I love grocery shopping; it encompasses two of my favorite things: making a list and crossing things off of a list. The grocery store itself is a wonderland full of excitement, intrigue, and fresh produce.
The adventure begins with cart selection. No easy task. There’s the holy grail of all carts: the coveted pink race car cart that seems to elude us all. I’ll never forget the day I saw it there, unattended, in all it’s pink glory. I skipped toward it and grabbed it’s sleek handle while thinking, ‘What luck!’ Then I realized I had left my daughter at home with her father. My embarrassment was only enhanced by the shoving match that ensued with a set of five-year-old twins, but when you get the pink race car cart, you don’t let go.
It wasn’t until I reached the back of the store that I discovered the cart wouldn’t turn left without ample muscle, sly maneuvering, and a fair bit of swearing. I had to apologize profusely to a woman in the pasta aisle. “I didn’t mean to teach your son such a colorful adjective, but let’s face it, he’d probably pick that up in preschool anyway.”
I made it to the produce section. I love playing a game called, “Stump the Produce Manager.” I try to come up with a vegetable he has never heard of. So far the score stands at: Produce Manager–12, Me–0, but I’m an optimist so I keep playing. “I’m looking for some celeriac today, Stan.”
“Celeriac is right over there by the turnips.” Stan tells me. “What are you making?”
“Nothing. I actually thought ‘celeriac’ was a yoga position until just now. See you next week, Stan.”
A quirk I have while shopping: I talk to myself. In a British accent. Out loud. My husband assures me it’s not a life-threatening condition but it does cause me some unwanted stress. I picked up a phallic-shaped butternut squash and before I took note of the unmistakeable shape, I announced in my best imitation of The Queen, “This is really small; I’m going to need two of these.” It was then that I noticed the shape and that two people were standing directly behind me when I made my announcement. I can never shop here again. I may have to move. Probably to another country.
I decided that a trip to the alcohol section of the store was necessary. The pink race car cart prove rather tricky to negotiate around all those booze-filled shelves and I got stuck behind a woman pondering the wine selection. “I love a good Pinot Noir. But I also enjoy a light Reisling. What kind of wine do you like?” she asked.
“Grey Goose,” I replied and squeezed past her.
Everything is checked off the list, including my dignity, so I pay and head to my car. Grocery shopping is done. Now all I have to do is drag it all upstairs, put it away, prepare it for dinner, and then clean it all up. I should have gotten two bottles of Grey Goose.