By Laura Grimes

Dear Mr. Scatter,

You really shouldn’t let me go shopping unsupervised. Because then I buy things like Baby Fuzzless Kiwifruit. They don’t look very exceptional. They look like hard little nuggets that should be skewered and stuck in a drink. But I don’t care about that. They’re called Baby Fuzzless Kiwifruit and that’s all that matters. The package says I bought One Half Dry Pint. All the signs in the store said Kiwifruit (oneword).

I also bought Elephant Heart Plums. I have no idea whether they’re any good. Who cares with such a cool name? I did, however, refrain from buying a long skinny eggplant that was folded like a bobby pin and a sweet potato that looked like a goose. Knowing me, you know I showed remarkable restraint in not filling the cart with a bobby pin, a goose and all their deformed friends.

(Aside: I buried the conjoined-twin cucumbers in the raised garden bed in the hope they will produce more mutant produce.)

At the checkout, a clerk with bright orange eye shadow and perfectly mascara’ed lashes gushed excitedly about the Baby Fuzzless Kiwifruit (oneword). “Oh, I love these!”

“I know. They’re fuzzless.”

“I know! I’m going to get some today. They’re so cheap right now.”

“I know!” I nodded agreeably, happy she shared the same excitement. In truth, I had no idea how much they cost, because I didn’t look and I didn’t care. But she still had my rapt attention. Fascinated, I watched her lashes go up and down.

“They’re so cute! You know those little apples that come out at Christmastime?”

“You mean the Pink Lady apples?” I oozed with good cheer.

“Yeah, those are the ones. I always have to get those because they’re just so tiny and so cute. My kids say, ‘I had to eat, like, three of them.’ And I just say, ‘Yeah, but they’re so cute!’ ”

*

Earlier in the day at a different store I was on my way to find wax beans when I heard one of the workers who looked important in a vest mumble something out of the corner of his mouth. I thought, Did I hear him right?

He was looking over a display at the end of an aisle. When he left, I checked it out, and sure enough, I had heard him correctly. He had said, “Coffee and Lysol. Now there’s a good tie-in.”

All four shelves on the bottom were lined up with the store brand Supreme Blend ground coffee in a can. The top shelf held row after row of disinfecting wipes and disinfectant spray.

I walked over to the wax beans that were nearby, but I couldn’t get the bizarre pairing out of my head. As I stood there staring over my shoulder at the cans of coffee underneath the disinfectant wipes, a nice worker lady looked at me. “Finding everything you need?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

*

At that point, I pulled out my mini notepad and it was open to a page that had one thing written on it: “Plumber tomatoes.”

I stared a while trying to remember what on earth that could mean. Then it registered. Tomatoes with cracks!

*

At the kiwifruit store, I was so caught up in the onewordness of it all that I forgot to check whether they had chervil (not gerbil). I’m sure they didn’t.

Chervil (not gerbil) is a French thing. Yes, the people known for eating snails also have a penchant for a certain herb that supposedly repels slugs. Go figure.

I’m still campaigning to beef up awareness about this fair herb, which I’ve read is similar to parsley. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen it. Though I got excited about a possible chervil (not gerbil) sighting when Friend Ed sent me this note:

I was in the checkout line at Whole Foods this morning unloading a cartload of chervil and chervil-related products — the kids can’t get enough of the Odwalla Super-Chervil Smoothie, and I love the Newman’s Own Chervil Sandwich Cremes …

It turns out he was just kidding, though. I was a tad disappointed. Just to be sure there’s no confusion, I feel a grave need to clarify: We are not talking about gerbil smoothies.

*

The mutant tomato in the photo way above was rescued from being made into Green Tomato Relish or Piccalilli as the canning book mysteriously calls it. I will bury him in the raised garden bed as well and hope for more mutantcy. (I decided he must be a boy.)

We miss you.

Love,
Mrs. Scatter