The Cuisinart Shitstick

Innovation Station

There's a revolution going on in kitchens around the world.

Gone are the days of Nanna's potato masher (a fork) and hello are the days of pricey doodads to help the new culinary whizkid - the at-home chef - transform mere foodlike articles into delectable masterpieces almost too pretty to eat.

These kitchen innovation "essentials" take many forms:

• Pot filler faucets
• The combination steam oven
• The vertical rotisserie
• Stainless steel professional-sized ranges
• Outside pizza ovens from Italy (complete with outdoor living area and kitchen prep sink)
• Complete kitchen renovations more expensive than my first house
• And ah, yes, the Immersion Blender, like the Cuisinart® "Smart Stick®," shown above.

Suck It, Buck Rogers

I thought the immersion blender made a lot of sense, so I purchased one as a gift for my household eatery.

I had visions of leap frogging from 2008 into the future. Like the year 2500 future. In only a few adventures with my new hand device, I'd be whipping out Frozen Coffee Frappes, Blueberry Banana Antioxidant Smoothies, Sweet Red Pepper Coulis - even Parsnip & Sweet Potato Puree.

I might even be able to open my side kitchen window and start selling my new stick creations to the plethora of hungry people who would surely swarm my new kitchen holyland.

Easy Living

While Cuisinart touts the Smart Stick as a device that would "make life in the kitchen easier than ever," I could barely remember the the lengthy names of some of the recipes (above) included with my stick. Yeah, try saying "Blueberry Banana Antioxidant Smoothies" thrice while clicking your heels and you might awake in a culinary nirvana, complete with hundreds of Cuisinart kitchen essentials.

But Cuisinart convinced me that with my Smart Stick, I would be unstoppable. Invincible. A Gastronomical Genius. An Accomplished Appliancist.

Make way, Julia. Paula. Martha (yeah, I said "Martha").

Savor The Good Life®

The Smart Stick surely sounded good on the outside.

Why in just a few days I had pureed green beans and carrots for some dog treats, made some gravy and even a shake. (of course these would now be represented with their Cuisinart-a-fied new names of "Homemade Rustic Rosemary Canine Veggie Treats With A Smattering Of Italian EVOO," "7 Spice Southern Style Roasted Garlic And Peppercorn Sausage Gravy," and the delightful, delectable and decadent "Triple Chocolate Power Blast Protein Shake."

Where Smart Stick Meets Shitstick

You see. After just a few weeks of use (about four total uses in all), the Smart Stick turned Shitstick.

It broke.

No workey.

So there I was back transported back to the present in my common kitchen.

Goodbye, Shitstick. Hello Nanna's fork.

Goodbye, Accomplished Appliancist. Hello, Consumer Victim.

Again.


Victim's Note Of Interest: Cuisinart refers to the Smart Stick as a "hand blender" undoubtedly for legal reasons. I'm assuming things could get costly if a consumer immersed something like the Shitstick and sued the culinary giant. But then again, does being a "hand blender" imply the device blends hands?

More Kitchen Calamities? You betcha. Consumer Victim Style! Check out range rage here. More details coming soon!

My First Let-Down

Well, based on a un-normally distributed vote, (where "n" is less-than 30), I've decided to start at the very beginning. When I was screwed as a ten-year old. (a.k.a. My First Let-Down). Let's Go!

"THE MIRACLE OF NATURE", read the ad's headline I stumbled upon in Sports Illustrated.

I salivated.
Little did I know this miracle would lead to my first life-long non-dream of being "TWOCV" (The World's Original Consumer Victim).

For $5.98 - or $7.98 "post-paid," I would receive a miracle incubator from GQF - that's the Georgia Quail Farm - in Savannah, Georgia.

Pictured at right, the incubator was pretty simple: a plastic device that kinda looked like a spaceship. Inside, there was a small heat-producing light bulb and some foil that could be positioned to deflect direct light from the eggs.

This thing would ensure me a miracle?

The instructions seemed to say so. You see, should I choose to follow the directions to a "T", in about 21-24 days, I'd have five baby quail hatch before my eyes: thus, the true "Miracle of Nature!"

My eyes couldn't have been bigger. Nor my heart beating any faster.

I happily drummed-up the $7.98 for the miracle to-be and stuffed the money in a #10 envelope. Including change. Yes, change. Surprisingly, in a little over a week my to-be miracle showed-up via United States Mail at my very own front door.

I read the incubator's instructions. I folded the wire just so. I tested the light and ensured the humidity level was ever so perfect. I was scared into perfection because (per the instructions) too much humidity during incubation would "drown" the baby chicks when they tried to release themselves from their egg; too little humidity and the baby chicks would be stuck to the egg and unable to get out of the shell-like prison.

A few days later, I bolted home from middle school and lo and behold, there was a baby chick in the incubator!

What was I doing at school when there was a miracle similar to the Baby Jesus
going down in my house? The baby Coturnix quail was so cute. (miracle sample picture at right, multiplied by many). About the size of a marshmallow, it was my newest best friend.

I was one proud pappa.

I must have seemed like "Godzilla" to the baby chick. But I was all it had. I'm sure it was bored sitting in it's bright yellow plastic space dome-home. "Let's get outta this dump and do something!", s/he must have thought.

A few hours later, I was graced with the presence of yet another miracle - #2! Yep, another baby chick hatched and I was just as eager to welcome this little baby into the world as if it were my first.

The next day after school, I tore straight for home to welcome #3, #4 and #5 into the world. But to my dismay, when I rounded the corner in the upstairs "playroom turned holyland", there were still just the two miracles.

Just the two of five "miracles."

Hmmmpf.

Another day and another day after that passed and no more miracles.

I was jipped.

After all hope was lost, my disappointment turned to rage. My rage incubated like my un-hatched miracles. Rage then turned to the typewriter. An IBM Selectric, to be precise. I did the only thing I knew: I wrote the Georgia Quail Farm one nasty letter (keep in mind I was ten years old).

I told the GQF a thing or two. I told them how I supervised my eggs. How I carefully hand-turned the eggs multiple times daily. Ensured the heat was just so. And the humidity was "on the dot." Despite all that, three of my eggs were un-miracles! How could this be?

My parents applauded my nasty letter. It was the first sign that I would not be bullied around in the big, bad world.

I was ten. And I felt ten feet tall.

I mailed the letter off in my pre-teen rage, not expecting a response (Yes, I was jaded even before puberty).

A few days later my mom said something came in the mail for me.

A catalog, I thought? No, it was a special box. And in it contained a miniature egg crate complete with two dozen quail eggs.

24 quail eggs!
My joy was soon replaced with sheer fear. What was I going to do with all these eggs of joy to be? The miracle incubator only held 5 eggs... 7 eggs at the most!

So I did what any normal American kid would do... I tugged on my dad's sleeve and presented my case: I needed a bigger incubator. And his wallet was my only hope.

We took a quick trip to a downtown San Antonio "feed and seed" store to look for better incubator. Screw the bright lightbulb and the limited square footage. My eyes and hopes rested upon the Mother Load: the Mercedes of incubators. This uber-techno incubator held more than 24 eggs, was ergonomically-designed, had an electronically-controlled thermostat and if I so chose, an automatic egg turner!

All this for just $40 United States Dollars.

Schwing!!!

Days later I had so many "Miracles of Nature," I didn't know what to do!

Raising quail had became my special hobby. I was ten and I had ten times ten-fold the miracle-babies in my backyard turned farmyard. Each Easter, me and my family colored the miniature brown-spotted eggs and I reveled in the fact that I had made these miracles materialize. And they were just steps away in the yard.

My yard.

Although the Georgia Quail Farm was my first "nemesis," I look back now with fond appreciation. Whomever sent me those 24 eggs probably didn't think s/he'd foster and propel a love for animals in a little kid. During this special time of my life, I learned my heart could grow and love as many animals as I could acquire.


But let's be clear: those 24 eggs were the proverbial "middle finger" of customer service.

Someone who probably thought "Here's your eggs, Mini-Mo-Fo!"

But oh, how customer service has deteriorated ever since.

It's not a surprise the Georgia Quail Farm is still in business. Tonight I visited The Farm for the first time. Online. You see, back when I was a tiny tot, the Internet was non-existent. Visit the GQF online and pay them some respect for they give our wee-ones hope in an time filled with violence, bad news, and unthinkable acts, like 9/11.

Hats off to The Georgia Quail Farm!