May 20, 2008
COMMENT:
The supermarket obstacle course
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I often feel completely stressed out as I leave the grocery store, as if I’d just run a marathon while solving a long algebraic problem in my head at the same time. And, swirling in my head of stress is the guilt that buying groceries is not rocket science; it’s not even weird science. I don’t think it qualifies as science at all (perhaps as math).
Grocery shopping is just that, the simple act of buying groceries for the week (OK, that would imply planning, of which I am woefully lacking). It shouldn’t be stressful. In fact, it could be fun, if I didn’t weigh down my head with a massive list of things to get while looking at the time and realizing I haven’t left myself enough time to do this in any way that might be construed as leisurely.
I walk in and grab a cart and spray to guard against germs. I am fishing in my pocket and discover that it’s empty, and the list I so painstakingly made was left on the counter at home (a list I don’t usually make for some sadistic reason to test my aging memory, but this time I did). The two recipes I want to attempt this week are, therefore, a long shot at getting made — yet — I will do my best to remember the dill, honey, chopped almonds, and pork sausage among other items that are required. I grab the bran muffins and toss them in the cart, then moving onto berries. A plastic tin of blueberries leaps out of my hand as if possessed and lands breaking open to let all the little buggers loose. I briefly think of picking them up. The first rule of the house — if you make a mess, clean it up. I curse under my breath (the negative side of this habit often overshadows the therapeutic benefits). I look around cautiously, and pick about half of them up, then kick the other half under the display — horrible I know — but I have to cram an hour shopping into 30 minutes. (Factoid: July is national blueberry month.)
I scoot over quickly to the raspberries and cull through them when something catches my eye. I look closer and my brain begins to form some word for what I see. A bug. I examine it further and it reminds me of a young cricket. I turn around and snag a manager. He is as perplexed as I am. Entomology is eluding us both. (Factoid: Charles Darwin and Vladimir Nabokov were noted entomologists.)
The manager offers that the raspberries come from Chile, so who knows what kind of extraordinary creature it could be. Now I feel additional guilt that the raspberries come from Chili and my carbon footprint has just increased by an additional 10 acres of trees. Between that and the potential of swallowing some foreign bug particles resurrects an image of Sigourney Weaver that will never quite wash from my memory. Nausea sets in because I have had half a banana and some M&M’s for breakfast, so I smartly put back the second batch of raspberries and head for the bananas, which probably come from Columbia and reconcile that this is closer to me than Chile.
I move deeper into the jungle of vegetables searching for dill, spinach, and broccoli. I find broccolini. What is this exactly? (Factoid: it is actually a natural hybrid of the cabbage, a cross between broccoli and kai-lan — Chinese broccoli, Stop and Shop’s description — a delicate flavor with a subtle peppery edge.)
As I continue to search, I spy what looks like orange cauliflower. How did this happen? A mistake in the farmer’s patch? Forced breeding with a carrot? Are these new veggies of the 21st century? I am completely positive that I never ate orange or purple cauliflower when I was a budding young thing. Is this a result of playing with plant genomes? The cynical side of me says look deeper. Some band of scientists and farmers are playing with our food, plying apart the DNA like a jigsaw puzzle and saying — hey, mom, look what I can do — purple bell peppers! Maybe they’re just being artistic, I mean, orange zucchini is certainly more interesting at the dinner table than green zucchini, and less argument producing.
Now, I speed passed the deli counter and know there’s no way I’ll have time to wait in a crowd two lines deep, so I venture to get juice boxes in the next aisle. With my head turned to the far left, I’m pondering picking up chicken breasts as I make a right turn toward the juice and nearly careen into a tiny elderly woman that I am sure is going to scream “where’s the beef?” at me, because she reminds me of that infamous commercial — but she doesn’t, and I slink by making sure that lost children are not underfoot or wheel, and grab the juice. I manage to make it down a few more aisles with no mishaps other than the fact that there has been no sign of dried dill, in which case I grab dried cilantro and hope that that isn’t a ridiculous substitute, even though I know they taste wholly unlike each other.
Then the worst happens. I’m looking for sliced olives when the aisle gets crowded and I am trying to get around two high school boys debating the difference between baking soda and baking powder (no really), and a mom with three grumpy children, and my heart is reaching out to her, when I trip on my own shoe, ankle pops and I crash my arms into the pickle section. Not one, not two, not even three jars of pickles crash to the floor, but five in total and the sound is deafening. Time stops. Is the store being robbed? No, it’s just me kneeling in pickle juice and glass and my face is hot enough to melt off my head.
The students help me up and brush me off, an incredibly kind act. The manager comes over and asks if I need medical attention and the official mop person strolls down the aisle with no concern whatsoever, and I don’t blame him. I mean what kind of idiot breaks five large jars of pickles. Awkward is not the word. I actually will myself to be invisible, because if I ever had a reason beyond the fifth grade, it was now. Where o’ where is Harry Potter’s invisible cloak when you need it? Alas, it was not to be and I limp onward propelled by time and perseverance, as if attempting to cross the Gobi Desert. (Factoid: there are exactly six kinds of pickles — Gherkin, Kosher dill, Polish, Lime, Bread and Butter, and Swedish. I believe my casualties were of the dill variety).
When I get to the eggs, I nearly bend down in gratitude to pray and heavenly horns go off in my head. However, I hold onto the one ounce of dignity I have left, besides, my knees are still wet and sticky (they are as noticeable as sirens) and are now starting to sting. Was there glass imbedded somewhere in my skin? Keep moving, I mutter. Even though the milk was usually a hop, skip and a jump away, on this tricky day, nothing good was to be expected. I carefully steer my way over to the dairy products and gingerly hoist my milk choice into the cart.
Hallelujah.
Yogurt, frozen waffles and bread. The end is near. Somewhere on my body, something is beginning to throb. My ankle? My elbow? I ignore it like a true warrior and wage on. I grab two loaves of bread and, knowing they were unbreakable, throw them into the cart of death.
And just as I am thinking, hoping, praying, in fact, that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, someone I know pops right into view. How insanely inconvenient. I turn on my heels and grab a paper to camouflage, well, as much as possible. A ridiculous image of Peter Sellers as Jacques Clouseau comes to mind. Yet, all for naught. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and thus begins the explanation of my journey of “deliverance” through the store, a story I did not have time for.
Nothing breaks at the cashier and I count that as a hugely monumental sign of hope that I might make it out of the store alive, and I had actually remembered to bring my wallet this time. I pay and begin my exit. I need to get up to the school in 10 minutes.
I go outside and stop for a moment to breathe in some icy, fresh air, and to ask the gods for forgiveness because surely I had angered them in some way that is escaping me. The sky is threatening rain and I feel a few drop on my hands. The wind blows my hair up and then down into my face. It’s cold and my knees sense it through my wet jeans immediately. I take a long deep breath and drive my cart into the parking lot. I push it left. I can see the car as I turn down the aisle, and my aching, embarrassed body starts to relax.
Suddenly, a car backs out in front of me too fast nearly hitting the front of my cart. I swerve the cart while simultaneously pulling it backwards to miss the back end of the car. In the end I take more care to miss his car then he does to miss me. In the swerving and pulling, and the ache in my legs, the full cart starts to tip over in slow motion and my muscles are no match for it. The car slams on its breaks, as the cart hits the ground sideways and my eggs spill out first along with my roasted chicken.
For the love of God, is all I can think — this cannot be happening.
My hands are ringing from the pain of attempting to save all my sacrificial work, and I am back on my knees again, cursing, crying and laughing all at the same time. The man jumps out of his vehicle and is red with mortification. He asks me over and over if I am all right. Two other moms come to my rescue (one of them had witnessed first hand the pickle imbroglio), and help to dust me off and fish through salvageable groceries. The eggs are a mess and one jar of jam, but the rest make it into the back of my car with complete insignificance. I now have three minutes to make it to school, but I know better that to rush. The entire universe is screaming at me to slow down, and I finally take notice. (Factoid: the highest incident of accidents takes place at the post office. This is no consolation.)
The very lovely mom who had witnessed my two “situations,” whispers with all the thoughtfulness in the world — “Go home and have yourself a nice glass of wine tonight, you deserve it.” I don’t have the heart to tell her I do not drink. Yet, after the kids are down to sleep, I eat an entire chocolate bar in one sitting while I ice and bandage my knees, my suburban battle scars, and vow never to go down the pickle aisle again, ever.
(Factoid: Chocolate contains alkaloids which have pleasant physiological effects on the body. It has been linked to serotonin levels in the brain. Scientists claim that chocolate, eaten in moderation, can also lower blood pressure.) Two natural effects I was in desperate need of, and on this night, guilt could not find me.
© Copyright 2008 by Hersam Acorn Newspapers
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