"How do you cook spareribs?"
I don't like being interrupted while I'm shopping. It takes all of my concentration to compare cost per unit, serving size, was buy-two-get-one-free better economy than the seventy-five cent coupon?
"You can pour sauce over them while they're cooking." I didn't mean to sound impolite. Did he want a recipe right here in the grocery store?
"What kind of sauce?" He had a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was carrying one of those hand baskets that single people use, especially young men who never buy enough groceries at one time to warrant pushing a full sized cart. He didn't have any spareribs in his basket. I figured he was trying to find out how difficult they were to prepare before he made the big meat purchase for the week.
"Um, you can use barbeque sauce from a bottle. That's the easiest."
He pushed his hair from his eyes and I saw him glance at the ring on my finger. The awareness washed over me like a wave. He looked up and thanked me. It sounded like an apology. I could feel my face flush as he turned to walk away. Looking at the shelves full of cans that had held my attention only moments before, nothing was familiar.
I pushed my cart around the corner. The dairy department. Milk and cream in cartons, lined up against the fronts of the shelves Cheeses wrapped in plastic cubes, wedges, slices. I reached into the coolness and grabbed a parchrnent-wrapped block of butter. It was the right weight in my hand. I placed it in the child seat part of my cart, where the special things go, the things you don't want squashed under the cans and bottles still to come.
We moved back and forth through the kitchen, opening cupboards, emptying bags, filling the refrigerator.
"Why did you buy butter?" He stood with the butter in one hand, the fridge door handle in the other, waiting. "What happened to economizing and all of the health concerns?"
I looked into those eyes, so warm and brown. Neither of us looked away.
I smiled. "I felt like a treat."
© L. Broadfoot, 1996