Never Thoughts; or, What's Cooking? Not a damn thing.

And now, the latest edition of "never thoughts."

Never thought I would be excited about bread, sour cream, butter, or yogurt being on the shelf of a grocery store. 

Never thought I'd follow a web page to see when people post things like, "Block cheese at the commissary! Really! Get it before they sell out!" 

Never thought I'd have a closet full of running shoes and flip-flops. Didn't think I'd be all excited about a sale on shoes---especially running shoes. Or running shorts. Or lightweight, absorbent socks. Or that I'd be able to run a 10K and not absolutely die. 

Never thought I'd have to scream for my kids to come in at nightfall.

Never thought it would be damn near impossible to visit the United States. Saturday's rotator flight? It has 1 available seat. Again. Ugh. 

Never thought we would have to give a graduation card in Spanish because there are absolutely no other ones available. (The kid did think it was humorous, even if he didn't understand a word of it). 

As much as I love winter clothes (scarves! hats! mittens! cashmere!), I don't miss winter. Or fall. Or spring. It's pretty much summer here, all year long. 

I can bitch and complain and moan and groan over what I do miss, but that list has somehow, miraculously, gotten shorter. 

It has all come down to this: food. 

I miss food. As in, good quality produce and meat. I miss farmer's markets. I miss locally grown food. I miss the comfort food of my childhood. I see many of the people I love in relation to food. Grammaw = purple hulled butter beans. Granny = lemon pound cake (Aunt Irene's recipe!)  

Paw = jars of fresh green beans.  Mom = shrimp étoufée or gumbo. Dad = homemade peach ice cream or orange sherbet.

I spoke about this at a wedding once, about how food can seal a deal. I really think the turning point in a relationship with a colleague was when she took me to a restaurant called The Southern Kitchen in Tacoma, Washington. I was so homesick at the time---living in grey, depressing Washington, feeling isolated from my family, having a hard time making friends, and with a small baby---that one small gesture of kindness made me realize I could hang with that chick the rest of my life. I almost cried in my grits, biscuits with white gravy, and sweet tea. It was that good and the trip there meant that much to me.

Waffles in Cuba? No, silly. It's Brussels. 

(That same friend and I, fourteen years later, spent a few weeks last summer eating and drinking our way across Europe. I'm happy to say that we don't have to have food for our friendship to flourish, but it does make for some great memories along the way).  

My group of friends in Texas and I would meet once a month or so and discuss what we were reading---all over a nice, home-cooked meal, potluck style.  

Food is what brings people together. I love going to our friends/neighbors' house here for a meal (and usually a card game). I've learned to keep a bottle of wine in the fridge for last minute invitations. 

Not Cuba---Beefsteaks in Germany

And if you've been to my house for a meal  consider yourself a rare species. Why? I have horrible anxiety about cooking for people or for planning any type of event. I am not a foodie. I'm the antithesis of a foodie. Food is, well, something you need to live. It's not special. I don't understand my friends who pay big bucks for organic heirloom tomatoes (and then want to talk to me about it---bo-ring). I don't even really like tomatoes. I can read and follow instructions to make most recipes, and I know some tricks and shortcuts. I can proficiently work a pressure cooker, a food processor, and I love my fancy stand-up mixer. But cooking is just for eating, and that's not terribly exciting, either.

I just don't get obsessing over perfect meals---maybe because I've spent over 1/3 of my life at the table with children. And children, as we all know, are messy and sometimes disgusting in their eating habits and tend to prefer hotdogs over most anything else. Once you've had a child barf the meal it took you 2 hours to prepare all over the dinner table, well, you kind of lose interest in dazzling and just go for the quick-and-easy.

So we have ascertained that I don't especially enjoy cooking, but I do enjoy the company of my friends. 

And I have never been crazy about shopping, but now, I loathe it. 

The fact I'm having to spend so much of my time thinking about shopping lists and planning for the unexpected and having to improvise on the fly is killing me. 

I'm not putting all the blame on the commissary---after all, all groceries have to be barged or flown in. I guess many fresh ingredients can't make that voyage. And we are a small base (only store = commissary/NEX combo), so I shouldn't be surprised that we don't have the room or demand for several things I used to buy in my trusty old HEB in Texas. 

But I still have frustrating days. 

Today is a prime example. Went to the commissary to get ingredients for something I'm making for tomorrow night. I knew we don't have liquid shrimp boil here (we aren't in the South, after all), but with our more-than-ample liquor section, I figured we would have clam juice. Surely people are making Bloody Marys, right? But no shrimp boil, no clam juice. Plan C: make a seafood stock using chicken stock that comes in that funky little paper container. Nope, they don't have that either. 

And I'm out of ideas for Plan D. Actually, we'll just use that crappy stuff full of salt that comes in a soup can. They don't even have a low sodium version. 

See? I'm pissed and bitter. This would be how that alcohol mysteriously always ends up in the buggy. And how I end up taking 2 Excedrin Migraines every single time I come back from grocery shopping.

Also, I wanted to make brats tonight. Got the brats, got sauerkraut, but no buns. They are out of buns. 

*sigh*

It's like this EVERY SINGLE TIME I come to the grocery store. The blame is on me, not the commissary. I'm just not patient or creative enough to wheel around the store 30 times finding improvised ingredients for Plan B, Plan C, Plan D, and Plan E. I've never lived anywhere where I had to do this for almost every meal. I see why people give up and buy junkfood for their families. I refuse to do that (most days, anyway)---but it is SO tempting. 

Bacon pancakes and Heineken for breakfast. Not Cuba; Amsterdam.

And don't get me started on restaurants. I dream of bowls of Vietnamese Pho, platters of Tex-Mex migas, or plates of German Jagerschnitzel (all which we had locally in our town in Texas).

Even though some people think living on an island near the beach MUST be like being on vacation all the time, life here isn't necessarily easy. It's all about adapting and improvising, and we've done a relatively good job thus far on almost every aspect of our life. 

I'm just having a really tough time with this one.