Hunting and Foraging in These Modern Times: The Grocery Errand

You know those "Aha!" moments of clarity, that only come along once in a blue moon? I had one of those this morning at the grocery store. I was standing by my little miniature shopping cart (the veritable Goldilocks' porridge of the modern shopping experience -- bigger than a basket, but not so cumbersome as a regular sized cart, maneuverable and sexy as a Mini Cooper), staring down at my grocery list: potatoes, red peppers, toothbrush, chips, …. And it occurred to me how differently I feel about grocery shopping here at home than I do when traveling abroad.

La Boqueria, Barcelona

Overseas, I go searching for ingredients with which to create an interesting and tasty meal. I usually have to go to several different stalls: produce, meat & cheese, wine, bread -- each in their own space.

Produce, Istanbul

Olives, Istanbul

It's always an adventure, perusing the markets for what looks fresh and delicious, maybe even something I've never seen before -- Maybe I don't even know what it is, but, what the hell! Let's try it anyway!

Nuts & Chocolate, Barcelona

Sausage, Beaune, France

Sometimes the shopping even leads to interesting conversations with the locals about how best to prepare our new find -- conversations somehow more real than the typical tourist-local interactions: 'How do I get to the Eiffel Tower?' 'Two glasses of red wine, please.' 'Where are the toilets?'

Fruit stand, Donostia, Spain

Buying a tomato, Barcelona

Cheese, please -- Barcelona

Paris, Barcelona, Istanbul: We take our prizes to our "home" and make that day's meal -- sometimes plain, sometimes not so plain. But never do I feel more like a resident than a tourist than when I prepare a meal with local market-fresh ingredients:

Feasting in Paris

A Light Meal -- Beaune, France

Meanwhile, back in the US, grocery shopping is a chore only slightly more enjoyable than picking up the dog yard. But I still dread it far less than my husband, who invariably glazes over and starts to get the shakes if we're in the store longer than about thirty minutes.

So groceries are my responsibility. And one I want to complete in record speed. I almost feel like my brain clicks a stopwatch as soon as I swoosh through those sliding doors. At the end of the task, the only thing that matters is that we have enough groceries to survive the next week. It's as if I'm expecting the Apocalypse, and the most important survival items are milk and eggs.

Still, I'm only human, and, reliable as they are, I sometimes grow weary of our family's staple meals: spaghetti, Cheerios, turkey sandwiches, taco night! And I do try to avoid pre-prepared foods, what with all their packaging and preservatives. I feel like an Earth-killer just looking at the frozen pizzas, knowing I'll be throwing away not only the cardboard box but also the inner plastic liner that keeps all the toppings in places for lazy bitches like me. (Well, 'recycling' rather than 'throwing away,' but still…)

So, standing there with my list and my sexy cart, I tried to mentally shift gears, gain a new perspective: Just look up and look around. Break out of the mold. What would you do if this were Paris instead of Anchorage? What food looks good, interesting, new? What could I make this week, for instance, with thyme? Or eggplant? Or portabello mushrooms??

What an effort it is to reroute the brain! Honestly, it felt like trying to drag a two-hundred pound block of iron up out of a ditch, that's how entrenched my brain is in the "Just get it done and get the hell out!" approach to the grocery errand.

First off, in the US, even the "real" food, like produce, looks fake. My brain already knows that tomatoes are gassed with ethylene to look red(der). And I've never picked an apple off a tree that looks as shiny as those in the store bins, even after rubbing the bird poop off on my pant leg.

And it doesn't help that the modern grocery store does little to inspire creativity. These huge monoliths just get bigger and bigger, with even Kmart and Walmart expanding into the grocery business with their cavernous Superstores. I know we're all busy busy busy these days, but this aisle was just two aisles away from the frozen food: dog beds, school supplies, some kind of creepy talking kids' toy….

Other than specialty ethnic markets, does the small grocer even exist anymore? In Anchorage, I can tell you they do not. These are just a few items I could have bought this morning while I was also picking up potatoes and peppers:

(Insect repellent in Anchorage, in January? Really?)

So again I reminisce about the travel grocery experience -- France, Spain, Turkey, Italy, New Zealand. Even the "big" stores overseas are maybe half the size of the smallest stores I see in the US. For certain, there are no SUV-sized carts so kiddies can feel like their gas-guzzling parents while they ride around seeking out their GMO Twinkies.

But I digress.

Of course, on the other hand, I can't help but feel faintly queasy about America's wealth and plenty, and wonder what happens to all the foods that pass their sell-by date. So much of the world is hungry, and I have never been in an American grocery store with anything less than fully packed shelves. The bounty is almost overwhelming if you really take it in. I feel very fortunate, and more than a little freaked out by the implications. I mean, what the f*** business does arctic Alaska have selling bananas? In January, even at 89 cents a pound?

Ok, so they're green. And they'll be brown and moldy in about three days. But still.

And how am I supposed to choose an apple out of all these varieties?

Time to calm down, so I head over to the "Natural Foods" department, as if the very air I'm breathing is already more wholesome than that in the rest of the store. But just because the cardboard of the Kashi boxes isn't bleached as white as, say, a Cheerios box, who really knows Kashi's business ethics?

Of course, sometimes I get lucky and spot an old friend from abroad, which I buy as much for nostalgia as for any actual appreciation of the product. Anyone who's ever eaten a Pim's can tell you, they aren't good. But the French are not very good at making cookies (once you've had their cheese, it's easy to understand why), so Pim's was the closest we came to edible junk food while there. Chad was more of a Petit Ecolier kinda guy:

Nevertheless, I look down at my cart, and I've got the same old same old. All purchased in one shop. I'm none too confident about the quality. But I know that when I stumble around the kitchen after a long day at work, I'll find something edible and at least mildly nutritious.

It's not the same excitement I feel when riding my Velib bike through the streets of Paris, laden with bags of fresh-caught mussels, or some new mushroom I've never seen before, and that's a little sad. But it didn't take me all day, either. And when I'm in Paris, I don't have dogs to take running or a driveway to shovel.

In one final effort to keep it fresh, however, I like to think I have the last laugh by using the self-checkout in Spanish (which will have to suffice until French becomes an option). I mostly use it to keep up on my Spanish and because I'm tired of automated voices nattering on at me in English, but I confess a certain delight in noticing the reactions of my neighboring shoppers and the supervising cashier: in general, the whole self-checkout area seems to get a little quieter with a Spanish voice among them. (I also like to think this is somehow altering my permanent super-secret national security file. I may never be granted a travel visa to Cuba because of it.)

And so today's errand will have to tide me over until my next travel adventure. But at least I'll be well-fed when I get there.