I don't know why I wanted to go to the state fair.

I suppose it had something to do with all the other kids going to the state fair. Our county fair was pretty darned wonderful, a highlight of the summer, and the state fair was even more so. My friends were in 4H clubs or in FFA later on, and their projects would do well at the county level, and they'd take them on to the state fair. When they came back, they couldn't really say why the state fair was so wonderful. There was a lot of the "Oh, WOW" factor, stories about how everything there was so big, but I can't recall them describing anything that wasn't at the county fair as well.

And I didn't think of us as poor when I was growing up. Other kids got things I didn't get, like fashionable clothes, and so forth, but that was because their dads worked in a factory and didn't need the kids to do work like a farmer did. And nobody ever told me I was poor.

And Then Indiana

When I was in my early 20s, I was moving about, and I ended up finding myself in Indianapolis. I had no more than arrived when he first state fair hit, and so I didn't have time to go, and when the second state fair hit, I had a couple of people quit, and I had to work a whole slew of hours to cover for them. and by the time the third one hit, I had already moved out of Indianapolis. And I still didn't know why I wanted to go to the state fair, but I really wanted to, and I felt disappointed.

And then, when I was older, much older, I moved to Columbus. Em, my first wife, was dead, and I was dating. The state fair runs about ten days, and I went about three times, with at least two dates. We went on rides, and I won prizes on the midway for my date, and we watched the clogging competition, and went past this guy who was hawking the Super Slicer. He was something to watch, a genuine performer, slicing this vegetable and that, and talking about how you could slice tomatoes so thin, one tomato would last a whole season.

We laughed and walked on, but I came back the next day mostly to buy a Super Slicer.

The Stuff Is Junque

And you know how it is when you buy something like this. Positive junk, right? Except that when I got it home and started to use it, it turned out to do a pretty good job. In fact, it did everything the guy said it would do, and maybe a bit more. I made a big pot of vegetable soup, and wished I had more veggies, because it was fun to slice veggies. I ended up using that Super Slicer 6 or 7 days a week for a couple of years, then ended up moving, and in the new location, using it 6 or 7 days a week for a couple of years, and I was thinking that I really wished I could buy another one, because this one was getting to be pretty worn out. It was made of pretty thin plastic, and as time went on, it showed signs of stress, and it wouldn't be long before it would break into a kazillion pieces.

But I couldn't find it online. And when I made my hejira to Pennsylvania a dozen years ago, it got left behind. I've been looking and looking and looking, and I have seen a dozen different slicing doodads, none of which were as desirable as my SuperSlicer.

Well, that is, except for the mandoline at the Restaurant Store. I've been looking at it for five years. The thing is, my original SuperSlicer was $25, and so the idea of paying $135 for a similar device seemed obscene. Except, you know, the original one was plastic, and the one at the Restaurant Store was stainless steel. Of course, in my fox-and-grapes manner, I decided that the mandoline at the restaurant store was too big to store (even though I'd rarely ever put away my plastic SuperSlicer; I'd rinse it, put it in the drainer, and used it the next time before I put away the rest of the stuff in the drainer.

Closer, My Dear, To Thee

And each year, I got closer and closer to buying a mandoline from the Restaurant Store. The heart wants what the heart wants, and there's no logic involved. A mandoline makes it possible to cut a lot of produce in no time flat, every slice precisely the same thickness, so pretty it hurts, and you don't cut yourself. And when slicing becomes so easy, one makes things that otherwise, he'd pass on.

About a month ago, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to make french onion soup. To do that, you need to cut up about 5 or 6 pounds of onions. I bought more onions than I would need, and tried to slice them, but the onions were so hard, it was hard to cut them to an even thickness.

Finally, yesterday, I reached the decision point. I found a mandoline online, and tried to order it. The page said that they accepted Paypal - but when I went through the checkout, it got to the "how do you want to pay for this?" page, it demanded a credit card number. I could have phoned in the order, I suppose, but Blondie was across the room, and I wasn't sure I wanted to tell her I was ordering the mandoline. I imagined that she was going to say, "Why don't we just go to such-and-so restaurant and have a bowl of onion soup?" That is, after all, a good question, except that I have this conceit that if I make it myself, I can produce a richer soup than what they will have. Most restaurants have onion soup that is awfully watery and insipid.

Blondie Has Cabin Fever

But it turns out this morning that Blondie wants to go shopping. I mention that I want to go to the Restaurant Store and get a mandoline. What's a mandoline? I explain to her about the state fair and the other state fair, and the Ohio state fair, and the SuperSlicer. She said, "You've talked about this before, haven't you?" I said I probably had. She nodded. I went in, and she helped me look, but I couldn't find the mandolines.

"I see where you got a lot of your stuff." I told her that the Restaurant Store has really good quality stuff, and most of it is cheaper than you'd pay in other stores. Pie tins, for instance, cost $5 or more any place you go, but they're $3 here. "Yeah," she said, "I can see. These are good prices."

She announced she was really hungry, and would wait in the car. Finally, I found the mandolines, way off to the left, and there was a mandoline model there that was a little smaller than the one I'd seen before, and it was $70 or $80. Did I really have the balls to spend that much money just to slice vegetables? I didn't. My mother raised a real cheapskate, after all. But if I closed my eyes, maybe I could make a rush for it, and my mother, looking down from heaven, would not notice. So I closed my eyes, and made a made rush for the, no, not for the door, for the cash register.

The folks in the Restaurant Store are so personable. They act like they want my business, which seems pretty rare among stores.

When I got it home, I sat at the dining table, took it out of the box, and examined how it worked. "So how much did it cost?" Blondie asked.

I mumbled.

Mumbling On

"About $175?"

I spoke up a little. "Not that much."

"About $135?" she asked.

"Less."

"How much less?"

I told her it was about $80. I was thinking that was $64, and that way when I checked the cash register tape, it would be good news, not bad.

Happy Birthday

Blondie asked me if I remembered what I got for my birthday. I couldn't remember. "You told me that you couldn't think of anything you wanted," Blondie said, "And do you remember what you got for Christmas, last Christmas?" I shook my head no. "Same thing then. You said you'd tell me when you figured out what you wanted. And you know the birthday before? You said the same thing then." She walked up to me, and started kneading the muscles in my neck. "Happy Merry BirthChrisDayMas, honey!"

Funny, how you grow up poor without realizing it, and end up rich without realizing it....

Other Bloggers On Related Topics:
Birthday - cheapskate - Christmas] - Columbus - french onion soup - Indiana State Fair - Indianapolis - kitchen gadgets - mandoline cutter - marital discord - Ohio State Fair - pitch men - poverty - Restaurant Store - SuperSlicer