SEATTLE, Washington My local supermarket shut. Well, it'll reopen, under eight stories of poncy condos in two years. But the few, the proud, the car-free face a 1.5-mile stroll for groceries now.*
Yet a woman can not live on deli chips and pizza delivery alone. So I saddle up my medium backpack the mamma bear of the gear closet and clump to the Ballard Market. Then I lurk its ergonomic aisles, making subversive asides about the $6 strawberry punts to yuppies in $200 fleece.
Tonight my moodiness was upstaged. Badly.
A pea-coated hipster lowered his cell phone and snapped: "Do you mind not talking about chicken abattoirs? That's not appropriate deli banter."
To the staff's credit, all six or seven held it together until he wandered off. At which point, everyone customers included began howling. "DELI BANTER: MAKE IT APPROPRIATE!"
These hardworking citizens slice meat all day. Even as a veggie, I understand the need for shoptalk. And any sensitive-petal carnivore who can't hack the red-tooth-and-claw reality of carcass can join me for a lively selection of firm tofu: baked, smoked or spiced...
My radicchio chitchat may be sub-par, but I guarantee very demure and politically correct conversations about antioxidants.
*yes, yes. I could bike or bus, but the logistics grow annoying.