Candy is Dandy (or Why It’s Not a Good Idea to Stop at the Tourist Trap Candy Store When You’re Hungry)

munger moss

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, the fam and I went on a little weekend trip to southern Missouri. No, not Branson. I read your mind, didn’t I? Okay, not really, it’s just that pretty much every person I mentioned our trip to asked if we were going to Branson. Branson isn’t really an option for us, because Hubster breaks out in hives whenever he’s subjected to country music. I’m pretty certain the man would explode if we were to even drive through Branson. And, really, if I’m gonna go to Pigeon Forge, I’ll go to Pigeon Forge, not to Pigeon Forge’s Ozark cousin.

The real reason we went to Missouri was to check out the spring planting festival at Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds. Yeah, we’re plant nerds like that. In spite of the fact that we got drizzled on all day Sunday, the festival was a good time. Got to hear lots of live bluegrass, and cowboy music, including Sourdough Slim the accordion playing cowboy. And we picked up some interesting varieties of tomato and pepper plants. I also got a very cool African basket.

About 3:00 or so, we decided to head back to our motel in Lebanon—the very cool Munger Moss Motel located on Route 66. Did it have fancy amenities like internet? Heck no. But what it did have was a very interesting mix of folks staying there—including the Harley Riders from Finland. Awesome. But Lebanon is a pretty small place, so there wasn’t much going on Sunday night, and we decided to head over to Springfield. After an evening of Bass Pro Shop and Buckingham’s Barbecue, we went back for our final night at the Munger Moss.

The next morning, we checked out and did some hiking in Bennett Spring State Park. After a quick clean-up and change of clothing, we headed for home. It was about 1:00 and we were getting pretty hungry. When we reached I-44, there it was, like a beacon of love, and rainbows, and sugar, and tooth decay, and empty wallets—Redmons Candy Factory.

Taffy. Oh man, this place had more flavors of taffy than I have ever seen. And in spite of the fact that as a mother, I’m supposed to encourage the consumption of healthful foods ahead of the consumption of sticky, sugary goodness, I totally blew off that whole responsible adult gig. So as Hubster carried around a white paper sack, picking and choosing a few pieces here and there, Mini Me and I ransacked the joint, grabbing handfuls of various flavors and throwing them in the sack. “Mmmm! Cinnamon roll taffy! Ooh look, lemon meringue taffy!”

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little flicker of June Cleaver managed to escape the duct tape she’d been wrapped in and push its way to somewhere near the front of my mind. “You haven’t had lunch!” it protested, “And what about Mini Me’s braces? Is she supposed to even have taffy?” However, I quickly squashed June’s rebellion by pointing out that the pomegranate taffy was almost like a fruit—so it was perfectly healthy, and…hey, pecan logs! Poor June was left struggling against her duct tape somewhere along the dusty trail between good sense and sugar overload, and I was on my merry way to pecan log bliss.

Oh sure, I saw the sign that said the bulk candy was $3.49/lb. But, since Hubster was holding the bags—oh, yes, eventually there were two, because the other side of the store had hard candy—I didn’t even think about how much we’d accumulated. I figured than when it started getting heavy enough to be expensive, he’d shut us down. Because, whether he realizes it or not, that is one of his primary functions in our marriage—to keep me from going over the top stupid all the time. There was only one problem—Hubster hadn’t seen the signs. So, he was a little shocked when after adding in a couple of white chocolate turtles and a few mints, our bill came to over $30.

Oops. I guess maybe it was a bad idea to go there hungry.

(Oh, and if you’d like to read Mini Me’s account of our trip, you can checkit out HERE)

Easy Cheese: Public Enemy Number One

Today was the day that Mini Me left for her mission trip to Jamaica.  Preparing for this trip has made me realize just how involved the whole air travel process has become since 9/11.  Aside from the standard stuff, like making sure your suitcase stuffed with over 2400 crayons, 100+ dum-dums, and other miscellaneous VBS supplies doesn’t exceed the 50 pound weight limit, there’s the maze of items you can and cannot take in your carry-on.  Prohibited items include such seemingly innocuous things as Easy Cheese and hand sanitzer—or any liquid, gel or aerosol–in larger than a 3oz container.  It’s good to have a list of stuff like that, because I never would have suspected that Easy Cheese was an Al Qaeda approved terror device.  Perhaps they’ve planned to coerce the pilot into submission by threatening to put cheese on the wrong side of his saltines.

I need to know these things, because I might not figure out that something like that was contraband.  However, there are other items on the list.  Items that made me chuckle, because I thought, “Does anybody really need to be told that it’s not cool to pack that in their carry-on?”  Seriously.  Um, does anybody not know that their can of gasoline is NOT going to make it past security?  Or that dynamite and hand grenades are not okay—even in your checked luggage?  Or that meat cleavers, ice picks, and sabers may not be stashed in the overhead compartment?  Do they have a lot of trouble with people wanting to carry their axes and cattle prods onto the plane these days?  Sheesh!

But the worst part about this whole security business these days is that no long can you see someone all the way to the gate and watch them take-off.  So, there we were, saying goodbye in the security line.  It went something like this:

Me: “It says your hand sanitizer has to be in a Ziploc—did you put it in a Ziploc?” 

Mini Me: “I don’t know.” 

Me: “Okay, where is it?” 

Mini Me: “In the last zipper in my backpack.” 

Me (trying to dig through a wad of smashed granola bars in an overstuffed backpack pocket): “I can’t find it…which zipper?” 

Mini Me: (exasperated sigh as she takes off her backpack) “Here, let me look.  Here it is, in a Ziploc.” 

Me: “Okay good.  Well, it’s your turn.  Be good.  I love you.” 

Hubster: “I love you..See ya in two weeks.”

 

I waited to cry until we got to the parking garage.