rowhouse greatest hits

editor's note: i didn't feel like writing tonight. it's june and the weather is a pile of march crap. i'm sitting here in a threadbare peach polyester peignoir i got at my wedding shower in 1991, feeling decidedly underwhelmed. so i found this post looking for something else, and it's funny and good and was written back when i could write, and life hadn't squeezed out all my joie de vivre like nectar from an apricot, in august 2004. recycling? perhaps. but necessary sometimes.

Rowhouse Pantry

A Special Note for My Gentle Readers:
This entry was way better before, but Blogger ate it and forgot to burp. Sorry for the milquetoasty residue. I do try.

I remain & c., &c.,
Just Rose

I have always had a strange relationship with grocery shopping.

In part it is because it is yet another thing that I have had full responsibility for far too long. After my dad left and my mom came back, and then my mom left and my dad came back (while all their children remained in the Cape Cod), my dad used to drop me off with a blank check at the supermarket and have me call him on the payphone when I was done.

Earlier memories of grocery shopping are even more richly textured. My mother, her brow furrowed and her manner curt, piloting one cart, sometimes two, loaded with paper towels, ground beef, dog food, sanitary napkins, the three mischievous malcontents and magical me.

My brother M was famous for stealing flagrantly from the loose candy display. He would flick the honor box in lieu of inserting a nickel. His cheeks were perpetually stuffed with square caramels.

The malcontents took advantage of my sweet and gullible sensibilities to dupe me on these little excursions. They would offer me Crisco, insisting it was icing. I would take a big fingerful joyfully . . . and discover that it most assuredly was not icing.

They are still delighted by my need to sniff my food for wholesomeness, so it took me a very long time during my childhood to realize that when they said something, for example pizza, did not smell good, I didn't have to believe them. I usually just got a faceful of pizza.

Among my mother's many talents was her skill at cooking, and my dad still pines about her recipes. Apparently she made really good meatballs and gravy, but I don't remember eating them too often. "Hey Rosie, look over there!" usually was followed by my glancing back at my plate, with its nest of tomato-tinged noodles, the meatball now on one of my brothers' forks.

When I go shopping now, it's to Much Cheaper near P's school for the bigger orders. Much Cheaper is a random store, vaguely organized. I need to go into a sort of zen mode in there, strolling, strolling, strolling. I do like going. I prefer to go alone.

Today I noted the following points of interest at Much Cheaper:

1. A half aisle devoted entirely to Depends undergarments and related accessories. Who knew that many people in Rowhouseland were afflicted with incontinence?

2. A hardback copy of Madonna's first childrens' book, The English Roses, abandoned in the candy section. This filled me with a strange sense of satisfaction.