Produce People

I don't know what it is about grocery stores, but they bring out the think in me. 

I've noticed of late that the summer produce shopper at my local Meijer is a lot more finicky than the winter produce shopper. And I am no exception.

The tomatoes in winter are sometimes bought, albeit disappointedly, but the tomatoes in summer are downright despised in grocery stores. A local farmer's market yields a more fleshy beefsteak. 

I don't monitor the winter cantaloupes (do they exist?) but the summer ones endure much thumping, schnozzing and groping by shoppers. Only the best ones make it to the fold. Does it smell like cantaloupe? Does it yield to gentle pressure and only to gentle pressure? A veritable army of thumpers reveal their acceptance or rejection of the fruit. Their carts tell all.

When it comes to watermelon, I am at a complete loss. I thump it and feel it, but it's hit or miss for me every time. I have yet to find the key to this mysteries produce. I shrug my shoulders and throw it in with the rest.

Last week, I found myself in the prima donna section of produce: corn selection.

Firstly, I think it's funny how grocery stores have finally just given up asking shoppers to stop shucking on store property; they provide ample trash bins. No other produce receives such attention.

I managed to make it to the corn section while it was relatively quiet. My experience has been that both men and women like to put the corn through its paces: first the silk quality, then the husk firmness. They examine the kernal size and color. Finally they poke the kernal for firmness. Rejected cobs are left somewhat naked for unsuspecting shoppers to enjoy... and what shopper doesn't enjoy someone else's fingernail prick in their corn kernals? (I plead guilty to corn poking.)

As I began my search for the corn, I felt a shadow over my shoulder and noticed I was being watched. A somewhat hurried and anxious looking woman asked me what the price was for corn this week. She took me off guard. "Um, I'm not sure." Her look told me I was a novice. Then she added, "Oh, nevermind...that's the big corn." The way she said it was also with a note of rejection and I felt my self esteem go down two notches. My pride kept me from returning the "big corn" to the bin. I feigned confidence and hurriedly put the three ears in my bag.

My husband is from Iowa and he has spent some time trying to show me how to get the good corn. I feel immense stress from serving corn to him and his family because not only is the corn they serve the *most amazing produce on the face of this planet* (I am not being sarcastic... it is...) but Dan's folks actually wait in chaste for their corn provider, "Steve", to provide the first harvest. (Again... no sarcasm.)

My corn provider is called "My Yer" and there is no red truck from which it spills. 

I take heart though, dear friends, that it is only the beginning of August and I may yet redeem the situation by serving my family some candy yellow small corn kernals before September hits. 

It's a noble, albeit corny goal.