Supermarket voyeurism

You can tell a lot by looking at a person's grocery cart contents. You can also be very wrong in what you can tell by looking at a person's grocery cart contents.


The other day I noticed an older gentleman pacing in the meat department. He was carrying a shopping basket, not driving a cart, and it had just a few single-serve items in it. Lives alone, I speculated. 


Sometime later this same gentleman came up to me and said grumpily, "Where do they hide that tofu stuff? I've looked everywhere."


I did not know where the tofu stuff was kept and could not even hazard a guess, although I did make a show of looking up and down the meat department, as if the tofu might helpfully stand up and say, "Over here!"


I admitted to the man that I could not help him. "My wife sent me on a fool's errand," he muttered.


So much for living alone. Feeling chastised for my wrong conclusion, I refused to speculate on whether the man had a cell phone with which to call his wife for clarification on the tofu issue.


But my small forays into supermarket voyeurism are nothing compared to a certain author whose book I have been reading lately. The author teaches cooking classes and has published a cookbook. At the beginning of the book she admits to engaging in covert observation of fellow shoppers at her grocery store. One day she spots a woman whose cart is filled with boxes and cans, but nothing that is actual food. Curious, she follows the woman around the store, trying to be discreet ("I think by the time we reached the meat department she was on to me," she says).


When the woman happens to remark to the author how expensive the chicken breasts are, the author helpfully points out that whole chickens are on sale for $.99 a pound. 


The woman snorts. "I wouldn't know what to do with the other parts of a chicken," she says. "Or how to cut it up."


Here the author reaches a decision point. Will she, who cherishes the ideal of good, healthy, home-cooked food, let this poor woman continue in her ignorance, and perpetuate that ignorance among her family? Nay, she must rescue her!


In short order, she has arranged for the butcher to show the woman how to cut up the whole chicken, tells her how much cheaper this is than buying the chicken in various pieces, and -- most importantly -- convinces the woman that she is not a crazy person. "Here, look, the store is selling my cookbook." She grabs one from the display and points to her name on the cover. "This is me." She produces her driver's license to verify this claim. 


Gradually the woman is convinced that the author is not a crazy person, and allows herself to be taken back through the store while the author replaces all those boxes and cans with real food -- food that she can turn into nourishing meals using the author's cookbook. Lest the woman think she is merely trying to push her cookbook on unsuspecting store customers, the author buys it for her. "I just want to help you," she says.


This is the beginning of the author's discovery that she has a talent for making strangers nervous in the grocery store. Just kidding! Her talent, of course, is helping transform non-cooks into accomplished, confident cooks, so that THEY can go to their local store and start making strangers nervous.


The fate of that woman is unknown at this point in the book. Once home, did she start to apply her newfound culinary knowledge, or did she promptly throw the cookbook away and let all that precious but alien food die a slow death in the refrigerator?


I am sure that someone as knowledgeable as this author could find something wrong with nearly everyone's grocery cart contents. Particularly me. "What is this?" she might say while holding up a box of graham crackers taken from my cart. She would no doubt be horrified that I often use cooked chicken strips that come in a box. 


But there are advantages to being her. She would probably know where to find the tofu stuff. 

This year, in an effort to break my usual spring pre-planting routine, I successfully restrained myself from visiting every nursery within a day's drive of our home and supporting them by purchasing vast numbers of flowers. Instead, I bought a vaster amounts of flowers at fewer nurseries. (To those establishments that I skipped, my apologies. It's not you, it's me.) 


Visiting a nursery for flowers is not unlike visiting a pet store or shelter: No matter your firm intentions, no matter how many plants or pets you are already in possession of, you just CAN'T leave any at the store. Who knows what terrible fate they may suffer? Of course, with my caretaking skills, the fate of either pet or plant may not be much more positive if they came to reside at my house, but I am speaking theoretically.


And so I generally make the rounds of all the nurseries each spring, Leaving No Flower Unconsidered.


While making my selections, I frequently meet other gardeners who share this philosophy. Recently while I was looking at perennials a woman said to me, "Well, here I am again. Every year I buy all these plants, and every year a bunch die and I start all over again. I should have stock in this place."


"Do you live at my house?" I said.


The Hero has expressed some confusion over perennials. "Why do you have to keep buying them? Aren't perennials supposed to come back every year?"


Theoretically, yes. For me, not so much.


The Hero has occasionally mentioned that perhaps he should accompany me when I shop for flowers, in order to help narrow the choices for me ("Okay, we've got 2 pansies. We're done."). But nurseries can be dangerous for some men. Recently I heard a nursery staff person say to a female customer, "You look like you have a question."


She sighed. "Not really. I was just wondering where my husband went off to."


The staff person's face turned thoughtful. "Sometimes," he said, "when people are wandering around for too long, we kidnap them and put them to work." He said cheerfully, "That's probably what's happened to your husband."


This year, again, the Hero offered to go flower shopping with me. "No, you'd better stay home," I said protectively. "I don't want to endanger you."


"That's thoughtful of you."


"Not really. I'll need you to help me plant all those flowers when I get home."

Men and women on projects

When it comes to doing work around the house, in the yard, etc., there are two types of people. The first type are those who approach all parts of the project slowly and meticulously, take their time, and do not rest until they are satisfied that everything is perfect. Then there are those who think, when I get this done I can work on things that are REALLY important, like watching "Psych."

This would not cause a problem, except that the same type of people are NEVER married to each other. 

There is usually one individual in the household, often but not always the woman, who fits the first description, and one who meets the second description. This is usually the man, though not always. Sometimes it is the family dog.

We personally do not have a family dog, which is probably just as well, because it would be very confused living with the two of us. The Hero would always be playing with the dog, encouraging it to get ALL its toys out at once, and then the two of them would decide to go outside, leaving the house booby-trapped with squeaky toys. Whereas I would forever be trying to teach the dog to fetch, as in "Fetch your bunny, guy. Good! Now put it in the toy basket here, that's right...Now, go fetch the Hero's hammer...That's right, put it in the -- NO, NOT IN THE TOILET!...HONEY, COME AND GET YOUR DOG OUT OF HERE!"

So it is best for us personally to remain dog-free.

When the Hero undertakes a project, he focuses on getting the job done so that he can move on to the next project, or to something fun. I focus on getting the job done, and getting it cleaned up, in such a manner that no one would ever know that any messy job had ever occurred within a hundred feet of that spot.

Our different approaches can be illustrated by a recent gardening project the Hero helped me with. The Hero was to hold the floppy window box liner so I could properly arrange the dirt and flowers inside, then place the liner in the window boxes, which were too tall for me to reach. But his allotted time for this project was roughly 1/10 of MY allotted time, causing the following events to ensue:

Princess: First, we need to --

Hero: (tosses plants into planter and throws some dirt on them) There, it's done.

Princess: (faints) 

Hero: What'd I do wrong?

Princess: (recovering and removing all the plants and dirt from the liner) Well, first I have to loosen the roots, then put in some stones, then fill the liner 1/3 of the way with potting soil -- What?...No, we can't just use top soil -- and then...

Hero: No problem, call me when you're ready for me. (goes to Home Depot, buys various lumber and tools, returns, builds a two-car garage, etc.)

Princess: Okay, I'm ready for you to hold the liner!

Hero: Look what I made! A garage!

Princess: Look at that mess! (faints)

So it is that we both usually stick to carrying out our own projects. As we gradually get used to, and appreciate, each other's way of doing things, however, it is possible that someday we will do more collaborative projects. About as possible as it is that someday we will get a dog. 

May I take your fork?

Having sufficiently recovered from our recent anniversary dinner, we now feel able to resume our earlier discussion of anniversaries, French food, the joys of gluttony, etc. 


We do not often visit fancy eating establishments, mainly because when we do the proprietors look at us and declare imperiously, "Pardon me, but I believe you want the establishment down the street -- big yellow M on the sign, mmmm?"


When they do let us in, as was fortunately the case at the French restaurant we went to for our anniversary, we feel a bit ill at ease. We know that at some point someone who works there is going to realize that we are but simple folk: people who can, and usually do, go through an entire meal with only a single fork.


In contrast, at self-respecting establishments you do not eat your entire meal with a single fork. Or a single spoon, or knife, or plate, or anything else. All of your tableware items are constantly being whisked away the moment you are finished with them. Further, this moment is determined not by you, the user, but by the waiter or the bus person, who may, in their infinite wisdom, determine that you are finished with an item before you realize you are finished with it. "Please, let me get this out of your way," the waiter says apologetically, and as you watch your soup bowl making its way back to the kitchen, borne deftly aloft by the waitperson, you think, I didn't think I was done with it, but what do I know, after all?


In a similar manner, various clean tableware items make a sudden and mysterious appearance before you even know you will be in need of them. To accomplish these feats of appearance and disappearance requires superb communication between the waiter and the bus person. You order the soup du jour, for instance, and on his way to the kitchen to place the order the waiter passes by the bus person, and in that nanosecond transmits to the bus person the fact that you will require a soup spoon. And suddenly there is a soup spoon in front of you.


Who knows how this is accomplished? Perhaps a lift of one eyebrow on the part of the waiter means "the patron requires a fresh soup spoon." A twist of the nose to the right may indicate "the patron is finished with his salad plate." A look of abject horror might convey "the patron has mistakenly laid down her butter knife facing outward; this must be corrected!"


At our anniversary dinner the tableware came and went with alarming stealth, and I grew increasingly wary of the waiter and the bus person. I began to watch them to see if I could determine their next move. Was my salad fork the next to disappear? Would the Hero be allowed to have both a butter knife and a steak knife during the same course, or would they remove one (politely, of course)? I was at a loss to explain why, when I had started the meal with two forks, one was removed during the first course and then promptly returned during the second. I could only figure that there was some etiquette book they were all following, which was not available to patrons.


I do remember reading about butter knives in an etiquette book, and as I recall, the advice was, "Under no circumstances should you place one end of the knife on the table and balance the other against your plate, so making a gangplank. A gangplank has NO place on a proper table." 


I confess that I often make a gangplank with my knife. No doubt this is proof that I do not belong in a fine dining establishment. I do, however, draw the line at marching a little army of peas down the gangplank.


Maybe there is hope for me yet.

Today in history...and now

Many events have happened on this particular day in history, like most other days on the calendar (although statistically, not much can be expected to ever occur on November 3, particularly when it falls on a Wednesday). On May 22, 1931, for example, canned rattlesnake meat went on sale for the first time, in Florida. And in 1965, "Super-cali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious" hit #66.


This is also the day that, seven years ago, the Hero and Princess were married, ensuring that each May 22 thereafter would include, for them at least, the eager consumption of a dessert of some kind.


A couple's first anniversary typically includes the eating of, or at least the looking at, some portion of their wedding cake, which has been reserved for the occasion. In our case we were unable to either eat or look at any portion of our cake on that milestone, because, as my mother informed us, "I ate it." It had been residing in her freezer, but this had occasioned no concern on our part that she would eat it, because MANY foods reside in her freezer for enormously long amounts of time without being consumed. Some of these foods have gone through several stages of fascinating chemical evolution that are unfamiliar even to most scientists.


This year, the wedding cake long having perished, we are dining at a French restaurant in our little historic town. This decision is based on our experience some months ago, in which a chef from this restaurant, at a private party given by friends, introduced us to the full meaning of the word gluttony, and all of us ate ourselves into oblivion. The Hero and I are anxious to repeat this experience.


French food is amazing, by which I mean it contains a lot of butter. In fact, all the ingredients used in any dish, by French tradition, themselves contain a certain percentage of butter, so that when combined they contain roughly 2,000% butterfat. This is helpful to know when reading a French menu, because pretty much all of the words, including salade and sorbet, can be translated as "butter." (The others can be translated as "something taken from a secret portion of some animal.")


We hereby interrupt this post in order to begin our journey into gluttony at the restaurant. Our tale will pick up as soon as the Princess is coherent again.

Are there bikes in Heaven?

When my father first became ill and it looked like he wouldn't be with us long, an acquaintance and I were speculating on what Heaven might be like. She knew of someone who worried that she might be bored in Heaven. "I know it's beautiful, I know it'll be wonderful--but what will we really do?"


We knew, of course, that a lot of singing goes on there, and although we enjoy singing, we wondered whether repeating "Hallelujah" over and over might not get a little monotonous. "Maybe it will be like the 'Hallelujah Chorus,' " I said. "Same words over and over, but you don't really mind because it sounds so nice."


"A friend of mine really loves bike riding," my acquaintance said. "He's looking forward to exploring Heaven on his bike."


The idea that our interests in this life might continue to occupy us throughout eternity gave us both pause. Certainly the thought of zipping around on wheels was not something either of us envisioned.


She confessed that she herself did not have many interests, and expressed concern about what she would find to do in Heaven. I shared her concern.


"Mostly, I like to sleep," I said. "But there's not going to be any night there."


"There is one thing I like to do," she said. "I like to eat."


I reminded her that the Bible refers to a banquet in Heaven, so there must be food. But she looked doubtful.


As much as my father enjoyed life, I know that after his arrival in Heaven he probably wondered why he ever wanted to stay here. The Bible, of course, stresses that everything will be made new--new bodies, new Heaven, new earth. I'm hoping this means I'll finally have some gardening skills. That will be something new.

The blog will take a little hiatus while the Princess's family gathers to mourn the passing of her father, who was always challenging the Hero to a game of euchre, although neither one ever quite got the hang of the rules. He will be greatly missed, and not just for the occasional material he provided for this blog.

Need your garbage cans cleaned? Don't call us

We would like to take a moment of silence to remember a certain large bird that perished on our electrical wires yesterday, sometime before noon. We regret that the bird did not receive an altogether respectable burial by the representative of the local power company, which became apparent only when the Hero came home from work and inquired about the meaning of a bird leg lying in the middle of the sidewalk next door. No services are being held for the bird, who was of unknown residence, and of whom nothing is known other than that it apparently had a very bad sense of direction. Or very bad luck. In other news...


Our small group that meets for Bible study and a healthy dose of sweets each week has been endeavoring to find some type of service project in which we might all participate together. Preferably this would be something involving food, as that seems to be a subject everyone in the group takes an interest in.


But organizations seem to have all the help they need in distributing food to those in need. The first organization at which we inquired suggested that we might engage in an alternative activity, such as cleaning garbage cans. 


The enthusiasm with which this idea was received by the group was somewhat less than perhaps the organization was looking for. It was suggested that the task could be accomplished by power-washing the cans. From 20 feet away.


"Hey, let's just buy them NEW garbage cans," someone said, a suggestion we could heartily support.


For a time this discussion was idled as we got back into the evening's Bible topic. Our leader announced that he had finally hit upon the idea of writing out our assigned verses to read aloud and had placed the slips of paper in a container. The container was an empty box of mints, which was the only thing he had handy at the time, although he promised to try to dress it up or in some manner disguise its prior purpose.


"We could decoupage it for you," one of the women suggested.


"Yeah, we could do it as a service project," I said.


Just as Bob was probably beginning to wonder why he had not pursued some other interest or hobby that would have been simpler than teaching us, such as wrestling wild animals, another voice popped up: "Or, we could just BUY you a new box." Which left us still in search of a project to do.


Further suggestions followed in subsequent meetings: repair a ceiling, perform cleaning chores. Though all had merit, we were having trouble mustering up enthusiasm for any.


"Maybe we could just make lunches, and drop them off somewhere," someone finally said. This brought us full swing to our original idea of involving ourselves in some way with food. We may not be particularly creative, but we ARE consistent.

Bob, meet Bob

At our weekly Bible study meetings, our facilitator, Bob, sometimes assigns the reading of various Scripture portions to us. We are usually glad to comply with this, except for those occasions when our verses contain the names of people or places that are not, and never have been, included in the Top 10 Easiest Names to Pronounce. They might include Jegar-sahadutha, or Habazanaiah, or Nebushasi-hahban. The designated reader might deal with this by conveniently coughing at the exact same moment he or she is reading the unfortunate name ("Then the Lord saideth unto HACK HACK HACK"). In some passages that rely heavily on unpronounceable names, the only words not coughed upon might be and and the.


I notice that despite there being numerous translations of the Bible, no one seems to have hit upon the idea of updating names for today's readers, which would make things a whole lot easier. Some of the better-known names have already been Anglicized for easier reading, of course (Matthew from Mattithyahu, Peter from Kephas, meaning Foot Always in Mouth). But I think we should seriously consider changing other names, such as Joshbekesha to just plain Josh. You think his parents called him Joshbekesha? Please. 


In a recent meeting of our group, one reader came upon the names Ananias and Sapphira, in Acts 5. "I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know how to pronounce these."


"Just call them Bob," I suggested. 


She did, and it wasn't long before the real Bob began to be uncomfortable, as things do not turn out so well for these "Bobs" in Acts 5. Next someone read about Bobs "praying and fasting" in Acts 14.


"Ah," said Bob, "that's more like it."


Another reader was assigned Acts 2, which includes a great deal of nationality names that may no longer even exist, such as Medes, Elamites, Kryptonites, etc. Without hesitating, she began to plow through this list: " 'How is it that each of us hears them in his own native language? Bobs, Bobs, and more Bobs...LOTS of Bobs....' "


Although this solution to reading troublesome names may not stick, possibly it will cause Bob to think that perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea just to read all these passages himself. Either that, or change his name to Bizjothjah.

A good roommate is worth his salt-free diet

The Princess has returned from The Great North, where her father remains in the hospital due to a stroke. Despite his inability to talk or process much of what is going on around him, he frequently expresses his opinion of his hospital experiences by wreaking havoc upon various pieces of equipment, the bedsheets, his extremely flimsy gown, etc.


His opinion on these issues was largely shared by his most recent roommate, whose name was continually being mispronounced by hospital personnel. This was mainly because it rhymed roughly with McGuire but no more looked like it rhymed with McGuire than it looked like it rhymed with Smith. I called him Mr. M, as this seemed a fairly foolproof pronunciation.


Despite this mistreatment of his name, Mr. M was quite cheerful during his stay. He owed much of this, he said, to powerful medications that allowed him to sleep even through all the chaos and noise around him. One downside, however, was that it also allowed him to fall asleep at inconvenient times during the day, such as at mealtime. We would hear him begin his meal with gusto, and soon it would be quiet on the other side of the curtain, and his forehead would be dangerously close to his plate. 


Once he even nodded off while being questioned by a doctor, although I couldn't blame him for this. He was constantly being asked the same questions by different staff, as if the answer would ever change to "So you came in because you were having chest pains?" He never gave in to the temptation--and it must have been strong--to just one time say, "No, I just missed seeing you all since my last visit."


Mr. M had a fair number of visitors, some of whom endeavored to cheer him up in such a way as to make me refer to them, privately, as Job's Three Friends, although there were only two. Mr. M had clearly enjoyed food all his life, and these particular friends seemed determined to send him into High Cholesterol Orbit. They talked wistfully of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and french fries, and lamented with Mr. M that such foods were noticeably absent from his approved hospital menu. During this conversation there would be periodic pauses, as if they were observing a moment of silence for what could never be, and for the fact that Mr. M was confined to such foods as salad--at least as long as he remained in the hospital.


Mr. M told his Two Friends that we were always at our father's side, "holding his little hand." It was not quite true that we were always with him, although Mr. M's frequent lapses into sleep must have made it seem so. This prompted a discussion among them about the general selfishness of today's youth, who show their parents no respect and think nothing of plopping--that was their word--their parents in a hospital when they want to, for example, go on vacation for a few days or weeks. These failings caused much head-shaking among the three.


Mr. M took great interest in the comings and goings of our family, and in my father's well-being. "Hello, James's family," he would say from his side of the curtain when we arrived. His name, too, was James, and he took delight in directing any staff who called him James to my father, particularly if the individual looked as if he or she was bearing any unpleasant items, such as salad. "Nope, that's James over there," he would say.


With his good hand my father frequently fought with his hospital gown. We fought with him fighting with his gown, and rarely won, resulting in what my brother referred to as "wardrobe malfunctions." This highly amused Mr. M, who also suffered from such occasional malfunctions.


"Excuse my skirt," he would say when his gown retreated to places he did not intend it to retreat. "I don't know how you ladies do it, keeping your skirts in order."


One day we saw that Mr. M's name was no longer on the door, and his bed was empty. We assume he got to go home, and we can only hope he does not lapse into a diet of fried chicken and french fries--if for no other reason than to stay out of the hospital and keep those wardrobe malfunctions at bay.

The Princess apologizes for the lapse in blog posts of late. Her father has taken very ill, necessitating a trip to the Midwest to make sure that he is not causing too much trouble for the nurses, her mother, etc. She hopes to be able to resume the care and feeding of the blog shortly.