During a recent shopping trip with a friend, we ducked into Macaroni Grill for lunch. It wasn’t our first choice, but after trying four other restaurants and being told it would be an hour wait due to short staffing…. we figured any port in the storm would do.
After a mediocre lukewarm meal that arrived late and with the wrong vegetables, the bill was presented. Now I don’t know about your part of the world, but here in Maine restaurants are having a hard time staying afloat since no one wants to work. There are no waitresses, no hostesses, no busboys, no cooks. Every where you go has the same issues. They apologize for it when you enter and we’ve come to expect the worst. What I didn’t expect was this:
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A little inflation surcharge they sneak in without telling you.
And hey, don’t get me wrong…. I understand prices are up everywhere, and naturally the increase in the cost of food has to be passed along to the consumer. But this sure seems like a strange way to do it.
Though the evil empire managed to beat my beloved Sox two out of three at Yankee Stadium in the opening series. I fear for our bull pen this year, but we have good bats, so my fingers are crossed for a good year.
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I continue to be astounded by the cheap prices at the meat counter at the military commissary in Bangor.
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We’re making a once a month pilgrimage and if I buy nothing but beef, chicken and pork it’s well worth the drive.
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But finding the laundry detergent that costs me $17 at the grocery store for $9? That makes me one extremely happy shopper.
After two years of Covid inactivity and a year and a half of dealing with a painful knee injury? No amount of exercise is going to bring my butt back to life. Take it out back and bury it, it’s done.
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Damn. That’s a bonus check I could totally get behind.
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Any guesses what is?
Forget garlic and basil, the answer is fish sauce. Mamma Mia!
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And finally, in this crazy world where everything is out to get you… mercury in tuna fish, lead in drinking water, E. coli on lettuce… I have to admit I never saw this one coming.
Remember the misfortune fortune cookies I was going to buy for the man cave bar?
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I posted about them a while back but never went through with the purchase. Which, after tracking them down on Amazon and reading the reviews, turns out was very fortunate indeed.
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Wow. Good thing I wasn’t handing these out to friends. Going home with a doggy bag is one thing, but weirdly green poo? No one wants that.
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Although it seems not everyone shares my adverse opinion of oddly hued feces.
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Yikes. When they said it turns your tongue black, they weren’t kidding.
Yes boys and girls, it’s that time again. Time to pucker up ( so to speak ) and smile for the camera.
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The husband has a butt cam appointment in his immediate future and we just received the 12 page instruction booklet from the hospital. Remember back in the day you just picked up some awful powder from the pharmacist, mixed it with liquid and spent the entire day on the throne praying for death? Well, things have gotten a bit more complicated now.
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The list of things you can’t eat a week before the prep is enormous, as is the amount of fluid they want you to push.
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And because my husband has the annoying habit of always making appointments first thing in the morning, he will have to rise at 3:30am to drink the final 32 ounces of laxative.
And after spending four hours this morning cooking lasagna, then serving it and the salad to the crew, I took a hard cider break before I ferried it all back in the house to do dishes.
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I sat, sipped and watched the mild mannered old widower school the group with a twinkle in his eye. Game after game, no matter who he teamed with, it was a rout.
And no amount of freshly tapped beer helped.
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The other three couldn’t seem to get out of their own way.
Food. It nourishes our bodies and delights our taste buds, but sometimes? It can go horribly wrong.
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Oh no, Hell no! That nasty kale leaf will never sneak in and infect my brownies. Nope. Not on my watch.
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I only have one word for this disturbing platter of homicidal fruit.
Run! Some of those berries look positively demented.
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Easter. A day of religious celebration, fuzzy bunnies and most importantly – chocolate. And while I always thought I’d take my Easter chocolate any old way I could get it… I find eating eggs out of a rabbit’s ass to be the one line I can’t cross. ( And no, I’m not mentioning the wooden mallet you apparently use to open that ass. Nope. That’s a road I don’t care to travel )
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A prune juice mocktail. I’ll just leave that thought for further consideration.
We had dinner plans with friends the night of my husband’s birthday, but on the way home from the antique barn we stopped at King Eider’s Pub in the coastal town of Damariscotta.
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It’s a quirky old place famous for their crab cakes and liberal pours.
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One Winter Paloma in, I agreed whole heartedly. It may have been pink, but it tasted like straight tequila. Our plan was just to duck in for a quick appetizer that would hold us till dinner. And then my husband ordered the mussels.
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Cooked in white wine, butter and garlic… the picture isn’t a good representation of quantity. The husband ate. And ate. And ate. And didn’t seem to put a dent in the bowl.
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On his second bowl of empty shells he decided to count exactly how many mussels he received for $16.99. Care to hazard a guess?
30? 40?
How about 72. We were both dumb founded. Granted, this time of year they’re small. But when’s the last time you had that much seafood for under $20.
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It made my delicious but small and similarly priced crab cakes seem positively non existent.
And in answer to your question, yes. The husband ate every single last mussel in the bowl… though it took him nearly an hour. It was at this point the man next to us at the bar struck up a conversation and bought us a round… that to be honest, we didn’t want but also didn’t refuse. While chatting he told us his favorite movie, The Shawshank Redemption, was filmed right down the road from his home. And considering it was actually filmed in Mansfield, Ohio I’d say he either had one very large lawn or an overactive imagination. Bar stories, ya gotta love ‘em.
We floated out of the pub stuffed with seafood, feeling no pain and saw this sign on the way to the parking lot.
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Amen to that.
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Where there's only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.
