I think I have a problem. It’s an obsession, really…with grocery shopping.
Perhaps this realization should have come to me freshman year. During those first few weeks, nearly all of my phone calls home included recaps of my latest food shopping ventures. In fact, one of my first trips off-campus was an Uber to Whole Foods with Anna, a girl who lived just two doors down. My parents would try not to sigh too loudly into the phone before reminding me of my meal plan. “Well, yeah,” I’d mumble. “But BC Dining doesn’t offer cranberry orange seltzer.”
At my home in New Jersey, the local Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods each sit a solid 30 minutes from my house. My mom usually can’t be bothered to make an hour-long commute for groceries, so she leans on those within a two-mile radius: ShopRite, BJ’s, and Costco (the latter of which opened just over a year ago to the complete and utter joy of our entire town). The core of the matter was that I’d never experienced an alluring supermarket before. Whole Foods was polished and airy inside, mostly white with wooden accents. The scope of brands they offered was so wide, so new to me, that I couldn’t help but feel lured in. Trader Joe’s was like Whole Foods’ more affordable, eccentric little sibling. Cookies in every shape and flavor, a rotating cast of seasonal and holiday-themed products, and mini succulents by the entrance. Say less!
With time, I learned to breeze through my hauls so as not to concern the parents on every call. There was no need to further agitate them with tales of my semi-regular supermarket trips. Food is a necessity. Grocery shopping is practical. In my eyes, filling paper bags with fun, exciting items I’d never seen before––say, pomegranate Pop-Tarts––was merely exercising my new liberties as a freshly minted college student.
That isn’t to say that mistakes weren’t made. Some of my least favorite, most regrettable finds from those months include pumpkin butter (never even opened) and watermelon beet juice. I distinctly remember sitting in the Fitzpatrick lounge, cracking open the seal on my seven-dollar bottle of antioxidants, ready to be wowed. Instead, I choked on the first sip and made myself take two more, not least because of the price tag. Later, I returned to my room in defeat and announced failure to my roommate, Tori. “Seven dollars!” I cried in dismay, as I cast it into the trashcan at the foot of my bed. Ah, freshman year.
As time went on, my enthusiasm for groceries began to carry over into long weekends and breaks spent at home. Packing for the return to Chestnut Hill involved more than just clothing. I’d arrange and rearrange my bags to include random food items my mom and I found while running errands together. Once, I crammed a box of spiced Kodiak pancake mix into my duffel bag. To my credit, I had aspirations to somehow use the powdered mix to concoct a mug (pan)cake of sorts. I swear, I do spend some time studying.
Fast forward to sophomore year, and some things changed; I had seven roommates as opposed to one and a kitchenette instead of a microfridge (read: we had extra cabinets). My passion for groceries remained a constant, even evolving a bit more. My designated shelf in the “kitchen” was always chock-full and apparently (as friends liked to point out) with items atypical of most college students. I am consistently generous when it comes to sharing food––the problem is that my offers often go unaccepted. My suitemate mocked me when I attempted in vain to have her sample my favorite nut butter (a blend of cashews and almonds with a touch of honey and blended Chia seeds). I once ripped open a bag of cauliflower straws and offered them to the room before seeking out a bowl. “Straws of what?” was the general response.
Then came March, move-out, and quarantine. Dorm and kitchenette disassembled, I found myself back in Jersey. I stayed at home for weeks, wallowing in what so many have cited as social symptoms of the pandemic: frustration, loneliness, shock. My mom was the self-elected volunteer who first braved the grocery stores. She came back exhausted and anxious with tales of aggressive shoppers and barren aisles. Eventually, something sparked inside me. Food was just as essential as it had been a month ago. My mom was still leaving the house to buy food for us all. Why not come along? I could help shoulder her burden––I should help shoulder her burden––Clorox wipes, masks, and all.
Friday is our new grocery day. My mom and I reserve the start of the weekend for gathering provisions. I could be in the worst of moods, but if she announces even a quick run for milk and flowers, I shake myself out of a stupor and shuffle on flip-flops. If I’m honest, when I tag along, it’s never just milk. We take the time to peruse produce. A lap through the bakery section is always a necessity. Rarely do we trek to Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s, the seductive spots that I peruse in Boston, but for now, what we have in town is just fine.
The world is a scary place. It’s always been that way, but 2020 has been a stern reminder of this fact of the universe. These days, sources of relaxation, happiness, and control feel few-and-far-between. Grocery stores have given me all three. Unanswerable questions about the future get left at the door, and inside, everything has its place. For an entire hour, I’m overwhelmed by the most trivial of concerns––which new recipe to prepare for, which coffee creamer to try next––and it feels amazing.
Some aspect of my pandemic-induced anxiety right now is similar to the way I felt in the fall of 2018, stepping into the world alone for the very first time. I had no way of knowing what was to come, good or bad. Everything on the horizon was new, but there was little to do except face it head-on. Stocking my dorm room with store-ground peanut butter and Everything-But-The-Bagel Seasoning felt like a little act of self care, defiance in the face of the unknown.
I also felt defiant last Friday, when I lugged a basil plant into my mom’s shopping cart and then spent a solid five minutes mulling over the available Ben & Jerry’s selection. I may not be able to freely navigate all of my favorite hometown spots, and I may not know where I’ll be living in the fall, but at least I can make homemade pesto on a whim and enjoy the comforts of Netflix-themed ice cream. Food remains essential, and consequently, so does grocery shopping. In summary––and to quote TikTok, another symptom of four months in quarantine––I think this is an obsession that doesn’t hurt anyone.
Disclaimer: This article was written prior to recent events suggesting that Whole Foods is unsupportive of the Black Lives Matter movement. Gusto firmly condemns those actions, and asserts that Black Lives Matter- yesterday, today, and always.