So my employment situation is a complicated one.  Before I moved down to Baltimore, I worked in healthcare in front of a computer eight hours a day.  I did this for four years.  I really liked my work, especially the research aspect of it, but somehow I don’t think it quite fit my personality. 

I get antsy.  My brain burbles on a lot of ideas, constantly going.  I am coming to the point where I need to tailor what I want to do with my life to WHO I AM.  This is a scary process.  Some people know what they want to do right off the bat, graduate from college, and go do it.  Me?  I am a late bloomer.  I am figuring out what I want by weeding out what I don’t want.  I have always been the go-with-the-flow yes gal, acquiescing with whatever life brings me.  Not always the best idea.  This is my time of definition and clarity.  I am thirty, and the clock is ticking.

In the meantime, I have taken a temporary job to pay the bills.  At Williams-Sonoma.  You know, that ubiquitous upscale cookware & gourmet store in almost every mall.  It is mind-blowing for someone who likes to eat and write about food.  It is a foodie Disneyland.  I can’t afford most of it, even with my 40% discount.   

There are things I sell that I have NEVER encountered before.  There is really a gadget or device for EVERYTHING you can think of.

Why don’t I use pancakes as an example.  There is an item called a pancake pen.  Huh?!?!?  You mean I don’t need to scoop batter out of the bowl and glop it on the skillet?  No, wait, I need it for my pancake MOLD.  These ensure perfect pancakes in any shape you desire.  I had a lot of grandparents buying these.  If I was your grandchild, and you made me pancakes in the shape of animal heads, I would love you forever.  And don’t forget, you can always eat a FILLED pancake, i.e. ebelskivers.  You can buy the cookbook, the pancake pan, the pancake mix, and the turning tools.  TURNING TOOLS?!?!?!?   I think I grew up in a cave.  Or not-suburbia.  To make pancakes in itself is a treat, never mind all the accoutrements.

My boyfriend thinks so much of what people slap down plastic for is folly.  I tend to agree with him.  I bought the pecan-pumpkin butter the day before Thanksgiving.  He asked if there was any butter in it. 

Scanning the list of ingredients, there was NONE.  No butter at all.  I then told him about truffle butter, and explained what truffles were.  Yes, indeed, there WAS butter in it.  Why there wasn’t any in the former item is a mystery to me.  Maybe they are all called butters because of the texture and consistency, the spreadability. 

So yeah, working there is a little like the Twilight Zone.  Shiny, pleasant, and a bit Gatsby-esque.  Nothing goes wrong if you have a thirty-two-dollar potato ricer.