Chef vs. Baker

Chandelier(s)

2011-06-12T17:21:00.000-07:00

The Chef:

“Okay, people, what am I bid for this one-of-a-kind, authentic, lead-glassed chandelier?” asked Jimmy Bold. “I’m told the queen of England had the same exact light hanging over her four poster in the royal suite at Buckingham Palace.” Jimmy had used the line many, many times before and people sat in reverence each and every time. “Let’s open the bidding at a hundred bucks, people,” sang Jimmy Bold. “Here’s a hundred. Where’s a hundred? Need a hundred. Hundred. Hundred. Come on, people. Did I mention the authentic lead glass? Hundred? Hundred? Hundred?”

A small, frail finger caught the eye of the enormous auctioneer. “There’s my Hundred, people,” he screamed. “Who’ll give me two? Two? Two? Two?” Jimmy’s eyes searched the room. “Ah, people. This is not a wake. I’m not a corpse. Check this all-American frame, ladies and gents, and you’ll see a warm and lovin’ man. A man trying to sell a genuine, authentic, Frenchie-made, one-of-a-kind, lead-glassed chandelier. Who’s gonna give me a hundred-and-a-half?” Jimmy rolled his sleeves and wiped sweat from his forehead.

Luther and Dolby watched from the back of the room. “That broad just bid a hundred, Dolby, what we gonna do?” Luther whispered into his neighbor’s ear. “Just relax, Lu. Leave it up to me,” Dolby whispered back. “I think we’ll let the broad do our work for us. Then we’ll just help ourselves to the prize afterwards.”

“People!” Jimmed yelled. “Is this mike turned off?” Jimmy banged the microphone against his head. Thump. Thump. Thump. “No. I hear the sound and I see the people, but I don’t hear the music of a hundred and twenty-face, people. Did I mention that this card here says that this is an authentic Ro-Co-Co chandelier from Baccarat, France,” Jimmy’s voice stretched and emphasized the Rococo. A word that was lost to the room except for the bidder, Luther and Dolby.

“Yessir, I’m Jimmy Bold and I get things sold. So-o-o-o, people…” Jimmy was mid sentence when the chandelier crashed to the floor in a thousand pieces. Dolby and Luther shrugged and headed for the exit. Jimmy yelled at his crew to be more careful with the admonishment that the next item to fall might be expensive. The woman in the mauve dress stood, shook her head slowly, and wiped tears from her eyes.

The Baker:

The chandelier rocked overhead, sending sparkles of light dancing around the bright, glorious dance hall. With any contra dance, the heavy progression of stomping feet shook the floorboards, and additionally the walls and ceiling, where the majestic chandelier hung. I gazed upon, pondering the history and price of such an elegant fixture, when suddenly I was awoken from my reverie by Mother.

“More navel-gazing, Desdemona?” She accused, seeing my upward head and distant stare. “In fact, no,” I replied a tad sharply. “I was simply admiring the Pattinson’s chandelier. How delicate it seems when shaken so harshly by the crowd.” Mother glanced briefly upward, then back to me. “Scott begs for your hand in the next dance. Does this sound agreeable?”

What a juxtaposition from my last words! Scott, the clumsy clod from Yorkshire, had feet like a swollen rhinoceros and the appearance of one, as well. Scott’s brother, however, was most fanciable—alas, though, Simon would never ask for a dance. He too compared those in attendance to the fine chandelier, and I simply couldn’t compare. I took a long breath.

“Aye, I’m agreeable,” I stared up briefly, but like my Mother, gave up on the chandelier quick soon after, returning my lost eyes to reality.

Vote below! Next week's word: Driftwood.

Blood

2011-06-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

The Baker:

In the surrounding dark, I couldn’t at first tell what the damp feeling beneath my feet was, but soon the smell of iron and salt stung my nose. Blood.

Instantly my stomach lurched as I stumbled backwards. Luke caught me fast.

“Wrong way, Denise,” he whispered, lost in the blackness. He righted me when he felt my resistance weaken and his hand guided me forward.

I listened as our bare feet slapped wetly against the blood-soaked, stone flood, and Luke and I continued on our quest to find Jimmy.

Hopefully, I worried, we hadn’t already found him.

The Chef:

The first thing he felt was the warm fluid gathering in his mouth and dripping down his chin. The ringing in his ears blocked all other noise. His sense slowly stirred as he sat up on one elbow and watched the clowns dance around, shouting and misdirecting, narrowly missing the charging rage of “Blood.”

Less than a minute before, he had listened as a booming voice announced, “Our next contestant, cowboy 27, is Chad Eliot, riding the rankest of the rank, Blood. Folks! This match ought to be a good one ‘cause we got the Number One ranked bullrider riding the Number One ranked bull in all of North America. Boy oh boy, you little women may want to gather up your younguns ‘cause this won’t be pretty.” This palaver carried on but was lost on Chad as he straddled the fence and focused all his attention on the albino menace that snorted and bellowed in the Bucking Chute. As he traded the safety of his straddle for a seat atop the 2,400-pound animal a sense of foreboding overcame Chad unlike any in his rodeo career.

He finished tightening the bullrope around his left hand. He knew that no cowboy had sat this bull in the two years that “Blood” had been on the circuit but also realized that he was no other cowboy. Although he should have been directing every fiber of his awareness to the job at hand, Sally’s words washed over him again and again, “It’s not if you get hurt Chad, it’s when”. Chad felt pain in his right leg as the bull squeezed against the starter gait. “Hold on big fella, we’re just about ready” he said signaling the start, “let’s do this thing.”

Blood bucked, reared, twisted, kicked, licked, and spun out of the chute into the arena. Chad waved his right hand high and maintained balance. One tick moved off the timer’s clock. Blood went into a lateral spin as if his tail needed to be caught. Chad anticipated and appeared to be glued to the bull’s back. Seconds two and three clicked away. Blood stopped on a dime and began bucking and kicking what appeared to be eight legs. Chad countered every move. Blood dipped low and sprung from the ground in a patented “sunfishing” move where all four feet kick sideways in a twisting, rolling motion and bull flesh rode the wind. Chad was up to the challenge but not to the fact that the bull lost its balance and the two crashed to the Earth as one.

Blood tried for one last “horning” of the closest clown and swung his body low as he headed for the exit gait. It gave Chad his first glimpse of his own left arm flapping a bloody wave good-by, still strapped to the bullrope on Blood’s massive white back.

Vote below! The other topic this week (double header) is: Chandeliers.

Conversation

2011-05-22T17:33:00.000-07:00

The Baker:

They were a fair match. He found no fault in her, and she knew no fault in he. Yet, she was not the only girl attracted to this gentleman.

Lisa. Lisa was the best pal of the girl. The girl told Lisa everything. How the dates went with Him, how He liked to take relaxing drives at night, how He was secretly nostalgic when he thought of his childhood,… She told Lisa this in secrecy, in confidence, in private, and in time, and eventually, the blurred line between how the girl loved the man and how Lisa felt for the man vanished. Lisa loved the man like the girl did, and the girl’s secret romantic moments with him were now Lisa’s, as well.

“He did what?” Lisa started, startled. It was a simple story of a chat between He and She.

“He called me ‘sweetheart’ as we danced along the beach. It was romantic,” She spilled.

“Uh oh,” Lisa said.

“Uh oh?”

Soon, Lisa filled thoughts of evil and heartbreak and adultery and fallacy in the mind of the girl, and the girl, trusting of her friend and unsure of herself and confused by the extreme love of the man, fell victim to conversation, fell out of love with the man, and felt bad when Lisa moved in on Him, and they lived Happily. Ever. After.

The Chef:

“Worms?” “Yeah”. “License”? “Yeah”. “Snacks”? “Yeah”. ”Drinks”? ”You bet”. “Then let’s go get ‘em,” said Jack as the engine roared to life and slowly backed from the slip. Tom had stepped back across the gunwale after freeing the ropes and began lifting in the fenders.. “Gonna be a beaut,” Jack yelled over the engine’s bark. Tom sat taking in the shoreline as the boat made its way across the bay to Diamond point. Once there, Tom set bait to both rods while Jack brought the boat around and killed the engine to drift out over the submerged outcrop. “We should pick up a few bass or maybe a lunker Northern,” whispered Jack. “The chop on the water is perfect.” Tom nodded. The water was calm and clear and only the scream of a diving Gull broke the silence.
Tom felt his bait bump along the rocky bottom. He and his dad had fished these waters since he began stringing memories and his movements were automatic. They helped to conceal the turmoil that roiled inside. Divorce papers sat under the “pink slip” he had received Friday and both were gathered on the dresser in the back of O’Malley’s Pub were he had taken up temporary residence. Jeannie had taken the kids to her mothers due to the foreclosure and it was only a matter of time before Carol named him as the father in a pending paternity suit. Bills and loans were mounting and the Feds were sure to pick-up on to his involvement in the Ponzi scheme after Pete’s arrest.
“Hey, Tom.” Jack said as he placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I love these Sundays. When else can a father and son get away to chat tete-a-tete”?
“Yeah, Dad. The conversation has always been great.” Tom watched as the tip of his pole twitched to life.

(Sorry it was two day's late; it's been busy transitioning into summertime). VOTE BELOW! Next Topic (for the Friday after next): Blood and a mystery topic (double header)!

P.S. The Kitchen is going to be working overtime, so these stories might start coming faster and faster over the summer months. Then maybe the Literary Kitchen will go big time :) We'll see. Anyway, look forward to more stories. Oh, and I know this sounds contradictory, but there won't be a story this upcoming friday, haha. We're closing the kitchen for Memorial Day weekend! Hahaha, stay hungry, readers!

The Spicy Dish.

2011-05-04T18:53:00.000-07:00

Baker's Tale:

In Salvador Dali’s book, The Secret Life of Salvador Dali, he states in the first sentence:

“Fortunately I am not one of those beings who when they smile are apt to expose remnants, however small, of horrible and degrading spinach clinging to their teeth.”

He continues:

“This is not because I brush my teeth better than others; it is due to the much more categorical fact that I do not eat spinach.”

Simplicity. Of course, Dali continues on to say he only eats food that is strong, held together, and armor-like, unlike spinach. But I don’t want to get into the dietary choices of one of my favorite artists. I want to discuss spinach.

Popeye loved spinach. Made him tough. Then again, Popeye chain smoked and we never saw his teeth.

I bring this up because green in the teeth of those I loathe is good and great and fun, but to spend a chat with spinach in my gap… is tragedy.

So I’ll listen to Dali, pity poor popeye, and eat only dishes that are spicy and delicious and strong.

“I like to eat only things with well-defined shapes that the intelligence can grasp.”

Don’t eat spinach.

Chef's Tale:

Juanita poured the scalding water into the sink and pulled her face from the rising steam. The kettle must have weighed a good twenty pounds but she was used to the weight and oblivious to the heat. She had boiled chili peppers since her childhood in Chamisal, New Mexico, barefoot, on the dirt floor of her family’s two-room adobe, and today’s task in the modern kitchen of their small home seemed effortless.
The celebration of Cinco de Mayo was just two days away and Juanita was preparing for the feast as she did each year. Miguel’s parents would both be there and they would bring with them their “groseria” or rudeness. These two would enter her home and immediately begin the onslaught of insults and accusations. They would start slow with a few chosen words on the “untidiness” of her pristine home. Then they would openly criticize the childless union of her existence with their “perfect” and only son. And when tension had eased into dinner, they would open wide with their dislikes and distastes of the food she slaved over.
Each year it was the same, “The chipotle crusted tilapia is fishy.” “The cactus salad is dry.” “The pineapple salsa is too sweet.” “The coronas are warm.” But, the most hurtful was their remarks about her chili; the same chili that had passed through each and every generation of her family. It was the chili that warmed the winter nights and kept family men from wandering. It was the one, true love and passion of her life and the comment she most reviled was that her chili lacked “spice”.
Juanita took no chances with the Naga Jolokia peppers and donned rubber gloves that stretched to her forearms. She had already donned the protective glasses and facemask she borrowed from Dr. Rodriques and began slicing the “Ghost Peppers”.
“I’ll show those two a “spicy” chili,” she sneered.

Vote below! Next Week's Topic (and by next week, I mean in two week's, since the Baker has finals): Conversation.

Elevator Madness.

2011-04-28T20:16:00.000-07:00

Baker's Story:

I stepped into the elevator, awaiting the worst. Just like every day, I expected the worst.

It wasn’t a bad day. It wasn’t a unique day. It was just the worst part of every day for me: The Elevator.

Why was it so bad? Why was it absolutely awful? Yet why wasn’t it enough to force me up the shady four flights of stairs lurking in the back of my office building?

Elevator music.

Never in my life have I hated music more than when I’m in an elevator. I can survive heavy metal, screamo concerts, stomach a round of drunken karaoke, and even rock out to terrible, pop music. Elevator Music, though…

Like I said, it’s not enough to get me to perform daily exercise (i.e. the stairs), because that would be crazy. But it is enough to set me on edge for the entire hour after my elevator ride.

Ba-doop. Doop. Doop ba de. That’s basically it. On repeat. The entire 2 minute ride up the 4 floors I travel each day, then the hour after, then the ride down at the end of the day, and the hour after that.

Lunch breaks don’t happen anymore. Madness.

Chef's Story:

The word came down through the usual channel, Mr. Big had decided the time had come, so he gave the order to Tommy “Two Fingers” over a bowl of Pasta Fagioli at Vincenzo’s. Tommy passed the word to Joey “Scars” during their morning Espresso at Luigi’s and Joey met up with “Fish” Albacore at the private box that afternoon at Aqueduct. Not a full day had transpired before Fish knocked on the door of my third floor walk-up. “How’s the ponies treatin’ ya, Fish,” I asked as he lumbered in and flopped on the sofa. “Der’s a search party out lookin’ for my sure-thing in yesterday’s seventh,” he growled. “But we got more important business.”
I landed in Ft. Lauderdale Friday evening and took a cab to the condominium. The top floor of the high-rise had four apartments and the one with ocean view was his. He answered the first knock and greeted me cordially. Of course that’s how they all act when I come a-knockin’. “Let’s take a ride,” I said as I shoved the barrel of my Glock-19 in his ribs. He protested, he whined, he groveled but he didn’t think I’d do him in the elevator. Bam. Bam. Two in the back of the head between the ninth and tenth with silencer in place never even moved a pigeon on the window ledge.
Back in New York, Fish gave me a thumbs-up, Joey gave Fish a slap on the back, Tommy bought Joey’s Espresso, and Mr. Big was all smiles as Tommy showed him the headlines of the Sun-Sentinel “ELEVATOR MADNESS ON THE RISE”.

Vote below! Next Week's Topic: The Spicy Dish.

The Red Chair

2011-04-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

Baker's Tale:

Robert always worried we’d forget who we were. He thought we’d forget we weren’t actually from a Southern town with 2 bars and lots of cows, or that our English accents were fake. He worried I’d forgot we weren’t actually yet married, or that my hair wasn’t actually naturally red.

He thought that I’d forgot I wasn’t in love with Fabio or Ed or Bill. I was in love with Robert. He worried I’d forget that.

I never would, though, and so I never worried that. I told him that I always saw one thing when I looked at him, no matter what color contacts he wore or which California town we pretended he was from. I saw a red chair. A red chair that sat in an abandoned flat in Boston, Mass, lonely and waiting for its owners to return home from their agent work to be married and consummate that actual marriage upon that red chair.

Call me crazy. Call me wild. Call me Maria, Sandy, or Lisa (everybody else does). But that red chair is what reminds me that I’m not any of those things. I’m Agent Frank. Robert’s Agent Harris. We change ourselves. That’ll never change.

Chef's Tale:

Some say Fred Hutchinson had it in for the “splendid splinter”. He was an ornery left-hander who was all business and hated to be shown up. His Detroit Tigers were the cellar dwellers and the defensive support Fred received from his team was non-existent. But, this sunny day, June 9, 1946 would be the day Fred could brag to the grandchildren how he struck out the famous Ted Williams.
It was the bottom of the fourth, two on, and two out. The count was even at 2 balls and 2 strikes and the crowd was standing to a man. Fred reached back and feigned a fastball but threw the changer. The Fenway faithful bit, the newscasters slipped, and every person in the park took an imaginary rip, with the one exception of Ted Williams who waited on the pitch and drove it deep into the right field seats.
When it landed in Section 42, Row 37, seat 21, Ted’s blast became the longest homerun in the history of Fenway Park and to this day, that seat, memorializing the 502 Ft. blast, is painted red, the only red seat in a sea of green

VOTE BELOW!! Next Week's Topic: Elevator Madness.

Affliction

2011-04-15T05:10:00.000-07:00

Chef's Story:
He noticed her preoccupation during breakfast. Buttering her napkin instead of the melba and pouring a heavy dose of syrup in her latte never earning an "oops" as she meandered, more than walked, from the patio. In her absorption, the letter lay folded on her placemat alongside its envelope that she had butchered open with the buttery knife. This same envelope had traveled half the continent to reach her, addressed in the name she had when they first met, 'Eileen Riley'. 'Miss Eileen Riley,' to be exact.
Perhaps the prudent action might have been to rise and meander away himself, but then again, no one ever accused him of being prudent. He unfolded the parchment and began reading the three pages. "Dear Riles," it began, "I have missed you dearly and cannot live another moment without you. Life as we knew it then will once again flourish under Arabian nights. You will be my ..."
In one fell swoop, she snatched up the letter and dumped his fresh squeezed orange juice over his head. "You have no idea how easy I have come to my decision," she said in a low, measured tone. "Today is the last day of my affliction."

Baker's Story:

I have a sickness. Can’t you tell? It oozes from my soul.

This gooey, toxic-looking sludge, it starts to take its toll.

The pain pains me, the hurt hurts too; my friends say that I’m weak.

But feathers sprout up ‘round my ears, my side has sprung a leak.

My toes and nose are growing large, swollen, sick, and rosy,

My neck is gone, and now I carry pockets full of posy.

What would you do were you to find as you took a shower,

That your tongue had double in its size and now the world was sour?

But I won’t go down, not right away, from this great disease,

No matter if I lose my sight, my soul, and both my knees!

I tough it out, I swear I will, by God’s good grace I shall,

Weak? Oh, please. If you think that than you are not a pal.

Just look at me; can’t you tell I’m tougher than I look?

So bring it on, great affliction, just see if I’ll be shook.

All you are is just a dream, a scare and nothing more,

I live through this just like a fright; you’re simply just a horror.

VOTE BELOW! Next Week's Topic: The Red Chair.

The Bus Stop.

2011-04-08T08:35:00.000-07:00

The Baker's Story:

I was freezing cold. My rain jacket dripped and my hood dipped into my level of vision, making the sad scene before me hard to see. All that was there in my visibility was the grey of the street, the soaked sidewalk painted pale grey with acid rain wash, and the dreary fog of the afternoon storm. Oh, the beauty of such shades of darkness…

I distracted myself from the depression that was my day and glanced once more at the map hanging in the bus stop shelter. I couldn’t squeeze fully under the shelter due to the hot, heavy-breathing crowd that snuggled there now, but when I turned my head and leaned slightly back, I felt warmth and comfort for a moment, and my head swam; it was on vacation.

Unfortunately, this neck ached from a night of sleeping on the floor again, and I couldn’t hold this position for long. Plus, I knew it looked odd to the other waiters. I turned back straight, quickly losing the elation as the raindrops drummed upon my head, bored, waiting for the bus with me. “Clickity-Clack-Clack...

…Get out of my way, I’m Raining here.”

The Chef's Story:

I got to know Adolph on the bus ride back from Dusseldorf. We had been abandoned by mutual friends and were both the worse from a long weekend of sampling Bavaria’s Rieslings and frauleins. “Achtung, Hans. It is time for us to plan next weekends debacle,” he said while stroking his asinine moustache.
“Nein und abermals nein, my little schweinkopf!” I yelled pushing his mop head off my shoulder. “It is time, but not for frivolous play. It is time to plan our future and lead our beloved Germany out of this economic nightmare,” I lectured indignantly. “You don’t have a Deutsche Mark to your name or a pot to urinieren in and you sit there wanting nothing more than a hot azi and a cold Kolsch!”
Adolph straightened in his seat, looked at me once with a fearsome glare and turned toward the window for the remainder of the ride. I had touched a nerve in this little dumbkopf and lost him forever as a traveling companion. He did gather himself at journeys end to turn, look me square in the eye and ask, “Spellman….is that Jewish?”

Uh oh. Looks like two good tales. Vote below on which is your favorite!

Next Week's Topic: The Affliction.

Mayhem in the Produce Section.

2011-03-31T20:59:00.000-07:00

This is the first ever Chef vs. Baker, so I'll give it a little intro (though this won't happen often). Today's topic was "Mayhem in the Produce Section." The two story-cookers (Chef/Baker) both wrote on this topic and tried to aim for the 200 word mark (The Chef went a little over the count). I'll post next week's topic at the bottom of this post as soon as jillspellman.com tells me what it is. You can vote for your favorite in the boxes below each post that say "Chef wins," "Baker wins," and "Tie." Thanks for checking out the site! - The Baker

Chef's Story:

Preacher Bob could show up just about anywhere in our fair city. One might bump into his screeching antics on the busiest corner midday or then, be amazed to see him gently talking to the squirrels and birds of Central Park as he strolled the grounds at midnight twenty blocks away. Whether here or there, the message he delivered was always the same, “Repent before the end of time”! Damnation is on nigh!” His sermons are incessant and fragmented, often delivered in trances of euphoria, mostly self-induced with foreign substances, but you have to give Preacher Bob credit, he never wavers from that singular message.

A to Z Groceries is located on Watson and Main Streets quite a distance from the apartment I share with Professor Williams and Maxine, his golden lab. The store would be the last place for me to shop except for three reasons, one, the Professor is letting me vegetate at his pad for the summer free of charge while I work on passing my medical boards, two, my duties include stocking the cupboards with food paid for with the credit card of William W. Williams, and, third, the damn Maxine will only eat Krypton, a canned dog food found only at the A to Z.

Today, as I meander through the produce section of the A to Z, I hear the hum of a thousand locusts in the form of Preacher Bob. He is poised on an orange crate, standing erect, contemplating an Ugli fruit. “Why go through life looking poorly when your fruit is so delectable?” asks Bob. I ignore Bob and squeeze a lemon. “Why haven’t you faced your demons?” cries Bob. I pop a grape. “Love is meaningless without truth.” Tears begin to roll down the preacher’s craggy face. I flip a head of lettuce into my cart.. “Without honesty, friendships abate.” Preacher Bob wails as he falls from his podium. Then silence. Preacher Bob’s heart spills its vital fluid as the shards of lemon grass pierce his chest.

I retrieve the pomegranate from the floor. It is slighted dented from its collision with the Preacher’s head. I collect my basket and head for the bakery section wondering how Bob knew of my credit card scam. Ah well, his damnation was on nigh.

Baker's Story:

I was in Produce when my cell phone rang. “Doctor Case here,” I answered, eyeing some fine-looking bananas. “Angela, it’s Peter. Come home quick. Your sister and Buster are here. Both may be armed.” I gasped. “They’re in my apartment?” “Our apartment, dear, and yes. Head home soon, and don’t forget my Doritos.” Peter hung up, and I pocketed my phone. I dashed to Aisle 12, scanned the food, and then asked a busy stocker where the Doritos were. After finding them in Aisle 10, I went through the 15 Items or less cashier (with my 16 items), then headed hurriedly to the exit. My car was parked in a handicap spot, because everywhere else had been full and it was a secret benefit of being a doctor. I ducked into my car, sped out of the spot, and rocketed towards the direction of home, ignoring 3 red lights and 2 yellows. Once home, I rushed up four flights of stairs. Then, I busted into my apartment and yelled, “I left the bananas, so tell me: where are those immoral law-breakers?!” Peter laughed, alone and armed himself. “How do like them apples?” In my last breath, I muttered, “Them bananas…”

Who do you choose? Chef versus Baker!

Next Topic (for next Friday): "The Bus Trip."

Chef vs. Baker

2011-03-25T10:06:00.001-07:00

Ready for some head to head tales on topics that change weekly? They're only about 200 words or less (though we do mess up now and then)! Our goal is 200 words or less! We can promise that.

Who will you root for? The older gentleman in the Kitchen, Chef, or the young beauty, Baker?

Make your choice and meet us back here when you hear the dinner bell!

"Chef, the other cook in my Kitchen, is always trying to create his own recipes while I'm baking cakes in the oven. You know what they say about too many cooks in the Kitchen, right? Well, we've finally settled on a final showdown... but, granted, an end isn't in sight. Once a week, the Kitchen's interior decorator, JillSpellman.com, will give each of us a topic challenge, and within a week's time, we'll both write 200-word stories on the same topic. When both are posted, all you tasters vote on the better story by commenting below the posts. Updated on: Fridays." - STORYCAKES.com's official blog

First Topic: "Mayhem in the Produce Section."