Have Estonian wood, will poke.

Today’s field trip, hastily stuffed into the schedule when it became clear that none of the daughters-on-break required my feeding services, took us north of Baltimore, to Wegman’s. Wegman’s is known for its general bigness, and--I guess--fabulousness, but, as there isn’t one which is by any means a practical commute from Chez Em, it became a fun, rather than practical outing. Especially when combined with a need to poke our burning fireplace logs with something other than a 14” stainless steel shishkebab skewer. Right there, near Wegman’s, see, is a Plow & Hearth store--the sort of place that causes you to walk around thinking Wow...if only my yard weren’t a concave mudpit where the sunlight is completely blocked by those trees that like to drop branches on the car in the middle of February ice storms...‘cause then I’d buy that eucalyptus garden bench, yes sir.

But, as it turns out, our yard is that thing that I said, and also I’m aggravatingly whimsical when it comes to spending money. And most of the time, I don’t want to. Still, I spied a set of wrought-iron fireplace tools, which met the dual criteria of functional and simple (except for the shafts charmingly twisted like wire coat hangers,) and accepted the display set when none were available packaged. Not that I wanted a package anyway.

But, as for Wegman’s: We ate lunch there, in the dining area that appears to go on forever, giving you countless different options for overlooking the shoppers below, as you eat your reasonably adequate fried rice and egg roll from the Asian hot bar. And your partner eats his chicken caesar salad. Which is kind of what he always eats.

But, indeed...big it was. Not only big though, it was partitioned up into sections that--from a bird’s eye view--must closely resemble the very random patchwork of tilled fields you see as you fly over, say, Indiana. Which means more of a maze than continuous aisles. This poses a bit of a problem for us, as Jeff likes to tail me by about 5 paces, but cannot track as I turn a corner. Hence, I must stop, peer back around into the the corridor where he is considering following the woman in the blue coat instead (her hair, after all, is blondish too,) and get his attention, and not completely disappear from view again until I’m certain he’s on the right track. And this happens in Wegman’s about every 15 feet. As a consequence, today’s purchases were limited to a french baguette (well, batard, actually,) a canister of “Peppermint Joy” tea, a mesh sack of grapefruit, and a package of store-label multigrain english muffins.

Yeah, it was a fun outing. I try not to mind noticing things, such as how much less useful it becomes, incrementally, to ask Jeff which fireplace poking set he prefers. These, I say, pointing at the twisted shaft ones, or these, I say, pointing to the set with simple hooks at the top, but a “bird cage” embellishment in the middle of the rack. I point down at a set. He gazes vaguely at the confusing array of visual stimuli at floor level and says “those are good.” Then he stands exactly in front of the service counter until 3 different clerks have asked if he needs something, at which point it occurs to my slow brain (I am admiring dog beds, and cat-shaped door-stops, you see,) and position him in a slightly more out of the way spot.

So, if they build a Wegman’s down the road from us, as has been rumored for roughly 5 years now, I’ll visit. I still prefer Whole Foods Market. But, given my grocery shopping druthers, I would evict Food Lion from it’s prime spot near Clement Hardware, and insert a Trader Joe’s.

Ok, so I'm ready to poke logs. But there is this weird thing, that just occurred to me: The logs I bought at Whole Foods the other day? They're birch, from Estonia. Why in the world does my firewood need to be imported from Eastern Europe? You know, I should have swapped it out for the bags of local stuff, but I wasn't paying attention. I grabbed a hefty sack full, from the pile by the underground parking garage, carried it up the stairs, plunked it in my cart, wiped the bits of bark off my coat, and then realized that I'd also carried up the sign that said "European Birch." So, I carried the sign back downstairs, and replaced it on the pile before I even noticed the domestic wood pile on the other side of the doorway. Next time. For now, I'm sure our next fire will burn with a almost-Russian accent. Looking forward to it.