I stopped at the local grocery store the other day to do my
"man bringing home food" thing that I do when the only thing staring
back at me from inside my refrigerator is a can of some sort of despicable beer
that I never did like in the first place and I wish they'd never given to me
but I had to take it because sometimes, well, I'm just too damn nice for my own
good. Up 'til that point I was totally
capable of surviving on a few stale crackers, the scrapings from the bottom of a
peanut butter jar and a decent can of beer.
And yes, in case you're wondering, the lack of decent beer was the
motivating factor.
I keep promising myself I'm going to get better at some of
this stuff, I always mean it and I always fail.
First things first was the beer aisle and then picking up some creamer
for the coffee though I can drink it straight but a touch of cinnamon or
peppermint does me just fine too. And dang if they don't have a sale on my
favorite frozen pizzas. A dozen eggs and
some frozen home fry potatoes and let's get some southern style while we're at
it.
Oh, that's right, I'm here to try to eat better so maybe I
should head over to the produce aisle.
Oh dang, there's the meat aisle and I should get some hamburger 'cause
it's quick and easy and I like it and I don't have to eat a whole bunch of it
all at once and, aw heck, just pick up some hamburger and get over it.
The produce aisle is in sight and I'm pointed directly at it
which is where I thought my intended destination was when I walked in. I put my head down, keep my eyes on all that
green and push the cart for all I'm worth.
The first stop is off to the side where they keep all the
packaged lettuce and spinach and ready to serve coleslaw that doesn't have the
cole or is it the slaw? You know, the
stuff that mom use to mix up in that green bowl of hers. I remember the mayonnaise being dumped into
the bowl in big spoonfuls and then I seem to remember some vinegar, sugar,
pepper and a good shot of horseradish to finish it off. Stir the cabbage and carrots and all the rest
together and then throw it in the refrigerator until it all got cold. Well, that's how I remembered it and what I
was looking at that said coleslaw sure was missing more than a little in my
humble opinion.
I've never been able to figure out which way to go, bagged
or whole, so usually (unless I'm feeling abnormally daring and pick up real,
honest to goodness heads of the stuff) I grab a bag or two of the hearts of
romaine and a bag of spinach figuring that I've more or less got about as much
as I'll use before it all goes bad. And
the truth is that it almost always does go bad.
And every time my thinking is exactly the same as I dump the brown and
juicy bits of vegetation inside that plastic bag into the trash, "Well,
the tamale lady came on Wednesday" or "I didn't have time to do the
chicken for my salad" which is always a lie because quite honestly I almost
always have more than enough for anything and everything including making a
salad with chicken for the next day or "I don't want to bother with
chopping all that stuff up," which is as close to the truth as it usually
gets but on the other hand I turn right around and throw some long grain brown
rice in a pan of boiling water and when it's done throw some shaker parmesan
cheese on it with a big helping of soy sauce and call it lunch.
I'm pretty sure I'm the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of anything
close to healthy eating habits but you should believe me when I tell you my
intentions are truly admirable. No really
they are, but the results are always little
more than business as usual and highly disappointing.
So here I go and it's hard to starboard into the islands
stacked high with bananas, apples, oranges, tomatoes, garlic, grapes plus a
multitude of other things and stuff that I'm really not all that sure about. And to port there's shelves full of broccoli
crowns, red lettuce, jicama, snow peas,
bell peppers of all colors, purple cauliflower if you can imagine such a thing
and so much more.
The thing is I suddenly realize I'm in a part of the store
where it appears guys don't normally venture.
Heck, the beer aisle was full of them and over in the meat department
there were plenty of guys and some with gals going along picking out this and
that. But not here, heck I don't even
see any guys off on the side manning the cart while their women pluck the
garden's gifts and bring them back to their personal ships of treasures. No the fact is that everything I see
spreading out before me tells me this is the domain of the female and the only
way to venture forward is to screw up my courage, put one foot in front of the
other and steer my own personal ship of treasures ahead into uncharted waters.
Stay to starboard, stay small and maybe you'll survive. In another life and in another time long ago
I'd experienced taking the helm of a US Navy destroyer both in calm seas and in
times when you couldn't see the bow of the ship for the water cascading over
the bridge as we slid down one more wave into a trough that would ultimately
lead to us trying to climb up the wall of the next wave as its' top came crashing
down on us.
I noticed I was gripping the handle of the shopping cart a
bit more firmly than normal.
It seemed the only logical thing to do was to find a safe
port and venture out on my own away from the relative security of my wire mesh
ship of treasures. And so I did.
There was no question in my mind that these women were
intent on plucking from this well lit indoor agribusiness garden only the
finest for their families and themselves while all I was interested in was
grabbing a bunch of broccoli and if it had some brown on it so be it because I'd
just cut that part off.
And that's about the time I found myself losing focus on
what I was there for. I mean in an instant my thoughts were quite literally
jerked from lettuce, cucumbers and tomatoes to something far less accessible
and far more tantalizing.
She comes in from my right and seems to be looking for the
very same broccoli I hadn't been aware I was thinking about. She stretches out
beside me to pick up a bunch of perfect broccoli crowns and then straightens up
never saying a word. And then she's gone but her scent remains. A scent that
sends waves of inner emotions and desires through me.
The green onions are a must and as I take up my station another
woman stops to scoop up green beans right beside me. And as she leaves her
scent remains. A freshness lingers that I'd forgotten and suddenly realize how
very much I've missed.
Another woman, another scent, and inwardly I sigh that sigh
of the lonely. I feel I'm so very close to that which my memories tell me was
all that was good and right and which now, in this moment and place, is so very
far from my reality. I silently curse my fortunes, bag up a bunch of bananas, and head for the checkout
aisles.
I suspect it's one of those urban myths of sorts but I swear
that even in the days of "Happy Days" the Fonz once made reference to
going to the vegetable aisle of the grocery store to meet women. I'd be lying if I said the thought never
crosses my mind when I make my way through that part of the store. Maybe while reaching for a green bell pepper
I'll hear a feminine voice say how she so likes them on a freshly tossed salad with
just a splash of vinaigrette or how she has this amazing recipe for stuffed
bell peppers. In my mind that could be the very beginning of something so very
special and magical and wonderful. And in my mind she would smell the smells
I've just walked away from. She would smell fresh and pretty and, well, she
would smell like a woman.
For all I know the vegetable aisle might very well have been
the Fonz's Holy Grail of dating but not for me. It is however a place I both
love and hate to venture into simply because there's more than just potatoes
and watermelons and cantaloupes waiting for me.
There's memories of wrapping a towel around her after she's bathed. There's
memories of her gliding past me as she slides into the car while I hold the
door. There's memories of dancing close. There's memories of her and me side by
side on a couch and her head on my shoulder.
The scent of a woman is something one does not easily
forget.
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