I sealed my fate. And I have suffered the consequences.
I will give you a little background. I live in Canada. In a very tiny little community. It’s actually classified as a ‘village’. Less than a thousand people reside in its boundaries. As such, there is one store. It is small. At times, I am thankful for that - other times, like today, not so much.
I happened to be trolling the Recipe Exchange on Allrecipes today, and asked its residents for a little help with dinner. I ended up with a reply from Avon (among many other great suggestions) to make her mothers Brik recipe (which I have made and blogged about before).
The last few times I have made them, it has been without capers. No more! I swore to Avon I would buy them, and I set out to do just that.
I searched the grocery store top to bottom, but could not find capers. Bolstered by seeing a clerk helping a man find a list of seemingly obscure ingredients, I stepped up to a register.
‘Hey. I was looking around, but I can’t seem to find any capers. Do you know if you have any?’
The clerk looks a little confused, but friendly enough. ‘Ah, capers? What are those?’
I hesitate. Part of me argues that even if I tell her what they are, she wouldn’t know what they are. Another part insists, ‘Well, she ASKED’.
My feet shuffle. ‘They’re uhn… pickled berries of a Nasturtium flower.’
‘They’re WHAT?’
I admit I went a little into panic mode after this. My inner foodie had been exposed and, worse, questioned. This could only end badly.
‘They’re like… little pickled things…’
‘They’re for pickling?’ I can see her relax. There is a LARGE pickling section.
‘No! They’re uhm…’ My brain struggles to find the words. The words I need to convey to a clerk that has never heard of caper bushes, Nasturtium flowers, or pickled berries what exactly I want. Nay, NEED!
And then, it comes to me. What’s left of my dignity whispers, ‘No.. no, don’t do it…’
The foodie in me shouts, ‘WE MUST HAVE THEM!’
I squirm uncomfortably. I am holding up the line. At least 3 of the less-than-a-thousand people in the town are looking at me. I blurt…
‘They look like little pickled green bunny-turds!’
I think I see the clerk recoil. I hear a pained scream as what remains of my dignity dies.
There is quiet. I don’t even hear the normally steady ‘beep boop’ of items being scanned. Time. Has. Stopped. Iwantmymommy.
Finally, the clerk, making one last ditch effort to help the crazy lady at her register, asks, ‘Are they in a little bottle?’
A glimmer of hope! ‘Y-yes! A little bottle, about this big…’ I have resorted to sign language. I am trying to sculpt the exact dimensions of the elusive caper bottle in the air beside the debit machine.
‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about…’
‘… oh. Okay. Well. Uhn. Thank you.’ I look around furtively. Other patrons politely pretend not to have heard the whole, horrifying exchange. ‘For your help! Thanks!’ I edge toward the door, clutching my purse like a shield.
If I were filthy rich, I might be considered eccentric. As it stands, I’m just the local weirdo that eats bunny-turds.
'Nobody puts Bunny in the corner.'
I'm sorry. I watched Dirty Dancing about 232346 times in high school.
