I’m not sure what it is, but I become a different person in these atmospheres. Everyone has their thing–road rage, family gatherings, or coworkers that put them in the red. My thing happens to be in more socially congenial places…like the local shopping market.
For whatever reason–I call it efficiency, Bryan no-doubt would consider it neurotic–I don’t like ‘hanging out’ in grocery stores. I come in with a list; I expect to find everything on my list in under about a half an hour (depending on the magnitude of the recipe at hand) and I like to see that there is only one person in line ahead of me at the checkout with a dozen eggs. Rarely has this been the case. In my more domesticated home in Texas, I’ve gotten craftier with recipes, ventured farther with ingredients I’ve never heard of, and typically decide to perform this shopping operation on the choicest of ‘less-crowded’ days…Saturday or Sunday. So you can imagine my vehement feelings towards Tom Thumb one Saturday afternoon as I was looking for the [cursed] pine nuts and italian blend seasoning. I split my list with Bryan and went off on my merry way. Why are the nuts not with the other nuts? Why is there no italian seasoning blend?–no, I’ve really read all the labels at this point. After three shopping attendants finally direct me towards my prizes, I don’t even want to make this recipe anymore. And then I find Bryan, leisurely looking for the second item on his list or about ten and I’m out. And what’s this about people looking through their shopping carts at the check out, like they are cautiously selecting which item they think would look prettiest on the belt first. Get on with it people! I am a double-fister; a carton of pop, a jug of milk, and bread all in one fell swoop. This is the market; not a lounge.