Stovetop Fantasy

It was a wondrous feast. After five weeks of being in Seattle, I finally was able to go to Trader Joe’s. I used to shop at Trader Joe’s when I lived in California. After I moved away I would dream of wandering through those enchanted aisles. This dream was not the all time number one flashback to California—that was of the spot on the highway where one had gotten just far enough out of the hill country to be met by the beguiling sea breezes. But that was also the route which one would take to get to Trader Joe’s, so you can make of that what you will. These dreams of Trader Joe’s differed from other dreams of grocery stores. After I moved to California, grocery stores would figure as part of generally nostalgic dreams of my old neighborhood. And while I lived in that neighborhood I would have two-nights-before payday dreams which involved carefully investing $25 in the maximum amount of ramen, frozen veggies, and pasta possible, allowing for one long-term treat of pepperjack cheese and one short-term treat of licorice lozenges. No, Trader Joe’s is more a place of fantasy than utility—fantasy being a combination of delight, function and thrift while utility is summed up by a 50 pound bag of oatmeal.

The menu was of a peculiar character. There’s no point in routing the manager out of his den Monday morning to show me how to light a stove that would be replaced on Monday afternoon. Now it’s possible that he wouldn’t have minded showing me Saturday afternoon, but this is a gas stove which does not automatically light—and even worse, lighting it involves removing bits and igniting something called the pilot light (all attempts at envisioning what this means have been spookily similar to the final scene in “Time Bandits”). And since I have to drive myself to even self-lighting gas stoves with cries of encouragement, and usually greet the flame with a hop and a screech, I figured that lighting this stove would end up involving everyone in the building in a scene that I could never live down. So instead I simply looked for food items which required no heat (I am blissfully free of microwaves—you know that The Man uses them to maintain control over Americans hearts and wills). Further, the items needed to be easily removed from their packages and served, since I also have no can openers, bottle openers, or sharp knives. I do have plates (two sizes), bowls, glasses, silverware and a cheese grater.

Garlic-stuffed green olives, baby carrots, naan (one regular, one whole wheat), feta cheese, hummus, and jalapeno-artichoke dip ended up being the carte du jour. Delicious, nutritious, and breath-freshening. Dessert was chocolate orange candies and dried cherries, and a later snack to calm a querulous tummy was cold cereal—Quaker’s Corn Bran (also known as my favorite cereal for the past twenty years), which disappeared from the Texas markets years ago. It was only at the very end that I could get through the cereal aisle without tearing up.

Since I also have a job, I can proclaim that all good things have been restored.