Food, Food, Food
Jennifer Flaten

I pop open a cupboard and survey the contents. Hmm, apparently I am Old Mother Hubbard, the cupboard while not bare-I see onion soup mix and some ramen noodles lurking in the back-is in serious need of replenishment.

Honestly, there was food, lots of food, in the cabinet just yesterday. I should know I am the one who went out to the store, filled a cart and hauled it home.

It appears that sometime between yesterday afternoon, when I dragged the bags in from the car, and this morning the children (and spouse) found the food. And like locusts, they ate it all leaving not even a crumb. Okay, that is an exaggeration there were crumbs lots and lots of crumbs and a couple of crumpled wrappers.

Sigh, since everyone expects me to magically produce food at the appointed feeding times I guess I am in for another exciting trip to the supermarket.

I like shopping, just not food shopping. Alas, If only I could shop for shoes as often as I shop for food.

Really, I go there so often I expect them to greet me by name. Perhaps, even give me a personalized shopping cart, something in a snazzy pink with racing stripes-is that too much to ask?

I have a sneaking suspicion that I am single highhandedly financing the grocer's Ivy League education for his children.

After wrestling a cart out of the cart corral, I set it for autopilot and start my shopping adventure. My first stop is the produce aisle.

I grab a red pepper and notice the sticker that proclaims it is a product of Spain.

Harrumph, while I understand I live in a climate with a winter season that is approximately 9.75 months long, thus eliminating any chance of a year around supply of local produce, I really don't like the idea that my veggies are more well traveled then I am.

I roll out of the produce aisle and cruise over to the dairy aisle where I hope to find dairy products that don't make me feel inadequate.

I grab a gallon of the finest milk in the cooler-vintage 2010. While it isn't from the dairy state, it also didn't arrive on a Trans Atlantic flight.

Now, I am quite happy with the pasteurized product but lately a contingent of "raw milk" proponents has been touting the health benefits of milk fresh from the cow.

Call me crazy but I think pasteurization is a good thing. I have zero interest in drinking milk that is still warm from the cow. Having grown up on watery skim milk, I can't even drink 2% milk let alone imagine milk straight from the cow.

My shopping experience is enhanced or hindered, it all depends on your point of view, by my three small octopi, I mean children, hanging off the shopping cart. They want to help shop.

By help, I mean they grab breakable items from the shelves, race the cart down the aisles and ask for every non-healthy item in the store.

I swear the sugary or just plain bad for you items have much more attractive packages then the healthy stuff.

Don't believe me? Look at the oatmeal container-snooze. Now, look at the box of triple frosted sugar flakes; much cuter, right. Not to mention how these items find a shelf-home about at child eye level; sneaky, Mr. Grocer.

Finally, we make our escape from the store with what appears to be a month's worth of groceries but is in fact, just enough to get us through the next day and a half.

Maybe next time I will sneak in a side trip to the shoe store.