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For the sake of me and my wife and our plans to pay the rent, consider buying a shirt.
Okay, so I live on the outskirts of what is arguably the most yuppie/snotty neighborhood in all of Houston, so you would think the grocery store I go to would have a good selection of weird items that a discerning foodie (read: fatso) like myself would enjoy. This, however, is far from the case. If you want steak and perhaps potatoes, then our grocery store is all equipped to meet your needs. Curry? They've never heard of it. Shallots? Huh? Sushi rice? We've got rice with an overtly racist caricature of a black man on it, if you want.
So, it was with great delight that I found myself across town at an HEB and was able to buy the kind of curry I like and some ancho-chili jelly and some siroopwaffels. Siroopwaffels are a part of my Dutch heritage--I am legally obligated to enjoy them, and I do.
Does anybody remember the episode of Saved By The Bell where Jesse Spano looks into her heritage and finds out that her great-great-grandfather was a slave trader, and then she feels all weird around Lisa Turtle and tries to apologize? That is why I will never look into my Dutch ancestors. I will eat their waffley cookies instead.
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