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.