Copyright caymancompass
I have to say that my last weekend was a social whirlwind, bringing with it lots of action and new experiences. Now, you might think that I was tripping the light fantastic at the clubs or on some exotic luxury yacht, but no. I visited two (yes, two!) supermarkets on a Saturday, and that was all it took for this debutante to be completely tuckered by Sunday. Let me state up front that I rarely go food shopping. My bestie and housemate Lynne loooooves it, and if she can hit three or four different establishments in one day, well – that’s just icing on the cake. The number of times we go out on a Friday night, and I want her to stay out longer, but she needs to get home because “I have a busy day tomorrow; I’ve got to go to Kirk’s and Foster’s and Cost-U-Less … .” There I am, trying to stay young and hip, and she’s worried about being too tired, come the morn, to go to this place for the 200-grain bread she likes, and that place for lime La Croix in bulk (I once got her mango flavour because I couldn’t find lime – NOT a good scene). On the up side, because Lynne is at her happiest when perusing the aisles of cough syrup and comestibles, I can always give her the list of staples I need (popsicles, potato chips, Waitrose [insert spreadsheet here … ]) so I don’t have to physically go myself. That symbiotic relationship broke down last Saturday when she contracted a bad cold. The dreaded request quickly followed: “Can you go to the supermarket to get me some things?” Amazing friend that I am, I replied with, “Do you REALLY need anything? I mean, can’t you make do with what you have in the fridge/cupboards? It’s only a couple of days.” That was met with the incredulous when-you-are-sick-(or-even-feeling-just-dandy)-I-am-ALWAYS-running-errands-for-you look. Barnacles. Begrudgingly, I agreed to venture out and shop for her. My petulance deepened when I heard I had to make two stops. Seriously? Does it HAVE to be that specific type of angel hair and chicken noodle soup? Because if you’re willing to go off-brand, I then only have to navigate the parking lots of one market. She was not. Kirk Market was the first stop, and you would have thought Taylor Swift was on aisle 5. From the moment I walked in the door, I was greeted with a lively hive of activity. Lots of islanders going about their business, weighing produce, perusing cheeses, and lining up at the hot deli buffet. As I went from east to west, looking for the items I’d been tasked with procuring, I ran into one person after the next whom I knew. We’d have a brief catch-up, joke about how we were both struggling with our weight, yet clearly transporting a couple of cheeky bars of chocolate, and go on our merry ways. Often it can be awkward in a supermarket, because you bump into someone, have a chat, end with some witty goodbye … and then there they are in the very next aisle. By the time you’re in pet food, you’re almost looking up at the ceiling to avoid each other’s eyes. This was not a concern for me, however. As I could barely remember the last time I’d been there, I had no idea where anything was. Like contestants who irritate ‘Jeopardy!’ purists by jumping all over the game board, instead of smoothly running through each category in order, I was zigzagging everywhere. I was nearly at what I’d swear was the coffee section, only to see rows of deodorant and body wash stretching out before me. Despite my long absence, the lovely Irish manager who has worked there for ages was still in evidence. I briefly caught a glimpse of him, as he darted out of sight upon seeing me (I fancy). The last time we’d spoken, I’d given him jovial flack about the lack of large Cheese & Onion Walkers Crisps bags, possibly using 10,000 words when 100 would have sufficed. I couldn’t imagine why, on a busy Saturday, he might not wish to engage with me in the hearty subject of ‘British Fruitcake: A Discussion’. Little did he know that I had no time to chew the fat. I was on a mission to find oyster mushrooms, which were proving to be elusive. I ran my eyes up and down over button, shiitake and portobello varieties, before finally spying the ones I needed. She hadn’t told me how many to get – I grabbed about a pound. Surely that would be enough? Maybe another pound. Belt and braces. After nearly an hour, I had Lynne’s requested comestibles – along with my chocolate bars – and made my way to the cashier. Gotta say, there is a freedom you feel when you qualify for the Express Lane on a Saturday. Next on the list was Foster’s, which was busy to a similar level. Here was where I had to find the soup, pasta and La Croix. Immediately I had a hiccup. They were out of lime. I was an adult; I didn’t have to call Lynne – I could make an informed decision on my lonesome. I knew that any other flavour of that brand was a no-go. So, d’you know what I did? I picked up another brand of sparkling water that I knew she liked, in lime, and bought multiple boxes of cans so she could draw a bath of the stuff if she wanted. One down, two to go. The soup was an easy one; it was right there on the shelf. Better get five boxes, just in case we had 30 unexpected visitors with colds. The final thing was the angel hair. I don’t know if it was just that Saturday, or if it’s always the case, but I think Foster’s needs to seriously consider installing traffic lights in the pasta aisle. Bring the lights down, get a DJ set up, and you’d have a party down by the macaroni. I edged past one cart after the next to make it to the area I needed, only to be greeted by a heady selection of brands and every conceivable shape and size of those popular carbs. I know Lynne wanted a specific type, but she had sent the wrong soldier in to retrieve it. My eyes glazed over. I was also holding up the works. Surrounding shoppers were being patient and kind, but I was aware that I was causing a bottleneck. In a panic, I called Lynne – on speakerphone, no less, as there was a lot of ambient noise happening. “Lynne, LYNNE! I’m in pasta, but I can’t find the one you’re looking for. What colour is the box? Is it just regular or wheat? Is thin spaghetti the same thing?” Sensing that I was about to go under, she decided to save me. “Any angel hair is fine. Not thin spaghetti.” I got the biggest box I could find – the size that Pa might get at Oleson’s Mercantile in Walnut Grove – and headed to the cashier. Express again. Hot dog. Of course, not being an avid supermarket shopper, I completely forgot our reusable shopping bags at home. I always do. I swear, I have so many Foster’s reusables at home, I’m gonna have to get the sewing machine out of the crawl space and start fashioning myself some dresses out of them – maybe with matching tams. I got the groceries home and Lynne sniffled and snuffled her way through the bags like a truffle pig. She nearly keeled over when she saw the bill for the two pounds of oyster mushrooms (which were apparently the wrong size) and stared at the bushel of pasta. I may have overbought. Oh yes, and after one sip of the sparkling water choice I made, she screwed up her nose like it was muddled garlic. “I’ll return the ones that aren’t open,” she said, extra sniffing for effect. Lynne is feeling much better this week, which I’m happy about. It may have been the prescriptions that made the difference, but I suspect she couldn’t face leaving the responsibity of the shopping in my hands for one more day. Either that, or she’d eaten enough oyster mushroom pasta to last a lifetime.
