Recipes are romantic in theory and my coat officially has pit stains

Tales from the grocery store

Cooking from a new recipe and shopping for its ingredients is an activity that makes me feel like I’m a character in a movie. Making a (physical) grocery list is romantic and zipping around a grocery store searching for it all is a dance. There’s a lot of storytelling involved as I hype myself up for the task: cooking this new dish will be healing, peaceful and nourishing.

I’ll put on music as I unload my groceries, sort my ingredients and review the recipe. I’ll sing to myself while I cook and if wine didn’t give me acid reflux I’d sip on a glass (or two) while I elegantly chop fennel.

I know all too well that this is not how the evening unfolds and yet every time I set out on a cooking mission I indulge in the delusion that the exercise will be rejuvenating and empowering—fun even! My fantasy is always shattered and enough time needs to pass for me to erase all memory of the trauma before I attempt to cook again.

The reality? A snowball effect of rude awakenings:

I walk through the parted doors of Whole Foods and am met with a blast of heat—this is the “welcome to hell” warning that I mistake for a warm embrace. Still cheerful, I get on the escalator and (appropriately) descend into the heart of the market. I practice mindfulness as I patiently wrestle with a stack of baskets that are stuck together, careful not to get too aggravated. The most embarrassing aspect of the recipe as movie feeling is that it makes me act as though I’m being watched—not in a creepy paranoia way, more in a coolness on display sort of way. “Oh, me? Filling up my basket with parsnips and shallots? I do this all time time! Look how graceful I am as I shop.” Delusional :) With my basket in hand I walk among the leafy greens and root vegetables and officially become the leading lady—a somewhat lonely woman tending to her sadness with a delicious and nutritious meal.

And then someone sort of just bursts into my personal space, cutting me off on my way to the parsley. “Okayyyy, got it. You’re clearly having an emergency. . .” I mutter to myself. I quickly collect the rest of my fresh items while dodging shopping carts that are all of a sudden coming at me from every angle. I’m overheating.

I unzip my coat as the sweat starts to pour and my masked mouth gets drizzled with a lovely sweat/snot mixture. I’m Kate Winslet!

Next stop: the herbs and spices aisle, AKA the epicenter of panic. I swear this section of the market is more narrow than any other. Time, space, self, and sanity all swirl and close in on me as I search for bay leaves and turmeric. And I swear the (supposed) alphabetization of jars goes AWOL for the specific ingredients I need. And then my stomach cramps. I’ve been constipated for days and now, NOW of all times, my stomach decides to go ahead and tease diarrhea. I feel heavy drops of sweat crawl down my tummy rolls and decide that if I don’t find these fucking spices/herbs whatever the fuck they are in the next minute I’m leaving and ordering Pad Thai.

We have a win, we have a win. There, standing on the edge of it all I “luckily” find what I need. I would’ve kind of loved an out at this point but there’s nothing like having a sweaty, amped up ten minutes in a grocery store with nothing to show for it. So defeating. Glad I stuck it out. This better be the best soup I’ve ever had (lol if you actually cook and are reading this—truly no idea if any of the ingredients I’ve listed so far live together in anything. The recipe I’m going for in my head is a hearty vegetable soup).

I head to the freezer section for a cool down (emotional and physical) and to pick out a fun pint of ice cream. Ooh and then those mini brownie bites to go with it. I like a chunky ice cream but I usually end up digging out the fudge or cookie leaving a soggy mess so the new strategy is to get a baked good with ice cream as a topping.

It’s perfect.

And with that, it’s time to get out of here. I don’t do my usual saunter through the chips and crackers because at this point I am melting and fantasizing about washing my coat (which I know I will not actually ever do). I head straight for the escalator towards check out. Oh and of course the line is so long it bleeds into the lower level. Great! More time to marinate in my sweat.

But again, I’ve come this far I’m not turning back now. I play crosswords on my phone and consider taking the Enneagram test again. I have an OK time actually. A nice 15ish minutes of having nowhere else to be and no choice but to just sit (stand) with my agitation.

My face is hemorrhaging sweat by the time I get to my assigned register but it’s smooth sailing from there. Everything fits perfectly in the bags I brought and I feel great as I emerge from the store with sprigs of fibrous greens peeking out from my armpits. I am cool produce girl. The crisp winter air (which, by the way, is terrifyingly fleeting—it’s supposed to be 60 DEGREES in New York next week truly help us all) hits my face and I am Meg Ryan. I’m cute and bundled up for my walk home, ready to cook a gorgeous meal for one.

High from accomplishing the food shopping, I go the extra mile and empty my mailbox before climbing the five flights of stairs up to my apartment. It’s usually the last thing I want to do when my body is sticky and my arms are tired, but I’m feeling like I can do it all. I open the little door and reach in grab the mail and that’s when I reach my final straw. It’s jam-packed and most of everything is stuck. The sweat pours. LITERALLY NO. I drop everything in frustration and chaotically wrangle everything out of there, ripping lots of it along the way. Whoops.

My mask clings to my face and suctions in that really fun, panic attack feeling way as I lug myself to the doorway of my apartment. And just like that, burning quads and all, I’ve arrived. I splash myself with cold water, throw on Netflix Fireplace and I’m in The Holiday. OK let’s get to it. I can do this.

I FORGOT THE CHICKEN STOCK. OH ABSOLUTELY OF COURSE.