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Every time I buy groceries at Whole Foods, it becomes quite clear as to why it has been at least three months since my last trip – it takes approximately that length of time for the horror of shopping there to fade from my mind. Today was not any better.
As if wandering about the produce area for fifteen minutes looking for the inorganic zucchini was not irksome enough, once I escaped that level of hell, I was trailed by a guy who might possibly be the most tedious man on the face of the earth (or, at least, the Commonwealth of Virginia).
On and on he went in a very loud, whiny voice pontificating that “it is not what in particular one eats, but the important thing is to eat a varied and balanced diet.” I have no issues with his premise, in fact, it is a theory to which I subscribe. However, to hear that blowhard lecturing his mother (mother-in-law? nanny?) for three isles of grocery shopping in his oh-so-condescending manner nearly made me start beating him about the head with my $7.99 per pound pork loin roast (and why, pray tell, do I have to pay three times the amount for a pork loin without additives? ).
The mother (mother-in-law? nanny?) appeared to have fallen into some sort of daze that was only broken when the guy would ask her some inane question in support of his sermon (“What about eating such and such? Would that be good or bad for you?”) or when she would hit me with her grocery cart. Yes, three times she drove her cart directly into me. Not a word of apology or even a blink of acknowledgement. Perhaps she was hoping I would get so angry that I’d put her out of her misery with a large lined-so-there-is-no-dangerous-metal-seepage can of organically grown, fire-roasted (for her pleasure) tomatoes.
I finally got through the last of the dried food isles and saw my escape to the refrigerator case on the far side of the cheese display. Never have I been so happy for the opportunity to buy crème fraiche. Unfortunately, I did not escape without hearing his conclusion that “It is all so obvious to me, I don’t know why more people don’t see it.” Aaack. Whole Fools it is.
[For those who asked… ]
Every family has their Thanksgiving traditions. Our more pedestrian ones call for the dressing to be made from sourdough bread, my father’s favorite creamed pearl onions to be on the table even though he is the only one who eats them, and any and all carrots present must be maple/mustard glazed. But a few years back, at a Thanksgiving dinner at my oldest sister’s home, a new tradition was started.
First, a little background on my oldest sister, JAC, and her husband, SJC. JAC is employed as a cheesemonger at an upscale grocery store and is the family’s resident “gourmet”. She is also, for lack of a more complimentary term, a grazer. She nibbles all day long. She’ll even pick at the food on anyone’s plate that is within somewhat reasonable reach, but for her to share the food off her own plate… nope. And she never serves anyone enough food at one sitting to really satisfy the appetite. There are definite food control issues at play (I won’t even go into “The Cereal Incident” and its aftershocks that can still be felt to this day).
My brother-in-law has also battled with control issues most of his life, but his are mainly anger-related. I am quite proud at the progress he has made over the years (such as he no longer rams other cars with his car), but my sister can try the patience of a saint. So back to Thanksgiving…
JAC had gone to great lengths to procure some special pâté to serve as an appetizer before the big dinner. When she brought it home from the store earlier in the week, she had pointed it out to SJC and specifically told him the reason it was in the house.
So Thanksgiving afternoon rolled around, appetizers were removed from the refrigerator and JAC noticed that something was amiss with the prized pâté. Not only had it been opened, but “someone” had removed a huge chunk from the middle. My sister went ballistic.
In front of everyone, she started in on SJC with how she had explicitly told him why she had bought the pâté (to which he replied that she never told him he could not eat any beforehand). Then she moved on to why he could not have just take some off one end instead of digging it out of the middle (to which he replied that it was just food).
My sister opened her mouth to start in on the third installment of her tirade when SJC picked up the offending pâté, carried it out to the back deck and chucked it about twenty feet into the woods. The problem was solved, JAC closed her mouth and a family tradition was born.
The following Thanksgiving, my other brother-in-law provided a set of custom made wings to help that year's pâté to be more aerodynamic.
After fifteen-plus years of marriage, I am pretty much accustomed to RWT’s spontaneous and rather arcane pursuits…
RWT: “I think I’ll build a sailboat”
MKT: “Sure, honey.”
RWT: “Will please record the weights of all the veggies you pick from the garden so I can run a cost analysis?”
MKT: “Sure, honey.”
RWT: “I’m going to make hammocks to give to our relatives for Christmas.”
MKT: “Sure, honey.”
RWT: “After I retire, I plan on auditioning for Cirque de Soleil.”
MKT: “Sure, honey.”
RWT: “We need to collect all of these acorns and have an acorn side dish this year at Thanksgiving.”
MKT: “Sure, honey.”
As with most of his ideas, I have not a clue as to the origin. I’m not sure if the latest is merely a side-effect of his not getting any REM sleep because acorns have been raining down on the roof of our house for the last three days. Or perhaps it is some sort of karmic payback for the tree dropping a limb on our car. But, whatever the cause, I see acorn processing in my immediate future. I’ll be sure to let you all know how it goes.
