Down the Other Aisle
The other week, while planning a Friday night, Sara mentioned that one of us needed to go food shopping. I asked, with utter seriousness, "Could we hire a baby sitter and go together?" Yes, I trust Sara's produce selection skills, and no, I don't need a second opinion on oatmeal. The fact is, I miss the bygone days when Sara and I used to food shop together.
I've heard single friends say that the grocery store is a great place to meet someone new. Apparently, the meat market can be just that, and the contents of one's cart offer a revealing peek at potential compatibility. But I believe they stock married bliss in grocery stores, too. Sara and I got to know each other while sharing a shopping cart. She likes hot dogs and applesauce - together. I married her anyway. I can't make tuna salad without sweet-pickle relish, chopped pecans, and curry powder, so I'm not exactly one to talk.
Back when we were a couple instead of parents, food shopping wasn't a chore or an errand. It was a date. We'd take our time at the market, planning meals and each offering culinary commentary on the other's choices. We had rituals and routines that were part of the rhythm of our relationship. Sara would make fun of the time I spent choosing a steak, and I would give her grief over the amount of shampoo and conditioner she bought whenever it was on sale. "It doesn't go bad," she'd remind me, "unlike the rib roast that's been in the freezer since May." That's Sara - 1, Shawn - 0 for those of you scoring at home.) But I would get her back when she'd buy dozen cans of tomato rotini soup to take to work, daring her toward a 12-ounce leap of faith she just couldn't take. Still, it was comforting to know that if she could stand eating the same soup every day for lunch, maybe I'd never grow too bland for her, either.
Every aisle spurred connections. Passing the macadamia nuts got us talking about the whirlwind two-day anniversary trip we took to Hawaii. For weeks after returning from 10 days in Italy, we searched for pears half as succulent as the ones we had bought from a street vendor in Rome. Sara's refusal to eat salmon brought up stories of her days growing up in Maine, where her father owned a fish farm. There were days when we were coupon fiends, knowing that each 50-cent cereal discount, doubled by the store, was a dollar toward a down payment on a second car. I distinctly remember the first time we bought a home pregnancy test, followed nine months later by our heading down the diaper aisle for the first time.
When we moved into a larger apartment to accommodate our growing family, we did a tour of the six grocery stores near our new home, deciding which had the best prices, the best produce, the best baggers. Shopping was a weekly outing for us as a family, and we never realized how much it meant until it stopped being possible. Sure, when Hazel was an infant, we all went together. But by the time she got old enough to say "I want," it became clear that shopping was now an adults-only activity, and thus we reached the end of an era.
We still occasionally shop as a family when time and nap schedules permit. But usually it's Sara or me, alone in the aisles, quietly singing along to "These Are Days" by Natalie Merchant, which seems always to be playing. There's no gentle mocking, no memories shared, no conspiring to justify an impulse buy of shrimp and steak for dinner, and no thinly veiled attempts to "get warm" in the freezer section. There's no more romance in aisle 5, even though, frankly, it's something I still have on my list.
When I asked Sara about hiring a baby sitter so we could go grocery shopping together, she thought I was joking. I'm not. Instead, I'm clipping coupons. I figure if I can save 10 bucks on this next trip, that pays for the sitter for an hour, and buys us some time together - on special.
Shawn Peters is a freelance writer. E-mail comments to coupling@globe.com.
