My Wife, My Little Yard Bird

So I love to cook. I love to grocery shop to get good ingredients to cook. When we first met, grocery shopping was not on my wife’s radar. I imagined us spending a fun bonding hour each week in the grocery store seeing the foods and imagining what we’d cook that week. It didn’t happen for the first three years.

In Baton Rouge it’s hard to get affordable food. Most produce isn’t too appealing but it’s expensive relative to the rest of the country. Tragic for a locale whose climate would easily enable it to grow just about any produce its population would desire consume.

But then again there is a lot of pollution here and last year my wife decided it was worth the added cost to buy mostly organic food. A little switch flipped. Over night she loved grocery shopping. She could put into action all the health articles she’d read. We’d help her asthma and our overall health.

Now we enjoy the ritual. And so does she on her own. Unfortunately, I’m a bit of a libra, always trying to maintain balance without even realizing it. I found myself hurrying her through the grocery store. Let’s go. Let’s go.

Upon realizing my dream of us enjoying grocery shopping together, I started to pull her without cause. I immediately recognized this and made myself step back and enjoy her enjoying herself. I’m lucky and I appreciate it. I have my dream of our food-buying couple ritual.

I love her. She’s so cute. At the store, she developed her routines. She starts off meandering through the produce and picks out her apples. She walks over to the soups. Stirs and smells each one. Sometimes we  indulge in the cost-prohibitive tortilla soup. She heads to pick out her free range high omega-3 eggs. She loves eggs.

Then peruses the salad bar. Slowly imagining each offering. She lets herself be tempted by  the bakery goods and deserts and but doesn’t really consider such untouchables. Only for looking. All along the way her journey is punctuated by samples.

She is the cutest. I hate to say anything. Even describing to her what she does that makes her so cute, makes her feel self-conscious and like I’m making fun of her, which will make her stop enjoying whatever I described making her cute. It’s a little tragic I have no one to share how cute she is and she can’t quite appreciate it with me.

Friday a new comparison hit me. She was recounting her day’s adventure in Baton Rouge and her lunch stop at Whole Foods and I couldn’t help but seeing her as a yard bird. She’s like a free range chicken at the store. Meandering, pecking. Taking in the sights and sounds. Happy and content as any yard bird ever was. She said she especially liked the warm Indian offerings at the lunch salad bar they had that day. I love my yard bird. I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

Friday night we had cause to return to BR and found ourselves having a date at the grocery store. We enjoyed a couple playing live blue-grass over dinner and sampled the gelato. The Aztec chocolate was hot and rich. My wife settled on the kingcake and cheeseckae and I coffee and basil-pineapple. It was fresh and surprising: my tongue throughly satisfied. Spring has arrived. Life as a yardbird, I’m beginning to see, is pretty sweet. 

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