Beauty in the Mundane

One of the first things I like to do on arrival in the States is go to a grocery store.  I’ve never been fond of grocery shopping, but that’s not what it’s about.  It’s about the differences between a grocery store here and a grocery store there.  Now, to be fair, when I got back to Australia after living in the US, I couldn’t wait to go to a grocery store here, either.  It’s that whole evil curse thing I wrote of in my first blog post.

So for those of you who have never missed being in another country before, I’ll try and explain.

First of all - it’s the smell.  Mind you, when I was pregnant with The Little American, I did my level best not to breathe through my nose whilst at the supermarket, for fear of losing, right there in front of God and everyone, what little lunch I’d managed to hang onto that particular day.  

But still.  The smell.  It’s actually not even that pleasant in various parts of the supermarket - but it’s distinctive - and a reminder that I’m in America.  That I’m not just a tourist, no matter what my stupid visa says.  It’s the smell of a home that is not my home but that my heart - and my olfactory nerves - tells me actually is my home (or one of them).  

It’s familiar.  It speaks of kitchens and meals and families and homes in the sprawl of houses and apartments around whatever supermarket I’m in at the time.  It says that here is America and here are Americans.  They’ve been here the whole time I’ve been on the other side of two oceans pining for America - going about their lives, making their sandwiches, their snacks, their meals.  Having showers, doing hair, dressing babies, maintaining children, and all those other little things that make up our mundane existence.

I grab a cart (or trolley, as we say here), and slowly trawl up and down the aisles with a lump in my throat.  Being in the supermarket tells me I’m really here.  I’m really in America.  I scan the shelves for the familiar labels of products I’ve missed and add a few to my cart as I go.  Typical choices would be:

• Hostess treats - I usually go for Ding Dongs.
• Butterfingers candy bars.
• Welches Grape Jelly.
• Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream (Everything but the... is my favourite).
• Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls.
• American bacon (nothing wrong with ours - it’s just not the same - apples and oranges).
• Pillsbury Grands! Biscuits.
• Post Honey Bunches of Oats Cereal with Strawberries.
• Kool-Aid Pink Lemonade.

I know those aren’t exactly Heart Foundation approved choices - but I’m on a nostalgia trip, remember?  Cut me some slack!

And I’m going to spend an inordinate amount of time marvelling at the Cool Whip cabinet, the ice cream freezer, and the hair products, just to see what’s new.  There’s also going to be unbridled amazement in the makeup and beauty section when I behold the much-cheaper prices for the products I buy back here in Australia.  

At some point I’m going to go to the meat section and look for a nice big pork loin.  And I’m going to stand in silent contemplation and awe for the tiny price compared to what I’d pay for that meat here.  And I’m going to remember how I miss slow-cooking some nice pulled-pork for my family.  I never do it here.  Too expensive.  And somehow just not the same.  

Finally, I’ll meander toward the checkouts with my loot.  It’s not unusual to have been in the store for a good hour or so at that point.  Then there’s the likes of Costco or Sam’s Club - that’s a whole other post, I’m afraid.  And the length of time it takes me to get around those stores increases exponentially with the sizes of the boxes and packaging they proffer, to which my long-suffering friends will attest from my last trip, bless them.

So next time you have to trudge around the supermarket for the necessities, spare a thought for how much I would love to be in your shoes, and look for the beauty.  I promise it’s there.