A Gourmet Weekend

There are three things I can never pass up in life: a fancy kitchen goods store, the kitty window at the pet store and a lemonade stand.

On Saturday, I just happened to find myself loitering outside of Hattiesburg's premier kitchen store -- the place that sells Le Creuset cookware, Wusthof knives and about 99 different kinds of sea salt.

Right outside the door, two adorably dimpled future Junior Leaguers were selling lemonade.

"It's really good; it's homemade," said the take charge little blonde who was obviously over marketing. I had to agree with her; it really was tasty -- not too sugary, sublimely tart and with just enough pulp to let you know real lemons were harmed in the making of it.

As I looked around for a trash can in which to pitch my empty cup, she motioned me inside the store.

As if I needed an excuse to cross that threshold.

Thirty minutes later I left there sans lemonade cup and with two gadgets that clearly my life would be worthless without: a compartmentalized unit for my sea salt and a potato ricer.

Now you may ask who needs fancy-schmancy sea salt (and a holder to separate the various kinds), when the Morton's canister already has this neat-o little spout that pours forth lots of good, cheap iodized crystals that pack plenty of flavor if not pedigree.

Apparently I do. I personally own about five different types of sea salt (and just typing this I realize how pretentious that sounds). Yes, Recurring Gentleman Caller, they all really do have their own unique cachet. And I am just enough of a sea salt snob to be slightly put out when the shop owner told me that they were out of their new imported Portuguese sea salt, which until five minutes earlier, I hadn't even known existed.

Then my eye was caught by what looked like a giant garlic press (and don't even get me started on the various forms of garlic).

I started to hyperventilate.

Some time ago you may recall that I went through a cooking epiphany of sorts when a chance column in Gourmet's online magazine finally freed me from the heartbreak of sticky, gummy boiled rice by teaching me how to (drum roll, please) bake it.

Ever since then, I have been a disciple of the column's writer, one Francis Lam, who has moved over to Salon.com since Gourmet's untimely exit from this world.

The man is hilarious. And he knows a thing or two about cooking. So when he wrote another column that said the path to mashed potato nirvana was paved with plain russet potatoes pressed through a potato ricer, well, I knew a potato ricer was in my future.

One might argue that there is really no thing as a bad mashed potato, but they can get a little rubbery if you just mash them up. I'll let you know when I christen my new kitchen aid. I have high expectations.

As I exited the shop, the pint-sized lemonade gourmet was working her pitch on a sweet grandmotherly sort. I thought about warning her, but she looked like she might need some sea salt.

For the Recurring Gentleman Caller's sake, I hope that little girl never sets up shop outside of Pet Smart.