Hey Y’all,

    I had one of those kind of weeks last week.  You know what I’m talking about—the kind of week where, by the end of it, you find yourself standing at the checkout counter at Wal-Mart in front of a pile of groceries but the only item that you really care about is that one can of Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumplings.  It’s the reason you went grocery shopping in the first place.  It’s the one food on earth that speaks to you.  It’s says, “Honey-child, I know you had a hard week so just sit yourself and scarf down every caloric, comforting bite.  Go ahead, sugar.  You deserve it.” 

    For some people it’s the ice cream that talks to them.  For others it’s the cheese cake.  For me it’s the Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumplings.

    The sound of thunder cracked just over our heads as the cashier swiped all my decoy groceries.  (Decoy groceries are the groceries you buy to disguise the real reason you went grocery shopping.)  I sighed with anticipated comfort food satisfaction when she grabbed the can of dumplings.

    She swiped.  A warning bell buzzed.  She swiped again.  Buzz.  Buzz.  She looked quizzically at the can of chicken and dumplings.

    “I’m sorry lady,  I can’t sell you this can.”  She callously flipped the dumplings into a box of rejected merchandise.

    Horrified, I cried, “No!  Why, what are you doing?!”

    “Something’s wrong with it.  I’ll get in trouble if I sell it to you.”

    “Wrong?  Like what?”

    She dragged the can out of the box and searched the label.  “I have no idea.  I’m really sorry.  Do you want to get another one?”

    I shook my head in denial and grief, speechless, my balled fists tight against my mouth. 

    Through clenched fists I said, “There isn’t another one.  That’s the last one.  I was in luck.”  Having found my voice, I pleaded and confessed, “You don’t understand.  Those dumplings are the real reason I came shopping in the first place. They’re the only reason I’m here—in the pouring rain.”  Thunder rattled the box store windows.  I lowered my voice to a whisper, “They’re my comfort food.”  The next sentence came out in a anxious rush.  “You have no idea how much I’ve been looking forward to sitting down with a plate full of steaming hot dumplings while reading a trashy fashion magazine.  Look here’s the trashy magazine.”  I held up a trashy magazine.

    She mouthed, “That’s my manager—behind you—I’ll get in trouble.”  She pointed to someone behind me.

    Her dilemma barely registered.  I  wondered out loud.  “But what could be wrong with my dumplings?  Are they from China?  Lead maybe?  Chickens raised in human waste by slaves?  I don’t care.  I’ll boil them for five minutes.  I promise.  If I die I won’t sue or any of my people.  I swear.”

    She clearly understood my grief and disappointment but her cash register and hands were tied.  Trying to be gracious, I bagged my decoy groceries with numb fingers and a cold heart.  I paid, and then walking in a blind funk, through a semi-tropic downpour that fogged my glasses and pooled in my bra, I loaded my truck and headed home.

    Dragging my pile of soppy groceries into the kitchen I started the process of stuffing it all away.  Two cans of cream of mushroom soup (for casseroles), a can of diced tomatoes with green chili’s (to jazz the casseroles up), one jar of mayonnaise (for everything else), and then . . . at the bottom of the plastic bag . . . a single forlorn can . . . of . . . Sweet Sue Chicken and Dumpling with Home Cooked Goodness—a possibly poisonous can of delicious chicken and dumplings smuggled into my grocery bag by a sister of my comfort food soul.  God bless her.  I ate every drop.  And was comforted.

    So far, so good—no botulism, fungus, or brain leakage—I think.  And even if there is, those dumplings were worth it.  Have a comforting week and may a great person of good heart slip a can of outdated, probably contaminated dumplings into your grocery bag of life.

    Linda (Glow in the Dark) Zern 

    

   





   

  

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