Big Town

Let me preface-I do not like town. I do not desire trips to town. I do not dream of town and all the glories that live there  re:Target, Sonic, Thrift Stores (well maybe I dream about the thrift stores a tiny bit). I prefer to stay tucked in safe and cozy right here at home. I prefer to stay home in my comfy yoga pants-ignoring the rising costs of, well...everything.

After suffering far too long with an empty pantry, I girded my loins and made my way to Big Town for some much needed supplies. (One can only make the same pasta dish so many weeks in a row before the natives start to protest.)  I loaded-up all four of my (smallish, touchy-grabby, grouchy, hyper) personal assistants and off we went.

Here, I must pause for dramatics.

My children-while they are still children-are incredibly well behaved. I on the other hand am the one who suffers ill behavior. I am a hermit and slight agoraphobe; a person who would rather stay safely tucked in at home. Shopping makes me grouchy. Spending money makes me grouchy. Reading labels and making decisions makes my eyes want to pop out of my head. Being in Big Town makes me want to shoot things and say naughty words. Big town is 40 miles-at the outskirts-from my house, my Suburban gets 10 miles to the gallon. Petrol was $4.29 at the last fill. This coupled with my hermit longings for my comfy pants and humble home...makes me grouchy. Needless to say, when I went to town I was grouchy.

Having bribed my four assistants with a scoop of their favourite ice cream, we set out to fill our basket. I asked the Man-Child to steer the ship freeing the other three and I to search out the needed items on our list. We made it through the store with only one Potty Stop and one small run-in with a very impatient elderly woman who didn't care a snit if I wanted to read the labels on ALL of the bottles of Fish Sauce, she wanted me and my brood to remove ourselves from her path. Harumph!

After a quick chat with an old friend and much begging-pleading-whining from the children we proceeded to the checkout and most importantly, to the ice cream. . Whether by the impatient woman or my own grump, I must have been distracted. I forgot to check The List before leaving the store. I always check The List...this small act is key to my success and sanity in Big Town, re: Petrol $4.29 per gal., thirsty Suburban, agoraphob-ish, grouchiness, lack of comfy pants. I forgot the Mayo.... For the love of Pete! Mayonnaise.

Grr. On the menu for today's lunch: Tuna Sandwiches.

So, I asked myself, what would any Farmgirl  worth her salt do...."What would Julia do?"  Of course, Julia would make fresh Mayonnaise; none of that paltry commercially prepared concoction would do.

With Julia Child's signature vocals echoing in my head I set to making, for the first time ever, homemade Mayonnaise. I strapped on my well worn apron and set to work.  I had this preconceived notion that making Mayo was something so difficult that only Professional Chefs or Parisians dare attempt it. I was deceived. With the aide of my trusty little Cuisinart Food Processor I whipped farm fresh egg yolks into frothy submission.  It was fresh. It was lemony.

It was heaven.

Whoda'thunk that one forgotten pantry item would be life changing?! Now that I don't have to rush off to Big Town for Mayo I shall never again have to haul my assistants and my agoraphobic self about in the petrol loving Sub!  I shall never again suffer evil looks from grouchy elderly ladies!

I shall forever live in my yoga pants!

( I will need my yoga pants after eating all that glorious, lemony homemade mayo!)

I shall forever stay tucked in safe and cozy here at the farm.   That is, until I need chicken feed.