My Love o’ Fairway

FairwayLet me just say it now: I Love You Fairway. I know that you may not always feel the same about me. Sometimes your cashiers mistake the Bartlett pears for Bosc, which inevitably means that I have to wait 5 minutes while she yells “Password!” and the manager saunters over (as I’m trying to dodge the evil eye that the 3 people behind me have affixed on my back). Even though I know that “Password” inexplicably refers to a plastic card that the cashier scans into the machine, to this day some part of me expects the manager to bend over to the cashier and quietly whisper “Rosebud” in her ear.

Sometimes your aisles are so crowded that I can barely squeeze through past the exasperated soccer mom looking at her kids and wondering thatMurdoch and his wife maybe, just maybe, she could get out of the parking lot before they realize she’s abandoned them in the freezer room, or the white guy trying to impress his Asian girlfriend with his knowledge about light vs dark soy sauce. And sometimes it’s just so damn cold out that the thought of trekking over to 12th Ave through the gauntlet of bums, projects, and police stations almost seems not worth it.

But then I remember that crunchy and sweet Gala apple you gave me two weeks ago. Or that tender asparagus you gave me on Valentine’s day. Or even that heavenly stinky cheese you proffered over the holidays that forced my roommate to declare a DMZ across the middle of the fridge. And I know that I can try to resist as hard as I can, but there’s no way that I could ever tear myself away from you for another supermarket. Whole Foods’ yuppie luxury tree-hugging self-indulgence and Gristede’s overpriced trash heap just can’t compare to you.


~ by therandomoracle on March 23, 2008.

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