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Mar. 21, 2007
Young samplers in glove
The gloveThere I was, there I was, there I was, IN…the Whole Foods…

Recently, various two-person teams from Clif Bar have been heading out to various stores to try our hands at sampling tasty morsels to taste chasing mortals. Specifically, Clif Nectar (our 100% organic fruit & nut bar). Last week, Amy and I got to head out together; to chop, sample, converse, guffaw, all the usual antics. And then some.

There comes a time in every food sampler's life when they have to 'don the glove.' It keeps the food safe and sanitary for the eater and it helps the wearer feel—if only for a few hours—like they either stuck with premed or at the very least landed a sweet non-speaking role as an intern on ER. Both pay roughly the same. But I digress.

Getting those little suckers on isn't as easy as it used to be. Why (enter wavy visual effect), I remember a time when I held my elementary school record for fastest glove installation, but now…well I've hung up that paper hat. Damn little Ricky Carlisle for wiping my record from the books on that otherwise mundane spring afternoon in '01 (Library of Congress; food service records; 2001). Either I've gotten bigger or the gloves have gotten flimsier, and I know it's not the first one.

So here we go. I went to put my first glove on my right hand and it ripped. "That's ok," I thought, "the mortality rate of gloves in such situations is well documented." So I tried again, and that one ripped! "Uhh." Then—looking to change my luck—I tried putting one on my left hand. Though it fought me a bit, it went on all the way and in one piece. Or at least far enough so the webbing 'tween my fingers was minimized and the glove was functional.

"Yess! (arm pump) Yess!"  My assumptive takeaway from the left handed success was that by applying a little gingerly conviction and pulling the entire glove on at once—rather than inching it delicately onto each finger—I might avoid another right handed failure. So here goes. Aaand nope—there goes glove #3. Amy, meanwhile, can barely breathe because she's laughing so hard at my glove'iculties (she's got a great laugh though, so it's all good). Thanks for the support, Ames.

Down to my last glove and realizing I was fighting a losing battle, I placed my right hand into the glove just enough so that the fingers were minimally sheathed. While the hand completely lacked function for serving products it was at least 'covered', and if kept out of the way would do no harm.  They call me…Meat Hook.

For the next 122 minutes things were hunky dory. We did some great left-handed sampling and some great conversations were spawned. Then, twenty minutes prior to clean-up a pinhole on my left hand gave way and split even that glove! I was at that point rendered useless as a server and concentrated my efforts on mime'ry, witty banter and the minimal exposure of my hands.

My advice for next time: BYOG.
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Office Life

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We like getting our heart rates up, taking a big breath of fresh air, savoring delicious food. But we also love telling stories and here's where we type 'em up. (BTW, it works both ways; leave a comment—please and thank you.)

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