VEINTIUNO
My grandma ruined the produce aisle for me.
When I was younger, there where two two-year stretches of time where I lived with my grandma. The first was up until just before my second birthday, and so I don’t remember much about it. The second time, I must have been about eight or nine; I’m not too sure. Anyway, even now I forget that what I think of as normal growing up isn’t necessarily so for everyone else, and that’s probably why it was such a surprise to me when one of my old classmates made this WTF face when I groaned at the fruit selection in Bel-Air.
I was out grocery shopping for my new apartment, as all I’ve had to eat for the past couple of days is grilled cheese and coffee, black. I happened to stumble into, quite literally, an old high school friend. We crashed on the corner of the natural foods aisle, where I had just picked up some chocolate soy milk and granola, and quickly began to do our shopping together. When we got to the produce aisle, I kept making faces at all the displays. Peterson asked me what was wrong, and I gave a shrug, said the produce didn’t taste nearly as grand as the fresh kind.
He told me that he’d never had fresh fruit or vegetables, and my mind was boggled. How could he have possibly not had any fresh produce? Hadn’t he ever been to a farmer’s market? Didn’t he know anyone who grew their own food? Never got around to it, no, and no. Like I said, mind boggling.
I always try to take into account that not everyone has the same experiences I do. (Apparently traveling along the coast of Baja California for an entire Summer with your grandparents in a beat-up camper is not normal. Who knew?) But, I often find myself forgetting.
When I say that my grandma ruined the produce aisle for me, I mean to say that she spoiled me with fresh fruit and vegetables as I child. So, all that shiny and neatly packaged food in the grocery stores just doesn’t have the same delicious taste as its fresh counterpart. I always seem to forget that most children’s grandmothers do not have avocado, cherry, peach, lemon, lime, grapefruit, fig, orange, pomegranate, and this odd fuzzy green apple-like fruit tree in their yards. These same grandmothers do not plant strawberries, squash, cucumbers, corn, grapes, carrots, pumpkins, cantaloupe, green beans, watermelon, tomatoes, peppers, and all other sorts of goodies. They do not have pots of herbs around their patios, and they don’t boil fresh Aloe and tell you to hold it to your throat when your sick. They don’t plant sunflowers only to make toasted sunflower seeds. These grandmothers don’t pay you a dollar to gather up as many tiny, white petals as you can from beneath the blossoming lemon tree for tea. These grandmother also fail to take you around the garden, point and say ‘these flowers you can eat’ and ‘these you can’t.’
Anyway, as Peterson and I reached the checkout counter, I invited him to the farmer’s market. He’s kind of geeked to go, and so am I. I haven’t been to one in awhile.
When I was younger, there where two two-year stretches of time where I lived with my grandma. The first was up until just before my second birthday, and so I don’t remember much about it. The second time, I must have been about eight or nine; I’m not too sure. Anyway, even now I forget that what I think of as normal growing up isn’t necessarily so for everyone else, and that’s probably why it was such a surprise to me when one of my old classmates made this WTF face when I groaned at the fruit selection in Bel-Air.
I was out grocery shopping for my new apartment, as all I’ve had to eat for the past couple of days is grilled cheese and coffee, black. I happened to stumble into, quite literally, an old high school friend. We crashed on the corner of the natural foods aisle, where I had just picked up some chocolate soy milk and granola, and quickly began to do our shopping together. When we got to the produce aisle, I kept making faces at all the displays. Peterson asked me what was wrong, and I gave a shrug, said the produce didn’t taste nearly as grand as the fresh kind.
He told me that he’d never had fresh fruit or vegetables, and my mind was boggled. How could he have possibly not had any fresh produce? Hadn’t he ever been to a farmer’s market? Didn’t he know anyone who grew their own food? Never got around to it, no, and no. Like I said, mind boggling.
I always try to take into account that not everyone has the same experiences I do. (Apparently traveling along the coast of Baja California for an entire Summer with your grandparents in a beat-up camper is not normal. Who knew?) But, I often find myself forgetting.
When I say that my grandma ruined the produce aisle for me, I mean to say that she spoiled me with fresh fruit and vegetables as I child. So, all that shiny and neatly packaged food in the grocery stores just doesn’t have the same delicious taste as its fresh counterpart. I always seem to forget that most children’s grandmothers do not have avocado, cherry, peach, lemon, lime, grapefruit, fig, orange, pomegranate, and this odd fuzzy green apple-like fruit tree in their yards. These same grandmothers do not plant strawberries, squash, cucumbers, corn, grapes, carrots, pumpkins, cantaloupe, green beans, watermelon, tomatoes, peppers, and all other sorts of goodies. They do not have pots of herbs around their patios, and they don’t boil fresh Aloe and tell you to hold it to your throat when your sick. They don’t plant sunflowers only to make toasted sunflower seeds. These grandmothers don’t pay you a dollar to gather up as many tiny, white petals as you can from beneath the blossoming lemon tree for tea. These grandmother also fail to take you around the garden, point and say ‘these flowers you can eat’ and ‘these you can’t.’
Anyway, as Peterson and I reached the checkout counter, I invited him to the farmer’s market. He’s kind of geeked to go, and so am I. I haven’t been to one in awhile.