Elizabeth's Kryptonite

This morning I made the mistake of accompanying Elizabeth to Publix. Everyone has a weakness, and Elizabeth's is shopping for groceries. She promised, "This will only take half an hour. All I need is some breakfast and lunch stuff for next week." I knew better than to believe those words. I can shop an entire grocery store in fifteen minutes, from the time I cross the threshold to the moment I tell the bagger, "No thanks, I can take the cart to the car myself." Elizabeth, however, takes two hours to food shop.

Usually we make the long drive to Whole Foods together. [Post-cancer, I prefer as many organic items as possible.] That store is so small and cramped that we are hurried along by the tight aisles, teetering displays, and bumper-car mentality of the other customers. But this Saturday I didn't need much and Elizabeth wanted big, firm cherries instead of the overpriced, bruised, drippy organic ones from Whole Foods. So against my better judgment, I accompanied her to Publix. I knew as soon as we walked in that I was in trouble as the wide aisles, high ceiling, and perfect pyramids of fresh, firm fruits and vegetables called, siren-like, even to me. I thought to myself, Wow, I can buy some of these beautiful yellow plantains, some of these gorgeous sweet potatoes, and a package of plump pork chops. What a meal that would be!

But we are all born with super powers, and one of my gifts is to block the evil rays of product placement, "shopper" music, and flattering lighting. I knew that the plantains would sit on the counter until tiny flies start to buzz around them, that the sweet potatoes would turn into puddles of filthy juice in the vegetable bin of the refrigerator, and that even if I tossed the pork chops into the freezer, another hurricane would come, I'd lose power for eight days as I did for Charley, and the chops would end up in a garbage bag at the end of the driveway, headed for the city dump.

Food displays are Elizabeth's kryptonite. They rob her of motion and power, make her a zombie who can squeeze the same lime for five minutes. Elizabeth had, for example, hotdogs on her shopping list. Because she was born in the Bronx, there is only one hotdog as far as she is concerned: Sabrett. Although the decision was already made in her mind, I had to shiver in front of the sandwich meat case watching her pick up first Nathan's, then Hebrew National, reading the labels and gauging the plumpness of the cellophane packages. "It's going to be the Sabretts. Just throw the damn package in the cart," I growled.

The cart was another problem. I didn't bother to get one of my own because Elizabeth had assured me, "Just a few things." But then when she started loading up the rack underneath, having already threatened to crush the five things I had decided to buy with her six-packs of water, I went to get my own. We crawled along each aisle, Elizabeth choosing items she will never cook for what will inevitably be hell week, the last week of the semester, when we're just too exhausted to do anything but order pizza or go out. I saw this future, but mesmerized by the Publix displays, she couldn't stop choosing foolish purchases.

Just call me Grocery Girl. Faster than the express check-out lane. More powerful than the seductive lure of rotisserie chicken. Able to skip entire aisles with a single authoritative push of the cart.