For nearly nine years, I’ve lived on my own. I’ve had various roommates in houses and apartments, and I’ve lived in the university residence halls, eating dining hall meals, microwavable dinners or fast food. However, for a year and a half, I lived with only my dog, Evie. (She eats most anything.) I found the food situation to be vastly different when I lived alone than when I lived with roommates.
During this year and a half, I lived in the country, and greatly enjoyed it. I worked in the city but didn’t want to have to stop at the grocery store every day because of bad planning. When I lived on the farm, we only went to the grocery store once or twice a month for all five of us. I liked that approach. Continue reading “A Single Person’s Guide to the Grocery Store”
Yesterday, I tweeted a comment in support of the farmers using #farm365. I had not heard of the hashtag before, but later in the day I learned that it was started as a photo diary of each day of 2015 by Canadian dairy farmer and ag communicator Andrew Campbell, who owns Fresh Air Media and gives a no-holds-barred look at agricultural issues for RealAgriculture.com. A cool project, it began with the first calf of 2015, born at 1:15 a.m.
Activists for veganism were attempting to take over the hashtag and Andrew was receiving nasty comments. Scrolling through the #farm365 tweets, I noticed one that said the hashtag was about getting rid of farmers because that is better for animals, and I tweeted:
Farmers also raise vegetables, not just livestock. Agriculture is a diverse enterprise. #farm365 — Elise Brown (@browne61) January 6, 2015
Sliding doors glide open. Coolers hum. Glass chimes in sweet melodies. My fingers tug at a blue plastic ring to pull a half-gallon jar toward me. In one swift motion, I take it out, swing it by my side, slide the door shut and turn toward the cashier. As I walk toward the register, I let my eyes wander toward the display of cheeses, eggs and whoopie pies and the shelves of grilled stickies in boxes declaring, “World famous!”
I linger at the grilled stickies, picking up a blue box, thinking of the first time I ate grilled stickies, having never heard of them before, bought after a football game from the campus creamery. The taste of the cinnamon roll lingers and I fumble off my gloves to reach into my pocket for the cash. Count the change. Decide I have enough to add a box to warm up the night. Check out. Pay. Crunch through the snow to my car, laying the milk jar gently on the floor and placing the stickies on the passenger seat beside me.