I wanted to die. Seriously I was that shamed for mentioning a paltry dollar-fifty imagined overcharge at The Fresh Market in the shadow of Augusta National.

I was denied even the satisfaction of having been right, or of demonstrating the ability to correctly identify a cranberry macaroon.

Keep it classy eight days a week, Jenny the Pirate, I scolded inwardly.

Still guilt-ridden as we drove away and the longsuffering TG pointed our car toward the South Carolina state line not three miles away, just wanting to leave Georgia in the rearview, I remembered something.

I'd neglected to sign my score card.

I'll forfeit my winnings and furthermore, they'll never invite me back. 

Ah well. Green is not my best color.

And I learned a few things: Kitchen Sink cookies are a revelation. There is a hint of coconut, and almonds are involved. Those dark-colored bits are not cranberries but raisins, cheek-by-jowl with chunks of chocolate.

Also present is white chocolate, which I don't like (that's a really good story for another day), but which nevertheless works well here.

They're like music in your mouth. You don't have to be a millionaire to play.

Spring will come to Georgia. The dogwoods and azaleas will bloom in Augusta as planned, just in time for The Masters. My sweeter-than-a-Kitchen-Sink-cookie TG's eyes may once again briefly mist with a tear when he hears the first strains of the iconic and evocative piano-and-strings theme song.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Tuesday ~ Happy Week

Comments

[Barb]

You have a way with a story, Jenny. I know the woman behind you was thinking, "Tourist!" (That was the most flattering thing she was thinking...) Our Jack baked cranberry chocolate chunk cookies over the weekend. There was some white chocolate involved which in my viewpoint is VERY sweet, but it looks nice with the cranberries. He even washed his little hands before he made them. If you were close by, I'd give you some.

[Sally]

Oh my! This post just speaks to me this afternoon. I had cousins who never missed Augusta National; he's gone now but they always loved it so.

After I retired, and got bored, a job opportunity came up at one of our local grocery stores. I went to training for two days; yeah me and about a dozen l8 year olds. I'm busy listening as hard as I could, and making notes upon more notes. I had the worst headache those two days than ever before. Those little (let me see, what shall I call them?) young ladies had it all down pat, no notes for them.

About your "people" having to jot down when a discount is given? Yep! Have to. :)

Hey, and did I ever tell you, I met Arnold P*lmer? Yes, I did, and he was in his underwear. Now, that's for another day. LOL

Love you, Jenny!

[Jennifer]

@Barb ... haaahahaha well I may not be from Augusta but I'm no stranger to shopping at The Fresh Market and they are the same everywhere you go. If I were close by, I would eat some of Jack's cookies! They sound delightful.

@Sally ... TG will want to know how your kinfolk got their hands on the rarest ticket in all of sport! Admission to The Masters is legacy, passed down in wills. As to playing Augusta National, you have to be invited and pay LOTS of $$$$$ up front to become a member. I tried to get him tickets to Masters practice rounds once, and failed dismally. So you met Arnie and he was in his smalls? I do want to hear that story! Please do share!!!! xoxoxo

[Mari]

Aaagh! I hate when that happens. You know, it wasn't your fault - it was theirs. But we are the ones who feel embarrassed and feel like we're holding up the line.
What a bummer for TG. So close and yet so far.
Hope that pizza was good. I know the reunion with Dagny was sweet. :)

[Jennifer]

@Mari ... the pizza was okay and you're right! It was their fault! Seeing Dagny again after two whole days was like a minor miracle. Cuter by the minute. xoxo

[Audrey]

If I'd known the story behind those cookies I would have felt slightly guilty while eating them. Alas, I did not feel the least bit guilty while consuming them. DELICIOUS! And Dagny too.