close encounters in the dairy aisle

By way of preliminaries, let me say that nothing Botswana inflicted on my skin can hold a candle to a Chicago winter. Ouch.

I'm sitting in my new room. I've managed to find my closet. I had hung maybe half a dozen things on hangers before I discovered the hangers were covered in a fine white dust. I took a break to wash the rest of the hangers. There's still clothing scattered around, and piles of electronic equipment and USB cables threaten to ensnare my ankles. But there's also a big furry black cat sleeping on my bed, so it ain't all bad.

I think there must have been a time when I felt some proficiency in procuring and preparing food, but it is long gone now. I was stable enough in 2007 to cook fairly regularly, though I never learned how to work the oven, and subletting made me somewhat sheepish about taking over the kitchen. I moved around so much in 2008, though, and spent so much time in borrowed quarters that I never really settled into a kitchen. All I really had were a few knives and a cutting board.

All this to say that when I ventured out for some groceries this afternoon, I was unprepared. I didn't really have a list; I just knew I wanted some food that wasn't already cooked. The store unnerved me. It's feels big, for one thing, and this store isn't even part of a major grocery chain. And even though I've been back for almost two months, the food is confusing. Where are the giant bags of mealie meal? Where are the boxes of UHT milk? Why must I buy a dozen eggs, rather than a half-dozen? Why is there half a wall of pasta sauce instead of a wall of tea? And why are there so damn many kinds of tea?

I did find some things I really like, such as tangerines and Greek-style yogurt, but I had forgotten that I'm starting from scratch again. I don't have cooking staples, like olive oil. No butter. No vinegar for salads. No curry sauce. No onions, no garlic. I got confused about what exactly I was going to cook. To be honest, I'm not sure what I eat (beyond tangerines and Greek-style yogurt).

On some kind of produce auto-pilot, I managed to find some broccoli, tomatoes, the aforementioned tangerines, apples and carrots. I found some whole-wheat pasta and the aforementioned yogurt, but by the time I was staring at eggs and bread and soy-based hot dogs, I was totally lost. If you are what you eat, it's pretty clear that I'm a walking identity crisis.

As I was staring at a selection of local baked goods, I suddenly recognized Mr K in the dairy aisle. Mr K is a graduate of my department. He wrote a paper notable for its challenge to a particular argument of a rather well-known scholar. I don't know what keeps him in the neighborhood. I've met him once; I wouldn't expect him to remember me. His name came to me almost instantly.

But it took me too long to sort of work up something to say, and I've haven't been in Chicago long enough to not be confused by who shows up in my environment. I was feeling like I had beamed in from Planet Meepzorp. I chickened out and got in line at the cashier next to him, rather than behind him.