Ms. Rachow is currently being considered for a show on the Food Network called “The World’s Worst Cook.”
I confess I’m not the world’s greatest cook. My signature dish is something called can-o-soup. I also make excellent toast and spread peanut butter well, but apparently that isn’t fancy enough cuisine for my picky husband.
To save us both from malnutrition, he took over the cooking years ago. He plans menus, making sure he has the precise ingredients needed by doing all the food shopping himself. Thus I’ve hardly even seen the inside of a grocery store for 20 years.
Now my hubby has the flu, and not the kind where you call work pretending you swallowed a bucket of nails just because you need a couple days off. He’s got the real deal. His forehead is so hot he could sauté onions on it if he weren’t semiconscious.
“Put me out of my misery,” he begs.
In lieu of a whack with a giant mallet, I offer Tylenol and a cool cloth.
After 3 days, I realize we’re out of food. To save the UPS guy the shock of finding our skeletons, I leave to pick up oranges and chicken soup. How hard can that be?
My hubby rises from his coma to whimper, “No Brussels sprouts.”
I know he’d give more shopping tips if he could, but he barely has the strength of the wet rag covering his eyes.
As I pull into Trader Joe’s, I realize they’re holding a demolition derby in the parking lot. Or maybe late Thursday afternoon is simply when the craziest drivers like to shop.
Either way, there’s no parking. Then I see a space on the street. I zip across 4 lanes of traffic, slip into the opening, and then hoof it back, dodging the speeding cars like a pro. Easy as pie!
Just as I make it to the curb I realize I’ve forgotten the canvas bags in the car. I hope I can be forgiven this once, because I’m not going back.
Everything in the store looks yummy. I fill my cart, pull into the checkout line, negotiate the credit card machine, and made friends with Rico. “You want your oranges in a bag or box?” he asks.
“How should I know?”
I realize now I have more groceries than a mere mortal can carry, and I’ve read it’s against the law to take grocery carts off store property. I’m not keen on pushing the thing through traffic anyway, so I hang my purse around my neck and consolidate my purchases into 4 bulging bags. Somehow I manage to hold it all with 2 hands.
I envision having the paper rip open, spilling grocery guts all over the street. Why couldn’t I have remembered those indestructible canvas bags? For that matter, why did I have to buy 2 tubs of yogurt? A whole box of oranges?
Couldn't I have waited to park in the lot? Geeze, did I have no sense at all?
When traffic finally opens, I lumber across the street. My face is beaded with sweat, but the bags and I make it safely.
My hard-won groceries and I are in the car now, but before I take off, a woman in a black sports car pulls up to park in the space behind me. There isn't much room, but she has a cute car and high hopes. Finally she’s wedged in a few inches behind me. I signal for her to back up a smidge, but she’s preoccupied with worrying a zit on her chin. Apparently she’s pulled over to give herself a facial.
However, if she could get in her parking space, surely I can get out of mine. After an eternity of jaw-clenching maneuvers, I manage to pull out and head home.
As I put groceries away, I look out the window toward the mountains. Holy bananas flambé! There’s fire in the hills.
I’ve lived here enough to know if you can see the flames, it isn’t too soon to grab your photos and point your car downwind.
For us it’s a scary night of waiting, watching and altering our perspective on which things matter most. We get word of many friends having to evacuate, but we’re lucky enough to stay put. Through the night we hear more and more bad news.
My heart goes out to the people in our community who’ve lost so much. It’s hard to know exactly what to say or how best to help. But for starters, if you need someone to do grocery shopping, I’m now an expert.
First published in the Montecito Journal November 27, 2008
