Dropped Out Of The Sky

3

October 15, 2009 by skwishface

A while back, whilst rambling about pizza dough, I mentioned that a stand mixer would probably make the life of dough mixing easier. Since, ya know, it’s a mixer. Mixers mix things. Hi, I’m Skwishface, and I’ll be your Stater Of The Obvious this evening.

Ahem.

Anyway, I have long been drooling over stand mixers. Coveting them. Stalking them on the interwebs. Daydreaming about color choices and a variety of mixing attachments, fantasizing about all the marvelous cooking I would do if such a device were mine. But always with a sigh, because the damned things are expensive. Mine is a family on a budget, and we just could not justify multiple hundreds of dollars spent on an appliance that would do the same thing that my two hands are doing now. So I lurked on the Pioneer Woman’s site, where she occasionally will just give away a stand mixer. And I made distant-future plans to someday save enough money from my Etsy shop. And I lived in wistful, bittersweet hope.

Then a box arrived.

A mysterious box.

Addressed to me, but with no indication as to who it might be from.

Curiosity won out over any post-9/11 paranoia, and I immediately cracked it open. Didn’t even check to see if it was ticking.

And this is what I saw:

The cat saw it, too, hence the partially-shredded corner.

The cat saw it, too, hence the partially-shredded corner.

What’s that, you say? You’re having trouble reading the mega-stylish lettering on this sexy, shiny black package, and thus are not entirely able to identify the contents? Well! Let me fix that for you.

Lean close to the monitor, and you can hear the echoes of my delighted squeal.

Lean close to the monitor, and you can hear the echoes of my delighted squeal.

Yes. That’s a stand mixer. Yes. A Hamilton Beach ultra-sleek all-metal shiny black stand mixer. Yes. From their “eclectrics” line. Which sounds like an ’80s synth band. The Eclectrics!

Y’all, it was like all my Christmases happened at once, and months early. There was alot of gasping and squealing and shouting. This sounds alot dirtier in the re-telling than it was at the time.

You know how when you’re a little girl you dream that someday a magical unicorn will just wander into your yard and your parents will have to let you keep it because hello! Unicorn! And then you’ll spend all the rest of your days frolicking in sunlit meadows with your new magical friend? THIS WAS EXACTLY LIKE THAT.

This mysterious package had just magically arrived with my name on it, containing my sweetest culinary dreams. The skies parted and a chorus of angels sang as I unpacked it.

So much potential, wrapped in plastic betwixt styrofoam towers.

So much potential, wrapped in plastic betwixt styrofoam towers.

Gosh! It's so shiny!

Gosh! It's so shiny!

Squeeee! The head tilts back! Squeeee!

Squeeee! The head tilts back! Squeeee!

Buried amidst the packaging were the mixing attachments. The very attachments about which I had dreamed.

The artfully complicated whisk attachment! For whisking!

The artfully complicated whisk attachment! For whisking!

The strangely lovely paddle attachment! For paddling!

The strangely lovely paddle attachment! For paddling!

The dough hook attachment! For kitchen pirates!

The dough hook attachment! For kitchen pirates!

As you may have noticed, I had to open the back door to let in enough light for photos. The entire time, I had this irrational fear that the stand mixer would scamper out the open door to freedom, leaving me dumbfounded and weeping among the packaging flotsam. I’ve got two kids, I’m no virgin, and only virgins can truly capture the magical unicorn!

This did not happen. Oddly enough.

Anyway, it turns out that all the attachments fit nicely into the gorgeous stainless steel mixing bowl.

It's just .. *wipes tear* ... It's just so PRETTY.

It's just .. *wipes tear* ... It's just so PRETTY.

Okay, so this mixer is not small. And my counter space is. Small. I have all the working area of a postage stamp.

But.

C’mon, it’s a stand mixer! Surely I could make room for it. Oh yes, I could.

Pictured above: proof that my son is a Flintstone's kid.

Pictured above: proof that my son is a Flintstone's kid.

Now this sleek, sexy black mixer loiters around in the shadows of my bright and happy kitchen like the bad boy it is. It is the leather-clad biker of the countertop, leaning casually against the wall, smoking filterless cigarettes and menacing the locals. Lesser appliances step aside when the stand mixer saunters by, because he’s Dangerous, man. Yeah, with a capital D.

I always did love a bad boy.

 

P.S.

I did, ultimately, have to track down where this lovely device came from. I called The Husband and asked if maybe he had witnessed a mob hit and we were being bought off. He said no, and his tone suggested that perhaps I was hallucinating the entire thing. So I called the only other person who knew of my stand mixer dreams. My Mom. Turns out, she’s the culprit. The saint. The generous soul who wants me to make pizza for her. And I shall, with a song in my heart. Thanks Mom!

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3 thoughts on “Dropped Out Of The Sky

  1. Lori says:

    You’re welcome! Looks GREAT in that corner. Happy Baking! Oh, and by the way, you now can use that recipe for homemade playdough quite easily! Hours of fun for the kiddos!

  2. […] that I would never think to obtain for myself. Orange peelers, big plastic meat-claw thingies, the best thing ever, the other best thing ever, and […]

  3. Becki D says:

    Moms are the BEST!

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