Cream of Tartar

In the words of P G Wodehouse, Christmas almost has us by the throat, so yesterday I decided that there was nothing else for it but to sally forth and buy what we needed for Christmas dinner. Actually, it was for Christmas Eve dinner because we're spending Christmas day driving all over the Pacific Northwest, or a fair fraction of it, visiting friends and relatives. I know that sounds a bit odd, but this is because, despite their reputation for being big eaters, Americans are positively dainty around the holidays. Even their Thanksgiving meals would be scarcely a entrée at an English Christmas. And I've never seen a crate of milk stout rolled out in America after the cheese course–maybe because they don't have one. Not for them gorging on rafts of appetisers, three meat courses, meat pies, smoked salmon, mince pies, savoury courses, desserts, nuts, and then washing the entire lot with an eclectic mix of wine, beer and spirits like Mr Creosote on a binge. Leave it at the turkey and stuffing and call it good, says your average American. The means that they are something the British are not on Christmas day: Mobile.

The upshot of all this is that Christmas dinner at Chez Szondy is put forward to the night before so we can drive up and down the Puget Sound area to watch friends and relatives not eating and drinking. It also means that a) I have to cut down on my traditional caloric and alcoholic intake at our family dinner because b) I am not going to be allowed to sleep through Boxing Day like a civilised human being and c) I have to take my seven-year old daughter to the supermarket on Sunday to pick up the viands.

Normally, I rather enjoy doing the grocery shopping. It allows me to indulge in one of my favourite activities of not spending money. Do we need butter this week? No, I bought a pallet load at the wholesale place last month. Name brand macaroni and cheese or the store brand that's a fourth of the price? The store brand's a little chewy, but you can still swallow it, so let's get that. 2006 Mouton Rothschild at $999.99 a bottle or half a dozen of the "two-buck chuck"? Don't even ask; just pass the corkscrew. This is not a normal Sunday, however. It's five days before Christmas and not only are the crowds insane, but the Salvation Army bell ringer has gone over to the Dark Side and is rolling on the floor in an eye-gouging match with a Buddhist monk over the last Zhu Zhu Pets Hamster. Since I'm staying in the food section, except for a detour to pick up some sporks out of the camping department (long story), I figure I'm relatively safe aside from the day-release patients who think the shopping trolleys are bumper cars.

For the most part, we're doing okay. We get the ham, the bread, the stuffing, and the rest without much incident. Even my daughter is relatively quiet because a few more synapses have linked up in her young brain and she's discovered that reading isn't that hard after all, so she's sitting in the child seat quietly reading a book about vampire squids. We're home free, I think. That is, until I got to the bottom of the list where lurked the Cream of Tartar that my wife wanted.

Now I'm not entirely sure what Cream of Tartar is, except that it's a fancy name for potassium bitartrate, and I have no idea as to what it's used for, but I do know that it's in the spice section and that's easy enough to find. It's where over a dozen people are milling around, hunting up and down the shelves like there's been a massive coincidence and everyone has simultaneously lost their ferrets there. I manage to squeeze myself, daughter and trolley into the throng and join them as I look for the Cream of Tartar. Pretty soon, I'm completely lost. Cream of Tartar is nowhere to be found despite there being 582,612 varieties of salt. Then I overhear the other shoppers talking to each other. I discover two things. First, there is no Cream of Tartar on the shelves and second, that every one there was also looking for the same, albeit absent, C of T.

Soon, a young shop assistant appears and in calm tones suggesting someone who is trying to take a caribou away from a hungry polar bear announces that there is no Cream of Tartar left. The crowd begins to turn ugly in that way that Eisenstein tried so hard to capture on film and the beleaguered young shop assistant keeps one eye on the nearest exit while his right hand gropes among the fish boil packets for a suitable weapon to defend himself with. Any second now., I think, something is going to set them off and there'll be a pram rolling down the steps in no time.

But before the the scalpel of Fate can reach the frisky puppy of Destiny, I jump on top of a crate of marshmallow fluff and with hands in the air shout, "Listen to me! Listen to me! You can use white vinegar! In equal proportions!"

A hush falls over the nascent mob. Then a murmuring starts as some shoppers start asking where the white vinegar is while others remain committed Cream of Tartar purists. A small, sharp-faced woman starts extolling the merits of white vinegar on teleological grounds. A large man with heavy red jowls bellows that Cream of Tartar was good enough for his father and it's good enough for him. A man in a jacket a size too large for him starts to ask if salad dressing will do, but is glared into silence. Soon the crowd starts arguing. A schism forms with the battle lines drawn between the Tartarists and the Vinegarites. Before you could say "two for one sale" a tin of Allspice strikes a man who looks remarkably like Keir Hardie clean in the face and a full-blown religious war erupts in Aisle 5. It was at this point that my daughter and I make our escape through Soft Toys.

By last reports, the violence has since spread to Produce, the Deli section has declared itself a free republic, Notions is ablaze, and the store manager has lashed himself and a Japanese friend to the lobster tank. State officials trying to restore order have not ruled out air strikes at this time.

As for the Szondy family, I think we'll do a Chinese takeaway this year.