Goodwill Hunting

For a multitude of reasons that I will discuss in a forthcoming post, I started contemplating the acquisition of a bread machine over the weekend. An odd thing to contemplate for one who doesn't each much bread, who didn't grow up in a house with a bread-baking tradition (Jiffy cornbread mixes and Bisquick were good enough for Mum, although on extra-special occasions when I was a little kid, she'd whip up some Parker House rolls) and who has never in her life even contemplated baking bread from scratch herself.

And yet now I'm a person with two bread machines. Go figure!

"But bread machines aren't cheap!" you say, Gentle Reader? You would be right, more or less. The be-all-end-all of bread machines (at least for some folks), the Zojirushi BBCC-X20, sells in most places for $214 and some change. For that price, admittedly, you get some nice features (whose usefulness may not be so, but what do I know?). After all, it's made in Japan, home of the world's best and most amusing toilets. If a Japanese toilet can warm your ass, lift and lower the lid automatically and play chimes to cover up the sound of your biological processes--along with releasing deodorizing spray to cover up the smell of them, imagine what a Japanese bread machine can do!

Ugh, forgot I said that. I don't want you imagining what a Japanese-made bread machine can do. That's just sick and sad, Gentle Reader.

Of course, lower-end models are also available. With fewer features and without the dependability and durability (from what I've read) of Japanese-made machines (yes, Zojirushi is the Honda of kitchen appliances), the quality-to-price ratio of these also-rans proves the dictum about getting what you pay for. And I'm not terribly keen on paying $50 to $100 for a machine that konks out after a few loaves. (That's also why I buy Hondas.)

So if a person with a hankering to experiment with bread-making without doing all the hard work doesn't have the funds to make her experiment a reality, what's she to do? Give up? Suck it up and try bread-making the old-fashioned, calorie-burning, bicep-building way?

Hell no! She goes to Goodwill!

Adventures in Trash-Diving
As several bread machine message board folks noted, many people are reluctant recipients of bread machines. Nothing says love or admiration or best wishes, I suppose, in the minds of some gift-givers like a bread machine. So these reluctant recipients might try out that machine once or twice or, if you're in the market for a super-cheap bread machine, pitch it at the local Goodwill or other thrift store without even bothering to open it.

With such tales of majorly discounted finds in mind, I stopped off at the local Goodwill store on my bike ride home from the gym yesterday. Sure enough, the store had a machine on its shelves, one from Welbilt, a brand I'd read about with largely positive reviews online and made in Japan to boot. However, instead of an unopened or barely used gem, the Welbilt Bread Machine ABM-350-3 available for $12 at my local store had clearly been used: The bread pan had a few scratches, and the well into which the pan goes had a number of crumbs inside. Given its condition and given that I was on my bike and didn't have any money on me, I left it sitting on the shelf for another seeker.

However, the experience gave me hope. And yes, Gentle Reader, I know how ridiculous I sound. Buying any kind of appliance that uses electricity from a thrift store is a situation rife with danger. You could overpay (yes, I am that cheap). You could wind up with a machine that doesn't work at all. You could wind up with a machine that's a household hazard that fries your house's electrical wiring the moment you plug it in and turn it on.

I raced home and shot an email to the husband, telling him about my find and telling him about my sudden, overwhelming desire to go Goodwill hunting. I told him I knew the risks, and I'm not just talking the dangerous appliance risk. Here in Austin, Goodwill and other thrift stores are not just for folks of modest means. No, it's not uncommon to see a Mercedes, a BMW or other high-end luxury cars (and not beat-to-hell, old models either!) parked out front. "Shabby chic" might be a long-dead trend, but bargain- and just plain crappola-hunters abound here in Austin. Which means some hoity-toity, Bimmer-driving soccer mom could get that cheap, barely used Zojirushi before I did! Dammit, that's how urgent my desire was to hit the Goodwills.

Of course, Goodwill hunting requires strategy, just as garage sale-going does. You don't hit the ones in the ghetto if you want good stuff. No, you hit the ones near "better" neighborhoods. While such a strategy typically works, it also has its downside: Being in proximity to those Bimmer-driving soccer moms means those bitches might get your stuff before you do. Now can you understand my urgency, Gentle Reader?

At this point I have to give kudos to the husband because he managed to surprise me in his response to my email. Not only was he supportive of my Goodwill hunting, he actually wanted to join me in it as soon as he got home from work. Why is this surprising? Because he'd once made known to me quite clearly his distaste for thrift stores and thrift store purchases. (Now when I told him as much later in the evening, he said he felt so such thing and didn't recall ever saying it. Perhaps I was wrong, or perhaps he had changed his mind or his feelings hadn't been that strong. Who knows.)

So with the husband on board and enthusiastic--for he shared my curiosity and enthusiasm for exploring the world of bread-making--we headed out shortly before 5 with three particular destinations in mind.

Store #1
I figured finding anything at this location at a relatively major intersection in north Austin was a long shot. Given its size and location and predilection for attracting Bimmer-driving soccer moms, I really didn't think we'd find anything except the "usual" collection of frighteningly antiquated kitchen goods.

How wrong I was!

After touring the fairly large collection of books while listening to this poor toddler wail in a heart-wrenching and ignored plea for food (trust me, Gentle Reader, the kid really had to be suffering to wrench my heart, the husband and I strolled along the racks of dresses (Frugal bride tip: Send your bridesmaids to Goodwill with the instructions to get whatever dress each one likes all in the same color because it's totally doable, at least at this location) and ambled back to housewares. The section was fairly sizable and did in fact have a large collection of frighteningly antiquated kitchen goods. But what fun to poke through them and have a laugh!

Then there on the back wall, sitting amongst shelves of old, nasty-looking microwaves and toasters and toaster ovens and fondue pots from the '70s, we found them. Side by side. Waiting for us.

What you're looking at, Gentle Reader, is a Welbilt Bread Machine model ABM-100-3 and a Salton Breadman model TL555LC. (The R2-D2-looking one is the Welbilt.)

As you can see, they're covered in price stickers, but let's make this fun, shan't we, Gentle Reader? Guess how much the two of 'em combined set me back. No, really. Guess.

Nope, not $24. Go lower.

Nope, not that low.

Okay, you suck at guessing, Gentle Reader. The pair together with tax cost $15 and some change. Yeah, that's right--just a few bucks more than the one I saw that morning. The R2 unit was $6 and the Breadman was $8. When I got around to taking off the stickers this morning, I saw they'd originally been marked for somewhere in the teens--maybe $12 like that other Welbilt.

I was thrilled but cautious. After all, I had no way of knowing before buying them if they even worked. Nevertheless, we loaded up our purchases, pleased as punch, and opted to keep looking because the two we'd found might turn out to be duds (hopefully not duds that would involve reimbursement from homeowners insurance and electrical contractors) and because, hey, the husband and I actually have a secret fondness for poking around collection of old shit just to see what we can see. Antique malls are great for that, and so too are Goodwills!

Store #2
Our second destination was not so much a Goodwill store but its north Austin outlet. I honestly had zero expectations for finding anything here, but I was curious to see what kind of stuff winds up at a Goodwill outlet--that stays open until midnight. Yeah, midnight, Gentle Reader.

And find out we did! Woo boy, if you've ever had fantasies about rummaging around a garbage dump, then hit your local Goodwill Blue Hanger Outlet. The big warehouse had about a dozen very long rows of tables upon which were lined up large, shallow plastic bins. Upon entering the warehouse, we could see that what those bins contained was, well, largely garbage.

Want a cracked, ugly-ass vase from the '60s? Goodwill Blue Hanger Outlet has it. Want one little girl's white patent-leather dress sandal, size unknown because the shoe's so worn? Goodwill Blue Hanger Outlet has it. Want old photos from the FSM knows who? How about an old-fashioned sticky-page photo album to store them in? Well, you're in luck because Goodwill Blue Hanger Outlet has 'em.

Scary confession: As much fun as it was finding the bread machines, wandering those rows of refuse bins, poking around but trying hard not to touch was a helluva lotta fun. One guy had found himself an old curtain rod and was using it to rummage through the bins, so pin one on him for his ingenuity. But really, Gentle Reader, if you ever want to see what happens to the shit and shinola you toss Goodwill's way and feel moderately guilty over "donating," then go to a Blue Hanger Outlet.

Scary confession #2: We bought two items there.

As we were headed out, I just had to gawk at the wedding dresses for sale. I'm a sucker for wedding dresses, especially ones that have been tossed off by former brides. While I laughed at the '80s-style beading and sequins, the husband glanced into a shopping cart beside the rack that was filled with...well, maybe it was just garbage and maybe they were items some shopper had been forced to abandon for lack of funds. Whatever the reason, the husband suddenly lit up: He'd found a pack of playing cards from Lucasfilm. These weren't ordinary Star Wars-themed cards. No, these had been gimmes at some kind of job fair or recruiting event, for a link to Lucasfilm's online HR was printed on the box. A quick count revealed only one was missing, but did that deter the husband?

Yeah, that's right. Hell no.

And since he was buying something, I decided I'd go ahead and get the brand new-looking "I Used to Be a Plastic Bag" bag from Whole Foods. Not that I need another damn reusable grocery bag, but...hey, it's there.

Grand total for this stop: $1.08. Hot damn!

Since it was only 6 p.m. and we were high on our luck, we decided we'd trek out to the final location on my gotta-hit list. It's located near the park at Brushy Creek and seemed like it might be promising for a few reasons. For starters, it's near a more affluent area of the more rural 'burbs, where those die-hard-yet-monied rednecks buy several acres on which to build their McMansions because that need for lots of space away from them city slickers just has to be met--those same die-hard-et-monied rednecks who probably wouldn't be caught dead parking their ultra-expensive SUVs and pickups in front of a Walgreen's, let alone shopping there. Secondly the Goodwill store is housed in a building that looks a helluva lot like a Walgreen's except (a) was built new for Goodwill and (b) is across the parking lot from a Walgreen's.

Store #3
While this location is near a redneck-but-monied area of Austinville (that's how I think of all the rinky-dink towns that ring Austin that once were somewhat distance from the city but are now basically suburbs filled with expat Austinoids seeking lower property taxes) with a population that wouldn't be caught dead shopping at Goodwill, it's also a fair distance from the crunchy-granola tie-dye-wearing overgrown hippies and wannabes who live in Austin who discard the more interesting stuff, such as bread machines. I can't imagine redneck brides and grooms being gifted with such things. Their "thanks but no thanks" gifts would probably include Texas Hold 'em sets, their dozenth set of BBQ tools and countertop rotisseries. And yes, Gentle Reader, we did find one or two countertop rotisseries at this location.

My instincts proved true here. No bread machines. But we did find a few pieces of blue cornflower Corningware (that'll spark some nostalgia), a big set of Legos up for bids (yes, Goodwill of Central Texas holds weekly auctions for some items to try to capture a share of the auction market that eBay hasn't already captured) that the boy would probably love but doesn't need, as well as a Combi (made in Japan!) stroller that I would have loved to have had back when the boy might have needed one. Okay, we actually did have a Combi back when the boy might have needed one, but it was much bigger and bulkier than this model, and it was barely used since the boy was a big fan of being carted about in his Hip Hugger sling.

Empty-handed but not full of despair, we left and headed down the street for the latest addition to the Half-Price Books family. There I bought four books of recipes for bread machines. Yeah, I know, four kinda seems like overkill, Gentle Reader, but you're thinking that about a woman who had, at the time of purchase, two bread machines in her car. Chew on that, Gentle Reader.

The Morning After
Since it was damn near 8 p.m. by the time we got home and I was famished, the husband and I hauled our booty in to the kitchen and just left it there. Overnight, I concocted a plan that I thought would allow us to safely test basic functioning of the bread machines without putting ourselves and our home in too much potential jeopardy.

This morning after breakfast, I set up a power strip on an isolated socket in the kitchen. While the husband watched and my feline children did their best to be either underfoot or directly in my way, I plugged in one machine with the power strip off, then turned on the power strip and prayed for the best. Luckily, both machines lit up without any smoke, sparks, groaning, release of ozone or other signs of faulty electricity flow-through. Huzzah!

Unfortunately, I won't know for a few weeks to come if they really work because I've had to order replacement kneading paddles for both, and they'll take some time to arrive. By then, we should be all ready for a full-out test. The husband's identified a few recipes in the books I bought that he's keen to try out, and I'm already preparing a mental list of ingredients I need to make sure we have on hand for the big event.

Oh, and we plan to add some blue painter's masking tape to the Welbilt machine so it'll look more like R2. It's the least I can do to get my Star Wars-loving boys excited about this little experiment.

Which begs the question, Can we here at Chez Boeckman-Walker become bread bakers? Stay tuned, Gentle Reader, to find out.