Pigging Out in Utah

Now, I should make it clear from the start that I am a proud Utahan by birth and by choice. I really don't have much patience for people who, for one reason or another, end up in Utah (or sometimes have just passed through) and spend their conversational time bagging on it because it isn't someplace else:

It doesn't have as much rain as Washington
It doesn't have beaches and surf like Hawaii
It doesn't have musical theater like New York
It doesn't have complete nut-jobs like California
It doesn't have as much corn or soybeans as Nebraska
It doesn't have commercial-grade politicians like Illinois

And so on. Those people make me a little grumpy. But in the Spirit of the Holidays I have decided to cut them some slack and ease their burdens a little. So I offer them this:

____________________________________________________

Valuable Coupon! Clip and Carry in Purse or Wallet!

I, Steverino, do hereby completely absolve the carrier of this coupon from any and all obligation to live in, pass through, or even think about, the State of Utah again. Really. You are free to go. We have felt your pain, and have Torn Down the Wall. No hard feelings.
____________________________________________________

But: to show I am actually a reasonable and fair-minded person, I am now going to admit one of Utah's failings. It became patently clear last night when I went to shop for New Year's Eve Pig-Out food. And I had to say to myself, "Toto, we aren't in Wisconsin anymore!"

I had to go to two different stores to buy brie. I found one brand of summer sausage. I had to settle for Western Family Swiss cheese. I'm almost embarrassed to admit what I had to resort to last night. The smallest little hamlet in the northernmost part of Wisconsin has a vastly better selection of sausage, cheese and crackers than the largest supermarket in Salt Lake. As I stood in the middle of Macey's, tapping my heals together and saying, "There's no place like Brennan's, there's no place like Brennan's," I knew in my heart that I was sunk. I wended my way slowly home with with my paltry Utah offerings, and vowed that my next visit to Madison would involve a large ice-chest. Maybe a refrigerated tractor-trailer.

So, you Utah-haters, I'll let you complain about the cheese and sausage. And maybe even the wine. I might even commiserate. Just be careful about the other stuff.