I don't think it's very nice of a company, a well-known, nationally recognized, brand name company at that, to sell me a product that is so damned outstanding that I loved it from the time I opened the box, to suddenly say, "Well, we're sorry, but we don't feel that enough of you folks out there are making it worthwhile for us to continue making this product, so we've decided, without asking you, to stop making it and tough".
Some time ago, I was in the grocery store, in no particular hurry, and looking at all the new products that I'd never seen before. There was a big display of gizmos that promised to suck the air out of your freezer bags so that you wouldn't get freezer burn and your frozen stuff would last longer. Of course, the gizmo only worked on the special suckable bags that were being made by the same well-known, nationally recognized, brand name company.
Since I live alone, and am notoriously frugal, (some call it cheap), I try to take advantage of big meat sales, and then I bag up individual portions and freeze. But food stored in regular plastic bags have a limited life in the freezer. Tends to get all dried-out looking and nasty, so you kind of have to eat it relatively quickly.
So back to the gizmo. It looked pretty promising and to add to the attraction, at a cost of $8.00, it fit into my frugality program. Better yet, there was a refund coupon included and it promised to get me a check for $5.00. In addition, the package included four of the bags that were necessary for the operation of the gizmo. I bought it. I sent in the required POP (proof of purchase) and my register receipt, and got my refund.
I had just purchased, at a really great price, a large package of chicken thighs, so I divided the package into four bags of two thighs each and sucked the air out. Ye Gods! This was beautiful.
Nice tight little parcels of chicken, neatly stored in the freezer.
Next time in the store, I purchased another package of the required suckable bags. And the freezer was neat and tidy with all my thrifty cuts of meat, safe and sound.
Each time I wanted to reclaim a package, I found the contents exactly the same color as the day I put it away. There were no ice crystals on the meat. It thawed and cooked so nicely. The only drawback to my miserly way of life was that the bags were not to be reused, according to a warning on the box. But that was okay because I was saving a bundle on the meat that didn't get all nasty while awaiting my ministrations.
But my freezer delight ended when the lights went out on the bag supply. Searching in vain in every store, even the hardware store, made me despair at ever finding the bags again.
So I wrote to the company, only to find that they discontinued the bags. How dare they?! I mean really, how dare they?!
Well, you can bet that I will no longer be purchasing any product that has the name "Reynolds" attached to it. Yes, the esteemed Reynolds company, that supplier of foil, narrow and wide, regular and heavy duty, even single sheets and non-stick foil, pulled the plug on one of the best inventions of the 21st. century. Because not enough people were buying them. Maybe because they failed to invest any of their excessive profits into an ad campaign to introduce them to the vast market of seniors and singles who would have stormed the ramparts to get the bags if only you had demo'd them on TV and in the stores.
Other companies make foil products and plastic wrap and plastic bags, Reynolds, you scoundrel. In future, I shall partake of their products and let yours decline on the shelf, and may all your frozen meat be infested with freezer burn.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Someday We'll Look Back and Laugh
In years gone by, before MacDonald's and Wendy's and Burger King, every dime store and drug store had a lunch counter, commonly called a soda fountain. It was quite busy at lunch time with workers on a midday break or shoppers resting up between errands. They could get a sandwich - egg salad was my favorite - and a beverage. And a seat. And most times, you could bump into someone you knew and chat for a few minutes. There was an afternoon lull, and the busy time came again when the movie let out. Couples stopping in for a soda to continue the date a little longer. Singles having a dish of cream, hoping to extend human contact just a little more.
The soda fountain. Home to a sandwich or ice cream or even an "ammonia coke" if you were a bit weak from all your exertion. There was also pie. And coffee or tea. The taps, three of them, that dispensed Coca Cola, root beer and seltzer. The lower steel pumps that held the syrups - cherry, lemon, chocolate - at your fingertips with just a push. And the covered containers that held crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, gooey marshmallow, nuts in syrup, cherries - all dispensed by the ladle in each. The bowl holding golden ripe bananas for splits. The tall stainless cup that held the syrup, seltzer and ice cream before it was slid onto the mixer to blend until the thick concoction was poured into a tall glass to be savored while giving your feet a rest.
And the soda jerk. No, really, that's what he was called. He wore a hygeinic lab coat and a white paper campaign cap. He expertly constructed a sandwich, whirled to remove the milk shake cylinder from the mixer and pour the drink into the tall fancy glass, delivering sandwich and shake simultaneously and planting the straw dead center into the shake with a flourish. Watch him split a banana expertly, lay it into the fancy oblong dish, layer it with three perfect scoops of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream. Top each in turn with crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, chocolate syrup. A sprinkle of crushed peanuts over all and a generous mound of whipped cream. And then. And then. Three ruby-red maraschino cherries. A work of art! And he so young! Except I didn't care for those dry shards of peanut on my ice cream.
I was pregnant, very, with my first child. It was Summer and in D.C. that meant h.o.t. Hot as only D.C. can be in August. I had no a/c and the fan in my apartment couldn't even move the humid air, let alone cool it. I lumbered down to the drug store, on a mission to have a CMP and a tall glass of iced water. If you don't know, a CMP is a Chocolate Marshmallow Peanut sundae. I hoisted my preggo self onto a stool and rested my bare arms on the cool, marble counter. I watched as the soda jerk prepared a couple of dishes of ice cream for the Dad and his two little girls who were seeking respite from the heat, just as I was. At last, the young man stood before me and as he wiped the counter with a damp cloth, asked what I would like. I smiled sweetly and said, "I'd like a CMP, please, and do you have wet nuts?" His face turned red and he stared, unbelieving, at me. My face turned red and I fled the store. To this day, I have never had another CMP.
The soda fountain. Home to a sandwich or ice cream or even an "ammonia coke" if you were a bit weak from all your exertion. There was also pie. And coffee or tea. The taps, three of them, that dispensed Coca Cola, root beer and seltzer. The lower steel pumps that held the syrups - cherry, lemon, chocolate - at your fingertips with just a push. And the covered containers that held crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, gooey marshmallow, nuts in syrup, cherries - all dispensed by the ladle in each. The bowl holding golden ripe bananas for splits. The tall stainless cup that held the syrup, seltzer and ice cream before it was slid onto the mixer to blend until the thick concoction was poured into a tall glass to be savored while giving your feet a rest.
And the soda jerk. No, really, that's what he was called. He wore a hygeinic lab coat and a white paper campaign cap. He expertly constructed a sandwich, whirled to remove the milk shake cylinder from the mixer and pour the drink into the tall fancy glass, delivering sandwich and shake simultaneously and planting the straw dead center into the shake with a flourish. Watch him split a banana expertly, lay it into the fancy oblong dish, layer it with three perfect scoops of chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream. Top each in turn with crushed strawberries, crushed pineapple, chocolate syrup. A sprinkle of crushed peanuts over all and a generous mound of whipped cream. And then. And then. Three ruby-red maraschino cherries. A work of art! And he so young! Except I didn't care for those dry shards of peanut on my ice cream.
I was pregnant, very, with my first child. It was Summer and in D.C. that meant h.o.t. Hot as only D.C. can be in August. I had no a/c and the fan in my apartment couldn't even move the humid air, let alone cool it. I lumbered down to the drug store, on a mission to have a CMP and a tall glass of iced water. If you don't know, a CMP is a Chocolate Marshmallow Peanut sundae. I hoisted my preggo self onto a stool and rested my bare arms on the cool, marble counter. I watched as the soda jerk prepared a couple of dishes of ice cream for the Dad and his two little girls who were seeking respite from the heat, just as I was. At last, the young man stood before me and as he wiped the counter with a damp cloth, asked what I would like. I smiled sweetly and said, "I'd like a CMP, please, and do you have wet nuts?" His face turned red and he stared, unbelieving, at me. My face turned red and I fled the store. To this day, I have never had another CMP.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
