Somehow the Hot Chick with a Gun Slipped My Mind When the Feds Came Knocking

I was cooking a beautiful strip steak last night when there was a knock at the door. I looked out and three black Suburbans, blue and red lights flashing, sat facing the house and four obviously armed men in suits were standing at my door. A woman, also in a suit, was standing behind them, her right hand on a compact 9 mm Sig Sauer laser-sight P290 (I watch a lot of cop shows).

I turned off the stove and opened the door, being sure to show them my hands were empty. The woman eased her hand off the butt of her gun.

“Mr. Brophy . . . It’s been reported to us that you have well beyond the legal limit of salt in your house,” said the extraordinarily large fellow to the right.

“Well,” I stammered, “I have some salt, but I don’t think I’m over the limit.

“We tracked a purchase you made yesterday of a pound of Diamond Crystal kosher salt, and that, according to our records, put you over the limit. We need to check your kitchen and pantry.”

He handed me a folded piece of paper . . . “Food Warrant” headlined the large type at the top of the page.

I pushed the storm door open and they came in.

Quickly opening cabinet doors and going through my tall stand-alone pantry cabinet, they poked and prodded boxes and bags, pulling all sorts of spices into the open and placing them on the kitchen table. Now I’ve always had a soft-spot for an attractive woman packing a 9mm on her hip, but, please, rounding up my salt oversupply was a bit much even for me.

They were done in a few minutes . . . and separated the salt variety gift I received from the Kosher salt . . . then the flavored salts I’d purchased. All in all, two pounds of Kosher salt and one pound of grey salt and one pound of sea salt. Busted.

“Mr. Brophy, you’re two pounds over your monthly salt allotment,” said Gigantor in a suit.

I argued a bit, but knew that there was no real arguing with the Food Police. He handed me a ticket . . . then headed for the door. Gun girl turned and wished me a “nice day.” Really? Nice day?

As they reached the door, the big guy turned and said, “I see you have a couple of boxes of Frosted Flakes there on top of the refrigerator,” Mr. Brophy. “Be careful not to add to that this month . . .  and watch your OJ purchases, too . . . sugar’s bad for you, you know.”

And with that they were gone. I put the salt back where it belonged, watching the black Suburbans head out the driveway.

Damn, I’ve got to remember to buy that stuff with cash. Reminding myself that the Food Police can track anything, and come knocking at the door when I least expect it . . . and end up screwing up my now-well-done steak.