Endcaps and Handicaps

I know that you’ll feel better when you send us in your letter and tell us the name of your, your favorite vega-table.

Until last year, Anne and I always lived within a very short walk to a grocery store. It was not unusual for us to go to the store almost every day of the week when we lived in Highland Park. Here, we do have two smallish, last century food stores with the requisite deli meats, breads, produce, and overpriced canned food. Quaint, but not exactly places we can afford to rely on. And the shiny new Whole Foods that just opened this week adds a remarkable dimension to our walkable options—especially if we’re in the mood for the chocolate fountain or a $30 quiche. But, most of the time, we drive to the Stop ‘n’ Shop on Sunday mornings and buy the whole week’s food in one highly choreographed, dual-pronged food-gathering operation. In a division of labor that reveals our different family backgrounds, Anne burrows into the produce section for almost the entire visit (often a half hour of eying and prying those colored things that grow in the ground). She handles the meat and fish purchases, the breads, and the dairy stuffs. Me? I comb for “deals,” calculating per pound advantages and overpurchasing particularly winning sales items. I also get breakfast items like cereals and syrups, and I collect sweet things or supplies for my next baking adventure. We meet at last in the bakery where, traditionally, we buy a cinnamon roll or muffin and proceed to the checkout. My undiminished bagging skills then save us, oh, twenty seconds or so, and we are on our way. Giants kickoff is upon us.

I’m reminded of the Ginsberg poem that celebrates supermarkets and Walt Whitman—a fine link to Emile’s posts, if you care to look into it. Here.

But I really started in this way to raise the question of What are you eating these days? I have had my food issues in the past year, and I have become ever more conscious of partially hydrogenated oils, high fructose corn syrup, soluble and insoluble fiber, and the rich scientific euphemisms on just about every cereal box and packaged food. For a while, I was absolutely sworn off of restaurants and anything with more flavor than, say, “maple.” And even now that I’m generally back to normal, I find myself in an ongoing nutritional psychomachia, weighing the desires I still have for food that is unquestionably bad for me with my reasoned commitment to taking care of myself.

Food fascinates me, but not in the ways it is supposed to. Way back when, I embarrassed myself by refusing to eat the salad at the dinner meant to celebrate my high school academic achievements, and I can still see Father O’Neill shaking his head at my fussy, narrow tastes. I’m still afraid of fancy restaurants, especially when every dish has orange or lemon in it and my colleague has just asked for the wine list. And, while I’ve graduated into a respect for vegetables, I wrinkle my nose at anything with mushrooms in it and, sadly, most kinds of fruit. What is that?

Anne has greatly expanded my food breadth, and I’m happy to report that our home-cooked meals get better and better as the years pass. I think it’s a true sign of middle age that we now prefer to eat at home. So, yes, this post ends again in a praise of the domestic sphere. Okay, I’m not Charles Lamb. (Mmmm…lamb.) But I hope you haven’t minded my excursion into the cupboards. I imagine blogging as a way to bring out thinking that doesn’t otherwise get a chance to come to a boil (food metaphor…nice). I could be wrong.

Call any vegetable
Call it by name
You’ve got to call one today
When you get off the train
Call any vegetable
And the chances are good,
Oh, the vegetable will respond to you.