My husband has a thing for condiments. Does anyone else have this problem? Whenever I send him to the store he’s like a menopausal woman let loose in a chocolate factory. Despite giving him strict orders to stick to the list, he’ll come home with all kinds of weird and impractical goodies that you only get in those giant corporate gift baskets at Christmas. Just the other day we went to Sheridan Nurseries to pick out a couple of shrubs for our back yard and when we got home he magically pulled out a bottle of grainy mustard and a hot barbecue sauce from his pockets that he’d purchased when I wasn’t looking . . . at the plant nursery. Who even knew they sold edibles there.
Our pantry is overflowing with every imaginable kind of sauce. I think it’s the names that get him—Bone Suckin’ Sauce and Thick’n Stick. Our fridge shelves are bulging with barely sampled bottles of terriyaki sauce, marinades, salad dressings, salsa, relishes and jellies. If there’s ever a nuclear attack or another ice storm like we had in 1998 we can feed all of the Greater Toronto Area on our inventory of assorted hot pepper jellies, corn relishes, dipping sauces, marinades, grainy Dijon mustards, exotic oils and bottled salad dressings. Every once in a while I pack up all the unopened weird concoctions and hustle them off to the food bank, squealing my tires as I rip out of the parking lot before they discover what I’ve donated.
And, he’s oblivious to my pleas to not bring home treats when I’m trying to watch my weight. Before I can say “no ice-cream,” giant bags of ripple chips and Black Jack Cherry frozen yogurt have landed on the kitchen counter alongside a package of gooey raspberry Danishes. But there’s hope. Last night as he was fishing for something in the fridge, he admitted that despite the bounty of “gourmet” condiments we possess, nothing beats home-made. I foresee an imminent trip to the food bank. Jeanne Robertson understands my problem. She sent her hubby to the store for the ingredients for a pound cake and . . . well, she created a brilliant story around it which could discount my “stick to the list” approach. Check out the YouTube link below.
One solution is to use the tactic my mother employed when she used to send me to the store when I was a kid for a brick of Neapolitan ice cream. Remember “bricks” of ice-cream? They were the size of a pound of butter and sliced into four perfect dessert portions for our family. She would give me the exact change so there’s be no negotiating— twenty-five cents for the ice-cream and, if I’d been particularly good, two cents for a Dubble Bubble. I think I’m going to have to try that with my condiment junkie—one twenty-dollar bill for what’s on the list and two cents for a strawberry licorice swizzler to satisfy his natural guy urgings. I can only hope.
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