Fruitless Daydreams

In my current daydream -- inspired by a weary, un-Sunday-ish trip to Rainbow -- John and I live on a shady, tree-lined city street that has many children, all well brought up and from intact homes, whose parents do not buy snack packs of anything at all, and where it is always, oh, about 69 degrees and slightly breezy.

I slip on the comfortable shoes that are neatly lined up near the back door, grab my hempen shopping basket, grab the toddler by the hand, and walk out. No need to lock up, my neighbors are looking out for my older children, who are gardening in the vast but somehow manageable vegetable patch over by the babbling creek.

The toddler and I walk two blocks, waving at the happy still independent elderly and the smiling, decent adults who are out doing various constructive things. Finally we come to the corner and there it is: the neighborhood shops! There are three of them, none bigger than an ordinary storefront!

We start at the butcher/dairy. We buy one pound of chicken (locally farmed, fed organic chicken kibble) half a gallon of milk, and a small wedge of parmesan cheese. This takes four minutes. The toddler has not yet even noticed that I am still holding her hand.

Next we wander to the grocer. I buy green beans (from the farmers in 30 minutes out, who don't use pesticides), seven small but sweet pears, dried apricots (OK, probably not local, but lovingly and humanely produced, you understand) and a bottle of red wine, which the state in a fit of practicality has finally allowed grocers to carry. The toddler is getting antsy, so I give her one apricot to chew on. This has all taken 12 minutes. My bag is heavy but not too much.

Finally we go to the bakery/specialty shop, run by Catholic hippies -- Chippies! They donate to the local food shelf and give jobs to the Downs syndrome kids in the neighborhood. Here the toddler and I buy one loaf of their whole wheat bread, paying $3.50 for it but gladly, since the owners have fourteen adopted children and mill their own organic spelt. Five minutes gets us out the door.

Back home after a refreshing and energy-renewing stroll, the toddler plays with the generous and sweet-tempered 11-year-old while I make chicken and potato curry, steam the green beans, set out the bread, crack open the wine.

Superguy comes home and we have a fabulous family meal.

The children do the dishes willingly.