An Obsessive in The Produce Section

There are many reasons my wife shouldn't send me to the store. I'm slow. I'm indecisive. I have to open the carton of eggs and examine each one ensuring that I don't get home with eleven perfect eggs marred by the existence of their blemished companion. When sent to the store for eggs or milk, I may call home to see if she'd like me to make guacamole or if we should grill steaks tonight. "It's already 9:00, and it's snowing." "So, is that a no?" Left alone in a store, I may become convinced that I've forgotten something, panic and just start grabbing. I arrive home having spent $50 on ice cream, soda, chocolate, bread, chocolate, chips and chocolate. "Where are the eggs?" "Eggs? Oh! See, I knew I was forgetting something."

The worst for me is the produce department. A gigantic area full of choices. What fruit do I want? Ok, then what variety? Now choose the individual items that meet the acceptability limits. I realized how bad this was while I was at the store a couple of nights ago, sorting the apples.

I walked the aisles determining what type of fruit I wanted to bring home. I stopped in front of the pineapples. I examined the leaves of each one, making sure that I only choose a pineapple that had succulent, green leaves. I then examined the pineapple itself, looking it over and squeezing it to make sure it wasn't actually rotten inside. Then came the final test, lifting the selected fruit and smelling to make sure it smelled of fresh pineapple rather than partially fermented pineapple cider. My pineapple chosen, I moved on to the more difficult task of selecting apples.

With pineapples, there is only one decision to make about variety. Do you want a pineapple or not? Apples bring in a myriad of other questions. What am I going to do with these apples? Will I eat the out of hand or bake them in a pie or let them sit on the table and rot until I eventually throw them out along with the liquefied zucchini from the crisper drawer in the refrigerator? Do I want red or green apples? Tart or sweet? Crisp of mealy? When it comes to picking produce, I'm fairly selective in general. With apples to be eaten out of hand, I have very few varieties I will eat. I wandered over to the apple section and began looking through today's offerings. I was pleased to see that they not only had Fuji apples, but some Pink Ladies as well. I began combing through the bins, searching for just the right specimen. Pick one up: nope it has a soft spot. Another: no it's got a blemish. One more: It would be perfect if it weren't oddly shaped. Once I find an appropriately shaped, firm, blemish free apple, I must subject it to the final test. I lift to apple up to my nose and smell it. I'm not sure what I'm expecting here. It isn't as if I've ever selected just the perfect apple, smelled it and found that it smells of rancid bacon grease. They smell like apples. Still the rituals must observed before the apple can go in the bag. After selecting a four suitable Pink Ladies, I move over to the Fuji section and begin sorting again. Picking up apples and labeling them according to their shortcomings: Lopsided. Bruised. Underripe. Overripe. Wait a minute. This one isn't a Fuji; it's a Cameo. I'll just have to put that back in the right section. I bag the apples and move along to determine which bananas are at the absolute correct stage of ripeness.

There are plenty of reasons MK should never send me to the store alone. Unfortunately, these are all outweighed by the fact that sending me means she doesn't have to go.

Until later...