Pretzels in Paradise

In the grocery store I watch a lady gently squeeze a tomato. She remarks to her companion, “These are a little soft.” She rejects the plump, unblemished, red-skinned fruit and pushes her cart onward with a frown. 

My goal is pretzels, so I roll past the mountains of avocados from Peru, oranges from South Africa, hills of lemons, limes, velvet apricots, and southern peaches. I pass valleys filled with onions, shallots, and every size potato. To my right, leafy greens of countless shades and shapes, cascade down a wall. On my left berries, apples, and grapes form a plateau above a river of watermelon from whole to half, wedged, sliced, and cubed. I literally walk through a painting that rivals a Renoir. 

Heading to the snack aisle, I turn left just past a wall of dried fruits and nuts that could supply a hermit for years. The aroma of freshly baked bread drifts over tables stacked with pies, cakes and desserts that make Caesar’s Palace dessert buffet look meager. Yonder and behind a glass case rest massive roasts of ham, turkey and beef, blocks of creamy cheese and cylinders of salami and pepperoni. Phil Collins sings in my head. It’s just another day for you and me in paradise. 

I imagine plopping my great-grandmother into the middle of this wonderland. Or a family from a famine plagued country. Or a mother from our own country, whose child is one of the 13 million facing hunger. 

Aisle after aisle proffers products, packaged and bottled, dated for freshness, and suited to the varied tastes of visitors from every part of the country.  Mexican, Cajun, Asian, Kosher, vegetarian. Special dietary needs? Choices are not limited to gluten-free, nut-free, sodium-free, caffeine-free, sugar-free, there’s also hormone-free, antibiotic-free, pesticide-free and more.  

What must the supply chain look like that delivers produce from around the globe to this somewhat isolated spot on the Canadian border?  I try to imagine the farms and orchards of remote countries and the factories in distant states, the people who pick the fruit or run the equipment, work the assembly lines, pack, ship, and transport all this food. It is they who provide this abundance.  

I head into the canyon of snacks for my bag of pretzels. Minis, nibblers, rods, snaps, or waffles. Sourdough, honey wheat braids, cheddar twists, or filled with peanut butter. Party size, value size, family size. My head spins. On the bottom shelf I spy small individual packs labeled Original Sticks. I know this product. I take a package of six and head to the express checkout.  

Vacationers empty overflowing carts of groceries onto the conveyor belts. The cashier asks an easy question, Did you find everything you wanted? I thought about the grumpy tomato lady. In all this excess, she found fault. 

At one time I was satisfied with tuna noodle casserole, chipped ham, and local corn on the cob. What has become of us that we need salmon from Alaska, lobsters from Maine, and mussels from Chile?  We’ve become food snobs, spoiled, entitled and I fear, ungrateful. We have more than food security, we have food decadence.  

At the register I round up to feed the homeless and cringe at this scrap of benevolence.  

My return home takes me across the Thousand Islands Bridge which spans the St. Lawrence shipping channel. I spot a behemoth freighter carrying a full load of cargo eastward. The grain for pretzels could be heading to the factory. Just another day in paradise.