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4 OUR YUCAIPA | AUGUST 2015 By Courtney Fox Taylor I never considered myself a hillbilly, until today. I'm visiting my Aunt Cindi in Poulsbo, Washington, and she is having some people over for dinner tonight. We went to the market (we being everyone who is on the trip with me: my mom, sister Piper and Granny). The market's name is Central Market. They like to get to the point in Washington. Before the market, we'd been downtown flitting from boutique to boutique all day and were feeling kind of weary. Plus Piper kept disappearing like a sprite, which made me worry she was going to disappear altogether and we'd have to stay and fill out paperwork with the police. I HATE paperwork. So we go to Central Market. As we walk up, the smell of barbecue fills the air. I scan the length of the very large store and spot the source — there's a barbecue stand in the store serving ribs, chicken and other barbacuey items. Toto, I don't think we're in Yucaipa anymore. Central Market is massive, probably three times as big as Vons or Staters. We walked to the left where Cindi said she was going to get tortillas for dinner. "Here they are," she said. "And they're fresh." I looked to where she was pointing and there was a young woman rolling out balls of dough and feeding them into a machine. A tortilla-making machine. The hillbilly in me raised her head in wonder. "Gee whiz! That's just like in Disneyland!" Cindi walked up to the lady and asked for a sample. She then ripped the warm tortilla in pieces and let each of us have a bit. "Do you like clam chowder?" Cindi asked, walking along. "Do I? It's my favorite!" She said, "Wait here." I continued nibbling at my fresh tortilla, standing at the cart with Granny and mom (Piper was in the background, slipping in and out of my peripheral vision, plotting her escape). Cindi returned with a sample cup of soup just for me. "Thank you!" I gushed and started to sip the soup. "Come and look at the bins," Cindi said, walking ahead. We passed through the wine section, which was divided by regions in which the grapes were grown, fancy-like, like you see at BevMo! I selected two reds from California. I was feeling a bit out of my element and was clinging to the familiar. We continued to the bins. If you've ever been to Gerrard's in Redlands, you know about the bins. At Central Market, they have the same thing, except they go on for three aisles. Chocolates, pretzels, trail mix. Every flavor and shape and size of seed, nut and snack food that will easily be dispensed via bin was there. Then I saw it. The fresh spice bins. I knew fresh spices, logically, existed. I also knew, logically, fresh You mean there's a real reason for paprika? spices would be superior in cooking than spices purchased 20 years ago by my husband at Big Lots (or, as it was known then, Pic n' Save), but I'd never seen fresh spices before. Our paprika tasted a lot like red dust. What could fresh paprika taste like? Was there actually a reason recipes called for it, aside from making the dish a bit more red? Fresh spices, to me, were the stuff of legends, written about in the children's story "Ali Baba and the Tale of 40 Thieves." It was like looking at a leprechaun. I called mom over. "You're not going to believe this," I whispered, as though if I spoke of fresh spices aloud, they would disappear like a spooked ghost. I pulled her by the arm and guided her to the fresh spice bins. "Look!" I hissed. "Fresh spices! Have you ever heard of such a thing?" Her eyes grew big and she slowly approached the lady who was confidently putting spices into a bag, as though fresh spices were something you could just handle with your hands, like a mortal. "Wait til you see what's next," said Cindi, walking off with the cart. There's more? I thought. I didn't know if I could take it. "Where's Piper?" Granny asked looking around. "I don't know," I said. "I've decided to pretend she found a man and she's run off with him." "I don't think so," Granny laughed. I think she laughed because Piper couldn't possibly meet a man and run off in the 20 hours we'd been in a strange town, not that Piper couldn't meet a man and run off. I shook off the fresh spices shock and braced myself for what was next. Cindi stopped in front of a refrigerated unit and pulled out a tub of salsa. Was it made that morning by the President of Mexico? Is it from an ancient salsa mine in Peru? Does Peru even produce salsa? She placed it in the cart and continued on. I realized the salsa wasn't the amazing thing, she just needed salsa. But I was prepared for anything. We walked into a clearing with a large sign towering over us which read, "FISH MARKET." "Does anyone like oysters on the half shell?" Cindi asked. Everyone muttered no, but we couldn't help but be impressed by the lines of aquariums full of oysters, lobsters and other live seafood. And fish heads! So many fish heads! It was impressive, especially if you like fish. But it didn't rival the fresh spices. Or the tortilla making machine. Or the fresh spices. We checked out and leaned against the wall, waiting for Piper to materialize. I wondered what else in the store I had missed, what wonderful things existed that I couldn't even conceive with my inferior brain. Like fresh spices. After five minutes, I said, "Does anyone know where Piper is?" "In the bathroom," mom replied. Hopefully she's met someone, I thought. I'll give her fresh spices for her wedding gift.