It seems the kitchens of yore were not the cozy culinary preparation areas of today, where one coaxes conscientiously-grown and harvested local produce into tempting morsels to feed both body and mind. ("I am a Good Person who Eats Thoughtfully. I am saving the world, one bite at a time.") Rather they were deceptively innocent-looking chambers of food torture, where pearl-clad housewives could vent their frustrations by employing such tools as the . . . Blitzhacker!
I uncovered this jewel while cleaning out Mom's kitchen for the upcoming estate sale, and I decided to keep it for therapeutic purposes. Yes, denizens of today's granite and stainless steel food preparation areas might titter a bit at the implied violence of the Slap Chop™, but that device is but a shadow of the linoleum-counter slamming Blitzhacker. The name and the lightning-bolt graphics on the box are enough to subdue the toughest celery into dainty minces for a ladies-luncheon chicken salad. Fruitcake pans await the pummeled pecans. Hot oil anticipates hashed soon-to-be-browned potatoes. Who knew that beneath that crisp cotton blouse (with Peter Pan collar) lurked a veritable kitchen dominatrix?
I now recall the blam-blam-blam sound of Mom's chopping some innocent foodstuff into submission; it is ironic that this was usually near Christmas, that season of peace and goodwill to all. One of Mom's specialties was Kentucky Cherry Pecan Loaf, a semi-fruitcake made with cherries, pecans, and bourbon (hence the Kentucky part). If made in a conventional loaf pan, an electric knife was required for slicing, so Mom made gift-sized mini loaves. Needless to say, like most dense fruit cakes, they could be cryogenically preserved for at least a year. We would often extract a cake in mid-July (allowing an entire day for thawing).
So I intend to make a space for the Blitzhacker (not to be confused with Howitzer or Luftwaffe) in my own 2011 kitchen. What could be more appropriate for our multi-tasking world than food prep and frustration release?
Faculty meeting . . . BLAM . . . Phone call to insurance company . . . BLAM . . .
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