Mixing it up.

Recently, having destroyed a neighbor's mixer with my enthusiasm for large quantities of dough, I had to shop for mixers. These opportunities reveal my love for kitchen gadgets more than most people realize (my wife, perhaps, suspects that she knows).

I found myself in the local outlet mall, mired deep in all tools epicurean. Doughnut cutters, blenders for parties of 12, bun warmers, and the chrome rolling pins that dance in front of me, tempting me with come-hither buttons and alluring grips. Slowly I pulled myself away, and sought the mixers that I had come for.

"Mixers," I ask with the raspy throat of one parched with a thirst that no ordinary utensil could slake.

"Right this way, sir," responds the demoness behind the desk, leading me into the darkest aisles of iniquity.

She offers up some paltry hand-mixers, knowing full well that such meager offerings would only worsen my condition. They did, and I believe the word, "bah!" escaped me.

But there, on the same shelf, with untold attachments and color, lay this. If ever there were a monster, a charybdis, seeking to sink me on my journey to economic security, this beast be it. Would that I could lay hand on the credit to purchase such a device, something that I could spend years acquiring attachments for.

Granted, there are less expensive items that appeal to me, even cheap, but such things are rarely adequate to the awesome desire, perhaps lust that I feel for the perfection that is the KitchenAid mixer.

Now, if only I could find the perfect glassware.

(Before you ask, I own one of these

A little extra credit.