Varmints. And Gourmet Cuisine.

I am selecting vegetables at the Home Depot. Again.

Note: My earlier vegetable selections were eaten down to teeny tiny nubs by a varmint.

Note: A varmint is defined as any critter in your yard with beady eyes and irritating habits.

Note: This particular varmint is going to regret his practice of eating my vegetables to nubs. I am sprinkling hot pepper sauce on my veggie leaves. Tonight.

Note: That's what I'm talking about.

A Dude is buying vegetables with his skinny-legged son, who is using the cart as a spaceship, probably.

Dude hands Skinny-Legged Boy the veggie pack and Skinny-Legged Boy flies the pack through the air and lands it in the cart. He is making flying noises and shooting noises. Boy noises, yes.

Skinny-Legged Boy is naming each vegetable with delight as the veggies fly through the air. Corn! Eggplant! Snap Peas!

Skinny-Legged Boy wants more tomatoes, but Dude says we have plenty already.

You can never have too many tomatoes, I say, because it's true. Everyone knows it.

Dude is agreeing and saying stuff but I have lost focus until he says, I am a gourmet chef, so I blah-blah-blah.

My brain is stuck. A gourmet chef? What does that mean? Isn't that statement just a little bit redundant? Is there such thing as a Non-Gourmet chef, specializing in mediocre cuisine? Doesn't the term chef already connote a certain level of expertise versus, say, a cook?

Oh, never mind. I have bigger fish to fry.

Tonight, I become a gourmet chef. For varmints.

Heck, yes!