To be honest, this was not the content that was meant to be posted today. I half-finished two other pieces before their content became so overbearingly depressing that I had to set them aside. It was a beautiful day outside with a sun so yellow that posting grey content seemed a sacrilege. It should be noted that I just finished eating a nectarine. Actually, “eating” is probably not the appropriate word. To be honest, I made sweet sweet love to this nectarine, savoring every last juicy indulgence until the pit was so clean you could have seen your reflection in it. It was one of the most gratifying eating experiences of my life. At least that is the way it seemed at the time. The truth is, it falls a distant second to a recent find at my local supermarket. I was sort of hopelessly roaming down the isles in search of anything that the boys might find palatable. The same bland menu of the basic things that I can create from the still somewhat foreign ingredients found at the market will by no means have my two son’s shopping in the “Husky” section anytime soon. I aimlessly wandered from one isle to the next, turning over packaging in an effort to decipher the ingredients in hopes that something might click. Nothing did.
And so I proceeded, shelf by shelf, sifting through jars, cans and bottles. Picking them up to judge their weight and even holding them up to my nose in hopes that perhaps an improperly sealed container might give me an olfactory hint as to what was held inside. I strolled past the eggs to marvel at the fact that the package of a dozen eggs I thought I had been buying for the past two years really only contained 10 eggs. “How about that”, I thought to myself as I placed a 10er in my cart and made my way to the cereal isle. Well, that is what we call it back home anyway. A whole ISLE stuffed with a variety of breakfast wonders so full of sugar and artificial flavors that the very thought makes me salivate as the hairs on the tops of my arms stand at attention. Here, however, the cereal shares space with a number of other items. Actually it shares not only an isle, but actual shelf space as well. There isn’t a huge variety to choose from. They have Cheerios, Frosties (as I have mentioned before “Frosted Flakes”), Something called “Tresor” which tastes a little like rotund puffs of cardboard and a couple of boxes of Special K being sold in disguise as something called “Fitness” though I would argue that it is only “fit” for sanding down rough surfaces during a kitchen remodel. There are probably two other boxes of mysterious shit that is being marketed to children with cartoon characters I have never heard of. Neither of my kids being familiar with these characters either means that we have never dared to give them a go.
After loading a box of the multi-grain Cheerios (I say multi-grain like they sell some other variety . . . THEY DON’T) into my cart, I turned my attention to the next isle that contained the equally dismal selection of potato chips. What can be said of the cereal is equally true of the chip isle except that the chips are packaged in little snack sized bags. You know the kind you get out of vending machine? Yeah, that’s the standard sized bag of chips here in France. You want what we in America call a standard sized bag of chips, you have to opt for the Format Familial and they only have that in basic potato flavorins. I grabbed a bag of fromage flavored chips about the size of my thumbnail and tossed them in to the cart as well. With a deep sigh, I set on about my merry way. Now, there are two areas that the French supermarket rivals its American counterpart . . . the liquor isle . . . er isles (roughly half the store if truth be told) and the chocolate isle (literarlly every variety of plain chocolate bar known to mankind can be found here). Ok, maybe it is more like three areas, because we must not forget the cheese. If I were to try and throw this into a pie chart for you, the store is composed of 50% alcohol, 20% chocolate, 20% cheese, and 5% everything else (including deodorant that doesn’t work and a specialty shelf or two of shit that nobody buys). On that particular shelf I once found a Duncan Hines brownie mix, but when I got to the checkout they wouldn’t sell it to me as it seemed to be a novelty item. It didn’t have a price tag so they just flat wouldn’t sell it to me, even though it was on their shelves. They were kind enough to go check for a price, which took half an hour or so while other shoppers waited patiently in line. Never once did someone complain that the line was taking too long or get pissed that I was holding things up. They simply waited patiently as if the world revolved around this price check on isle 3. That’s the French for you, but I digress.
Back to the story at hand . . . as I entered the isle that serves as the gateway to "liquor land" (like Disneyland but with FEWER drunks) something caught my eye. It was wedged up in the corner of the top shelf, and I can’t imagine how I picked it out in the crowd of other products more centrally located. I took a moment to rub my eyes, to be sure this wasn’t some sort of mirage like you see in the movies when a guy who is dying of thirst sees a pool of water in the distance and dives for it only to come up with a face full of sand. No, I wasn’t dreaming . . . it was REAL. I reached up and plucked the little paper package from its perch and brought it up to my lips to blow the dust off the packaging. Wiping the remaining debris away with my thumb, the words began to appear . . . “Pepperidge Farm”. Could it be? As I continued to excavate the way a paleontologist does when cleaning the skeletal remains of a fossilized dinosaur, I could clearly read the word “Sausalito”. Examining my treasure even closer, I discovered there was only one language written on the packaging . . . ENGLISH! I quickly stashed the item in my cart next to the snack pack of flavored chips, all the while looking around as if at any moment some Allen Funt wannabe would pop out and scream “Surprise, you’re on candid camera”. Did I just date myself?
At any rate, what was to follow I am not proud of in the way that I am sure that Paul Reubens is not proud of living up to the PeeWee name with that unfortunate masturbatory affair in the adult theater several years ago. When I got back to the car, I carefully loaded my bags into the hatch of my little 206 save the package of Sausalito’s which I kept clutched firmly in my hand as I sank down into the driver’s seat. Like a child opening a Christmas present I tore open the package and devoured the first layer of cookies stopping after each one to make sure I hadn’t taken the end of a finger off or anything. As I sat there with crumbs all over my chest and chocolate stains on my cheeks I felt a moment of shame. Not enough for me not to begin an honest assault on the next layer of cookies mind you, but shame nonetheless. I took my time with the second layer. Orgyastically (probably not a word, but definitely a feeling) I let my senses take in the wonder of wheat flower, milk chocolate, butter oil, soy lecithin, vanilla extract, monopotassium tartrate and desiccated ground nuts. As the pleasure washed over me in waves, I read down the packaging as if it was the best novel ever written:
“Our Sausalito cookie is a popular destination. Come for the chocolate, stay for the macadamia nuts. The mounds of creamy milk chocolate chunks and roasted macadamia nuts are well worth the trip!”
And just below that it reads:
“The American Collection cookies, Baked in U.S.A.”
“Fuckin-A Bubba!” I said to myself as only us Midwesterners can and started the car to head for home. Truth is, I kept the packaging from the cookies and it sits on my nightstand as a reminder of this torrid affair. Every night I open the package and take in the perfume, only to quickly close it again to make sure not too much escapes. I then give it a gentle kiss and wish it a good night as I now must wish you all as it has grown very late indeed. We will chat again soon, you and I, until then . . . R.
After loading a box of the multi-grain Cheerios (I say multi-grain like they sell some other variety . . . THEY DON’T) into my cart, I turned my attention to the next isle that contained the equally dismal selection of potato chips. What can be said of the cereal is equally true of the chip isle except that the chips are packaged in little snack sized bags. You know the kind you get out of vending machine? Yeah, that’s the standard sized bag of chips here in France. You want what we in America call a standard sized bag of chips, you have to opt for the Format Familial and they only have that in basic potato flavorins. I grabbed a bag of fromage flavored chips about the size of my thumbnail and tossed them in to the cart as well. With a deep sigh, I set on about my merry way. Now, there are two areas that the French supermarket rivals its American counterpart . . . the liquor isle . . . er isles (roughly half the store if truth be told) and the chocolate isle (literarlly every variety of plain chocolate bar known to mankind can be found here). Ok, maybe it is more like three areas, because we must not forget the cheese. If I were to try and throw this into a pie chart for you, the store is composed of 50% alcohol, 20% chocolate, 20% cheese, and 5% everything else (including deodorant that doesn’t work and a specialty shelf or two of shit that nobody buys). On that particular shelf I once found a Duncan Hines brownie mix, but when I got to the checkout they wouldn’t sell it to me as it seemed to be a novelty item. It didn’t have a price tag so they just flat wouldn’t sell it to me, even though it was on their shelves. They were kind enough to go check for a price, which took half an hour or so while other shoppers waited patiently in line. Never once did someone complain that the line was taking too long or get pissed that I was holding things up. They simply waited patiently as if the world revolved around this price check on isle 3. That’s the French for you, but I digress.
Back to the story at hand . . . as I entered the isle that serves as the gateway to "liquor land" (like Disneyland but with FEWER drunks) something caught my eye. It was wedged up in the corner of the top shelf, and I can’t imagine how I picked it out in the crowd of other products more centrally located. I took a moment to rub my eyes, to be sure this wasn’t some sort of mirage like you see in the movies when a guy who is dying of thirst sees a pool of water in the distance and dives for it only to come up with a face full of sand. No, I wasn’t dreaming . . . it was REAL. I reached up and plucked the little paper package from its perch and brought it up to my lips to blow the dust off the packaging. Wiping the remaining debris away with my thumb, the words began to appear . . . “Pepperidge Farm”. Could it be? As I continued to excavate the way a paleontologist does when cleaning the skeletal remains of a fossilized dinosaur, I could clearly read the word “Sausalito”. Examining my treasure even closer, I discovered there was only one language written on the packaging . . . ENGLISH! I quickly stashed the item in my cart next to the snack pack of flavored chips, all the while looking around as if at any moment some Allen Funt wannabe would pop out and scream “Surprise, you’re on candid camera”. Did I just date myself?
At any rate, what was to follow I am not proud of in the way that I am sure that Paul Reubens is not proud of living up to the PeeWee name with that unfortunate masturbatory affair in the adult theater several years ago. When I got back to the car, I carefully loaded my bags into the hatch of my little 206 save the package of Sausalito’s which I kept clutched firmly in my hand as I sank down into the driver’s seat. Like a child opening a Christmas present I tore open the package and devoured the first layer of cookies stopping after each one to make sure I hadn’t taken the end of a finger off or anything. As I sat there with crumbs all over my chest and chocolate stains on my cheeks I felt a moment of shame. Not enough for me not to begin an honest assault on the next layer of cookies mind you, but shame nonetheless. I took my time with the second layer. Orgyastically (probably not a word, but definitely a feeling) I let my senses take in the wonder of wheat flower, milk chocolate, butter oil, soy lecithin, vanilla extract, monopotassium tartrate and desiccated ground nuts. As the pleasure washed over me in waves, I read down the packaging as if it was the best novel ever written:
“Our Sausalito cookie is a popular destination. Come for the chocolate, stay for the macadamia nuts. The mounds of creamy milk chocolate chunks and roasted macadamia nuts are well worth the trip!”
And just below that it reads:
“The American Collection cookies, Baked in U.S.A.”
“Fuckin-A Bubba!” I said to myself as only us Midwesterners can and started the car to head for home. Truth is, I kept the packaging from the cookies and it sits on my nightstand as a reminder of this torrid affair. Every night I open the package and take in the perfume, only to quickly close it again to make sure not too much escapes. I then give it a gentle kiss and wish it a good night as I now must wish you all as it has grown very late indeed. We will chat again soon, you and I, until then . . . R.
1 comments:
This is a Top 10 post, for sure.
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