Thursday, 24 April 2014 08:02

Sticky situation with peanut butter machine

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Besides steel-cut oats to make second and third batches of Overnight Apple Cinnamon Oatmeal, the only other item on my grocery list today is freshly-ground honey-roasted peanut butter.

So when we pull into a parking space in front of the bulk food store at 5:55 p.m. on Sunday, I know exactly what I want, and where I need to go.
Once inside, I make a beeline to the back right corner, where a set of three nut grinders are set up: Peanut, Almond, and Honey-Roasted. I place a clear plastic container under the desired spigot, press START, and instead of the pleasing sound of peanuts being ground to crunchy paste, there's nothing. Just the sound of fluorescent light bulbs buzzing overhead.
With something close to desperation (for this is a peanut butter that lately restored my liking for peanut butter, after Kraft made me swear off the stuff forevermore), I look down each of the nearest two aisles for someone, anyone, dressed in store colours.
When no one appears, I press the START button again, then begin to look over the machine itself. If I have to, I'll get out the aquamarine coloured multi-tool I keep in my purse and have a go at the motor myself!
First, however, I remind the machine, and any peanut gremlins lurking inside, that this is a bad time to meddle with me.
It's been a rough bundle of months, and today I'd be just as pleased to grind up anything that gets between me and my comfort food, and spread that on my morning toast.
The threat is unnecessary, however.
For when I lean around the back of the machine to see what there might be to see, I discover that the cord's been removed from the power socket.
It may not seem like much of a eureka moment, but I assure you, it is.
And with no less than a little squeak of glee, I slide the prongs into the wall, come back round the front, press START, and watch as honeyed nut butter starts to slowly stream from the mouth of the machine.
This is also when a girl wearing an unnaturally yellow vest suddenly appears.
To help, I think at first, though I'm ready to tell her that she's too late and I've sorted out the trouble myself.
Not to mention, if they mean to sell more peanut butter, they shouldn't make it so difficult for customers to get at the peanuts.
Now, however, is when it becomes relevant that we parked the car at 5:55pm on a Sunday.
"You have to ask before plugging those back in!" says the girl, her voice screechy with reprimand.
 "There was no one to ask," I say, pressing the button for more peanut butter. My plastic container is not, after all, yet full.
"But I already cleaned those machines!"
 "Mm," I say, full of not caring. It may be that I came into the store at 5:55pm. And it's true that, had I stopped to read the stickers on the front door before entering, I'd have realized that the store closes at 6 o'clock on Sundays.
When I turn to pluck a lid off the pile and, then, without haste, begin to close it over the now full container, the girl huffs back down the aisle. No doubt to fetch her peanut butter brush and other grinder cleaning supplies, after posting a picture of me at the front counter.
It makes not a bit of difference, however.
Given the same time on another Sunday, I'd be the same peanut butter rebel that I am today. In fact, as my purchases are added up and I'm shown the way to the door, I come to think that it'll just make my Honey-Roasted Peanut Butter Cookies taste all the more sweet.

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