Food and New Year’s Eve seems to go together. They’re tradition. And traditions must be observed.
Especially the one of me track down a can of black eyed peas on December 30th. I think this marks the sixth year I forgot until the last minute.
Fortunately, I now live six blocks from Fred Meyers on Hawthorne (that’s what they call Krogers here in the PNW). So I ran in there at 8am on Saturday morning.
I am very short. I’m 5’4″ and various sporting injuries mean that 1) I can’t wear heels to change that number, and 2) I can’t extend my arms completely over my head without severe pain.
Why is this important? Because the BEP were on the top shelf. And from my vantage point, there were none left.
I jumped up and down a few times and discovered, yes, there were two cans in the very back. Then I started looking around for either a) a stepstool, or b) an employee.
A fellow shopper came to my rescue, and the very nice woman climbed the shelves (and made me go OMGDON’TFALL!) and got me a can.
I sauteed some onion and garlic, boiled up the peas, and added some jalapeno peppers. And ate one spoonful. Because I HATEHATEHATE the taste of blackeyed peas.
Good thing that Housemate Basement1 had a bunch of friends over.