Getting closer in several planes.

With my list readied and my plans complete, my phone rings. It is a police officer, though not the one in question. He indicates that he will discuss this matter and apologized for the lateness of the attention to this matter in the other officer’s stead after I explain why I am working on this at this point. I explain what I saw and where I saw it. I add the details, including the children’s proximity. And I explain that I looked for my phone to call instead of going out as that would not have been pleasant and it might well have endangered the children further. He listens, interjecting here and there, asking this and that, until the story is told and seemingly understood. At that point, I ask what his recommendations for future situations such as this might be. He suggests I call the police, again. I suggest taking pictures, at which he almost says “NO!”. I can feel it. I indicate I can photograph the animals from inside my house, if necessary. He still wants to say “no” but does not. He has no further comment or suggestions. I ask if there is any kind of neighborhood watch in place in this area or the city in general. He says he would not know. Then he just says no, not one of which he is aware. He suggests, at this point, that I speak with my neighbors and get them to call the police if they see anything untoward occurring. Somewhere in there, I ask if the neighborhood is lost, if the thing has been pretty much given up as de facto by the powers that be. He does not know, does not think so, does not understand the question I believe. It happens, he says, randomly and here and there. Yes, I do understand, No, I will not go with that plan.

Now I need to see if my neighbors are interested in keeping drug deals from happening 10 yards from their children (who are not allowed to watch any movies or shows their parents do not approve (most) or stay up past 20:00). Children that are trained in church, every Sunday, and on other occasions. Good sons who enjoy Cub Scouts and a father as a Cub Scout leader (and good one on both counts). I worry. I know he has a thousand things on his plate, limited resources, fears of his own, and a gentle heart. His wife is strong, though she is a woman. Put simply, women may very well concede rather than quarrel, or go overboard the other direction. I just cannot ever tell which, or more, when which. The other neighbors in the neighborhood also must be spoken with. This is the part which I will not enjoy, in British understating terms. Pulling a tooth with an exchange of knowledge in the most diplomatic means possible, only to find I am dealing with a corpse. Apathy is astounding in so many, and means surrender. Does the potential for one more moments breath mean so much that one would inhale that breath in shallow quiet gasps, fearing that too much noise might also end that breath?

So, after planning, talking, then pondering, I finish my post and head out. I arrive at the parking lot, park, and rush right in to find my favorite store… gone? I visit the place at least quarterly, and it is a part of the mall, a mall which does have twists, turns, and nooks in which to hide such shops, but gone? Ah, my memory must be lagging, it is at the next intersection I assure myself and squeal my boots in that direction. Not here, not back there, where? Gone? I spy a directory, with listings and a map. I peruse the data and find my difficulty. The store, it indicates, is still open, back where I first looked, but in a ‘V’ cutback off the entrance hall with which I gained entrance to the complex. But is this old data? Doubts linger in my mind, as is their want. With a little faith, hope, and lacking a better plan, I venture forth at boot speed and find the place, and it is open.

I enter the store, send salutations the way of the ladies tending the shop, and head to my first and primary items, bread pans. I look over their offerings, checking weight, my other sensual intakes perked and brought to bear, and my intuition likewise on high alert and brought to the fore for the task. This ends up being quite simple for one with my skills, since there is only one type available. Does that make me genius yet? *hush* I grab four and begin pondering the rest of my list in my mind, but from the distraction regarding location, I pull a blank. I reach for the list and immediately know where it is and is not, as usual, it is exactly where I put it so that I would remember it. Genius indeed. Still, I walk the store, hunting, pecking, looking at other wants and perhaps future needs as I attempt to restore the memory. In the end, I do well enough I do believe. The bread pans, a baguette pan (a part of my last failed effort, aside from the yeast, was trying to produce these on a cookie sheet, I now understand), a salt pig, two large cooling racks as after comparing the largest part of the bread pan’s footprint to the rack two seemed to be in order, two packages of cheese clothe, a tea strainer to actually be used to infuse mint and small enough to fit through the small glass bottle opening, a set of metal measuring spoons as I have more than become frustrated with plastic anythings and heart-shaped to indicate wherefrom my preparations truly arrive, and of course a bit of conversation with the pleasant young ladies tending the register, one of which I recognize from every visit I have paid to the place, pleasantly enough.

Yet I know there are other parts to my list, and I try to recall these as I head to my vehicle, climb in, start up, and begin rolling to the next store on my list. White wine vinegar is called for in the cheese recipe, and there is but one store I am sure would carry such an item. To the New Pioneer Coop I go. I had thought of stopping and picking up milk on the way, but the milk I pick up will be new product so back-shelved at home, therefore must be as cool as possible as it will be a week before I get to it perhaps, therefore the Coop first. Racking my brain, I consider what I need other than white wine vinegar. I pick this up and realize I had hoped for a honey pot and honey comb server. I retrieve the vinegar and begin nosing my way through here and there, in the hopes of finding or remembering something. I think of potential fresh herbs for the cheese, and look, but it all seems organic, so I move on. I have been looking at the beers the last few times I was in that store. I did not care for the chocolate or Guinness stouts and they have no more English stout with which I have found enamor, but I see my old favored though bottled in a more European pint style pilsner. I grab one for me and one for the road, pay for the goods, and on to the last store. In this store I purchase non-organic basil and a gallon of my milk.

After arriving home, I realizing every single baking and cooking item needs to be washed. I settle the food items to proper storage places, leaving one of the beers on the counter, and run water until it is too hot for even my skin. I then remove all tags from the cooking and baking wares, plug the sink, add some soap, and let them soak. I then manage to open the beer and begin this blog entry. It is just about time to go tend the dishes and find out where I need to begin after that is settled. Drats, I just saw from the list that I did forget one item, canola oil. Hmmm, I do have peanut oil and olive oil, and a half dozen other oils from safflower to grape seed, my usual being the first two mentioned. K does indicate any of these should work, so I may just have to use one of these. The peanut oil is much less expensive, yet the allergies to it may be devastating. Still, this is a trial run, the neighbor and his family who might receive a loaf or two are not allergic to peanuts, and the product should provide a perfect sample run. Yes, peanut oil it is. But, it is a little disheartening to not have done it right, as planned, precise. And, if I am to do this, I have no time to mess with going to the store. Idealism, 0, reality, 1; I am ok with that.

So, to the kitchen I go.