At the Market
Whenever the weather threatens to turn icy, it’s a near requirement that everyone in our region immediately rush to the closest grocery store to stock up on staples, mostly stuff they probably already have plenty of or never would consider eating. David’s Market, near my home, is a sort of old-fashioned grocery with a decent meat counter and a small but attractive produce section. One afternoon, on the brink of the arrival of a norther promising ice and snow, I surrender to the impulse and brave the high winds and thickening clouds and make the requisite expedition for supplies. Not unexpectedly, I find the small store jammed with locals foraging for the weekend.
It’s early in the season, and the novelty of cooking traditional wintertime dishes hasn’t yet worn off. I had earlier decided to try a beef stew that night. Inside the store, shoppers and their carts are double-parked in front of the meat counter, so I take my place on the outer queue. A woman is on the inside lane of carts just next to and a little behind me. She is somewhere past her mid-sixties, hard-looking, hefty, with frowsy and doubtfully authentic red hair that whirls around a thick pair of glasses. She wears a man’s flannel shirt under a pair of bib overalls and a pair of stout muddy work boots. Trying not to crowd her, I crane my neck, try to see over her cart and into the refrigerated bin, when she suddenly turns to me with a scowl that instantly becomes a dimpled smile revealing gapped teeth framed by thickly misapplied lipstick.
“Just push on in here, sugar,” she says. “There’s plenty meat for everybody.”
I look around to see if she is addressing me or someone else. She doesn’t move her cart, but waves me to come closer, which is impossible. “Come ahead on. I’m not in no hurry.” In an effort to obey, I allow my cart to bump hers.
“Oh. Sorry,” I say. “Kind of crowded today. Weather, I guess.”
“Yeah. Meant to come by here last night, but got too lazy” She suddenly pushes her cart forward, blocking me entirely from the meat. “See what you need?”
“I, uh, wanted some stew meat.”
She peers into the bin. “Shoot! There’s plenty stew meat! How much you want?” She hands me a package. “Don’t use that ol’ chili meat. Too fatty.” She sighs. “A good ol’ stew sounds good this kind of weather.” I accept the package from her. “That enough, or you want a two-pounder?”
“Thanks, this is fine.”
“I like it when you use all fresh stuff, meat and vegetables,” she says, looking appraisingly into my cart. “None of that canned or frozen crap.”
“I generally do. Use fresh, I mean.” I turn my cart into the aisle and start moving away.
She follows me. “That’s right. Fresh is better than that canned crap. Sometimes, frozen’ll do.” She stops, takes thought. “Put a jar of beet pickles in mine, though. Sometimes.” I step out briskly, moving away and down an adjacent aisle. She follows closely. “You take a little of that package gravy and mix it up with the meat juice then pour it back in. Thickens it right up. That’s good eating!”
“Uh, yeah.” I reverse course suddenly. “Reminds me. I need some bullion.” I move quickly around to the other aisle.
She swings her cart around and pushes along right behind me. “Probably just cook me up a burger, tonight. I like a good ol’ burger on a cold night. Can’t get a good burger nowhere no more.” I stop, find the bullion, put it in my cart, and head out, but the aisle is crowded. Stop and go traffic. I weave my way through, but she threads her way along right behind me. “They don’t use good meat, and they put all kind of crap on ’em. Salad dressing and ketchup and crap. You know? Don’t even ask if you want it. Just slop it right on. Put the mustard next to the lettuce, too. Dumb. Who eats that away?” She pulls a bottle of meat seasoning off the shelf, inspects it briefly, then tosses in her cart and rushes to catch up to me. “Don’t fry ’em any more, neither. Grill ’em. What kind of person wants a grilled burger in the wintertime? You know?”
“Yep,” I reply, stalled behind a family arguing about breakfast cereals.
“Put barbeque sauce on ’em, mushrooms, al-vacados, beans, bacon, ever kind of damn thing. You know that?” Still blocked, I stop and look into my cart, checking to make sure I have everything.
She comes up and joins me in my inventory. “Don’t even put ’em together for you half the time. Make you do it yourself.”
“Open-faced,” I say, trying to sound distracted.
“Huh?”
“Open-faced. That’s what they call it. They bring you everything and let you put on what you want.”
She is incensed, stands with her hands on her waist. “Well, that’s just dumb! Lazy dumb. Gets your hands all greasy, then time you get back from the bathroom, burger’s gone cold.”
“Yeah, well. Some places—”
“Up north, I hear, they put cold slaw on burgers.” She peers at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. “You ever hear of that?”
“Uh, yeah, I have. I think it’s called—”
“Dumb is what it’s called! First place, cold slaw goes in a little bowl on the side.”
“I prefer it that way myself,” I say. The aisle clears and I move forward. She follows, then I snap my fingers. “I need some butter! Nearly forgot.” I reverse course abruptly and head toward the dairy section.
She turns, follows, speaking louder. “Second place, cold slaw goes with barbeque. Or catfish.” I find the butter, grab a package. “And hushpuppies. Hushpuppies go with catfish.” I move off, she follows. “Whoever heard of cold slaw on a burger?” Suddenly, she stops dead, seems to think. “Or even with a burger? You don’t need no cold slaw with a burger in the first place. You already got lettuce and tomato and onion and all that crap.” I’m moving away, but she steps out quickly to stay behind me. “Some beans maybe. On the side. Beans go with barbeque but not with catfish. Don’t like canned beans, though. You?”
“Uh, no.” I make an abrupt turn down an aisle, but it’s totally blocked with shoppers. I’m trapped.
“Make my own beans,” she says. “Don’t want that canned crap. Like a good pot of pintos. Maybe a hambone in there, just for seasoning.”
I search fruitlessly for an alternate route. “Yeah. Me, too.”
“Used to be a good cook.” She sighs deeply. “Cooked for the same son of a bitch and his whole damn family for nearly twenty-five years. Now, there’s just me. Don’t cook much just for me. No point to it.” I feign interest in the rack of cleaning supplies next to me. “Big ol’ pot of beans just goes to waste, now.” She shakes her head. “Ever freeze ’em?”
Trapped, I surrender. “They don’t freeze well.”
“Used to be a good cook. You cook?”
I glance down at the cart full of food to be prepared. “Uh, yeah, I do.”
“Got kids?”
“Not at home.” The aisle suddenly clears, so I move rapidly to the check-out stand.
“Me neither.” She’s right behind me. “Had the same damn son of a bitch for twenty-five years, but he up and run off with a younger woman. Bottle blonde from Dallas.” She stops, thinks. “Big-busted gal. Drinks.”
I’m seeking the shortest line. “Uh . . .”
“Just up and run off. Just like that. Not even a howdy-do.”
“Guess that happens,” I say. I notice a line at the far end of the stands and move quickly into it. She follows.
“Wanted to get me a gun and shoot the shit out of both of them,” she declares. She stands, staring at me, her hands on her waist, a challenging look in her eyes. “Should of did it.” I look around to see if anyone else is listening to this. No one seems to be. “Then I’d have to live with that,” she says, sighing. “Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of me having to live with that, you know?”
I spot an opening in an even shorter line and move quickly into it. She can’t make the maneuver, so she’s stuck where she was, but she moves forward to take the spot I vacated, putting her next to me.
“Wasn’t afraid to do it,” she continues. “And I got me a gun. But didn’t want to have it on my conscience.” She pushes her cart ahead as the line moves. “ ’Sides, wasn’t her fault. She’s just dumb to take up with that worthless son of a bitch. Serve her right every morning she wakes up.”
“Uh huh.” I study the tabloids on the impulse rack.
“Guess I’ll let God handle it.” She steps out, peers down her line toward the cashier and scowls. “Will, too, you know?” She nods once, convinced. “I believe in the power of prayer.”
“Uh, well . . .”
“God’ll fix their wagon. Both of them. Sure as shootin’.”
I note that only one more customer is ahead of me. “I’m sure . . .
“He will! And I won’t have to live with it. It’ll be on His conscience, not mine.”
I start unloading my cart. “Well, good.”
“Still, would of felt good to do it, myself,” she says. “God helps them that help themselves, too.”
I move forward, now shielded by the impulse rack. “Have a good evening,” I say.
“You cook good, sugar,” she calls from out of sight. “Gonna be a long cold night.”