Now Playing: Been Caught Stealing – Jane’s Addiction
Grocery pickup is a marvel for most items. Cereal? Perfect. Pasta sauce? No problem. Cleaning supplies? Absolutely.
But produce? Every time I hand it over to pickup, I regret it. Not because the pickers are bad people, they’re just moving too fast to have standards. And I have standards. The peaches arrive like billiard balls or like they’ve been through a minor car accident. The avocado is either a fossil or an alien crash scene. Bananas? Green when they arrive, brown by breakfast.
You can imagine what Word Raccoon does with those. It’s not pretty.
Produce is tactile. You can’t just glance at it. You have to hold it, feel its weight, notice its balance. I am an unofficial produce whisperer. I have the sense that this pineapple will ripen beautifully on my counter while that one will sulk until it collapses in on itself. I can’t explain how I know, and I don’t really think I could explain what I’m looking for, but at least those apps could let me try.
That’s why grocery pickup should have a “produce notes” section. Let me tell them:
- “Avocados for guacamole tomorrow night.”
- “Peaches to eat Wednesday morning.”
- “Spinach that’s party-ready on Saturday, not retirement-home-ready today.”
Give me a ripeness scale, a “use-by” slider or anything so I’m not eating salsa made from avocados that feel like they’ve been cryogenically stored.
Word Raccoon is offering to help them develop the language for it. Should we let her?
Packaging Crimes
Don’t get me started on bags of mini cucumbers. I’ve received bags where one shady cucumber is tucked in the middle like he’s under witness protection, shielded by perfect little saints. But cucumbers are easily led astray; soon they all cave to his soft, spotted ways. I open the bag two days later and find they’ve all gone down together, a tiny green scandal in my crisper drawer.
Things bought in a clamshell are automatically suspect, too, but often unavoidable. If they’re encased in anything, I’m going to deduct at least 30% from their flavor profile. (I mean, do we like to consume anything that comes wrapped?)
Distance & Disappointment
The farther away an item comes, deduct an appropriate percentage. Basically, at any given time we are eating memories more than food when it comes to produce anyway; there’s a countdown built in. We’re eating the ideal versus what’s right in front of us, and we’re making the best of it.
Tomatoes are my jam and my heartbreak. They should smell of soil and be ripened honestly, in the sun. You have to know when you’re going to use them: if it’s today or tomorrow, they should give gently to a squeeze. If further out, they can be a bit firmer.
(Okay, yes, I’m contradicting myself — they can ripen a bit off the vine. Fine. But unless you’re making fried green tomatoes, they should have at least that first blush or they’ll be flavorless.) Just a personal preference. What, me have opinions on tomatoes? Let’s not even talk about varieties. LOL.
Grocery store tomatoes, for the most part, are the nostalgic equivalent of what tomatoes used to taste like. You’re just slicing memories.
Or, it’s like you’re getting potential taste not played out, which is pretty frustrating. Why bother to grow them? Why waste the seed, the water, the soil? Come on.
If I were a tomato, I’d be damn pissed to be grown, tossed into a plastic clamshell, and transported hundreds of miles or whatever to languish first in a grocery store, then on a counter or…shudder…IN THE FRIDGE!
Loves, you aren’t putting your tomatoes in the refrigerator, are you? If you learn nothing else, hear this: if you’re going to put them in the fridge, just go ahead and toss them in the damn trash can instead.
Seriously.
Bananas? There’s no middleman. You can’t grow them here, and they’re all basically the same species now, right? So you find a store that occasionally sells flavorful ones and try to repeat the miracle. But mostly, you’re stuck with fruit that’s too big, too mushy, too nothing, or too green. Still, sliced into a bowl of raisin bran with almond milk? Worth the search. And peanut butter + banana snacks? Non-negotiable. I’ve given up complaining about them.
Instincts & Preferences
These are all just preferences. But I know what I enjoy. Like yellow squash. I adore it, but only the young, tender ones. Miss me with those ridiculously bowling-pin sized versions. Worthless. They should be the pale yellow of a delicate moon and their skin should be the thickness of a butterfly’s wing or less They’re a different breed from their overgrown siblings.
Carrots? Oh, God. Do NOT hand me those bagged nightmares called “baby carrots.” They are not baby carrots. They are whittled down from full-sized ones and bagged in water, which is GROSS, Word Raccoon says. If she wanted damp sticks with no flavor, she would chew on the legs of the porch chairs.
When It’s Right
Sometimes, though, it’s worth the hunt. Asparagus from the farmers market, roasted with olive oil and sea salt? Bliss. Don’t try it any other way, duckies. Pears? Is there anything better than a ripe Bartlett? And yet they can slide from “Hey baby, wanna rock?” to “Oh, too late, I just texted ‘U Up?’ to someone else” in the span of an afternoon.
Farmers markets aren’t perfect either. Sometimes you arrive late and all that’s left are limp herbs and apples with mysterious soft spots. But at least it’s my choice. I get to weigh the melon in my hands and decide if it deserves to come home with me.
Though TBH, I do still order some produce for grocery pickup. To quote Robbie in Dirty Dancing, “That’s okay, Baby, I went slummin’ too.” Because how the hell else are you supposed to make a salad in February? (No, I don’t garden. That’s not my thing. You’re going to laugh, but I don’t have a green thumb and I get sad when I see plants die when I’m supposed to be the one keeping them going.)
Until grocery pickup apps give us a produce notes box, most weeks Word Raccoon will be the one in the aisle or at the farmers market, tapping and squeezing like it’s her side hustle, because good produce isn’t just about taste. It’s about choosing it yourself. Especially that gorgeously ripe tomato that all but leans in and whispers “Pick me.”
Silly Word Raccoon, tomatoes can’t talk.
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