On Shopping Across the Spectrum, and Thoughts on Pasture-Raised Chicken

My sister Amy called the other day to gloat over the fact that I am now shopping at a food co-op. At first her good-natured taunts didn't quite register; I don't really think of the Weaver Street Market Cooperative as a co-op, even though--duh!--it advertises that fact prominently in its name. My confusion arises from the fact that Weaver Street is well stocked, well lit, and professionally run, three characteristics I don't associate with cooperative grocers. I've been to co-ops in New York City and in downtown Durham and they are uniformly dreary places staffed by lotus eaters, stocked sparsely with flaccid produce stored in containers that appear to have been scavenged from dumpsters, and so dimly lit that one suspects it is by design--if one could get past the obvious fact that nothing in these places could possibly be the result of conscious design--in order to confuse and disorient the shopper, thus rendering him unaware of how dolorous an experience he is having. Oh, and they tend to be expensive to boot.

Way, way at the other end of the shopping spectrum, I found myself in a Wal-Mart the other day. Wait, let me explain! I had some items to drop off at the local Goodwill center, which is located next door to the local Super Wal-Mart. I needed windshield washer fluid and a new pair of sweatpants and figured it was less evil to buy these items at a nearby retail giant than to burn gas driving all over creation for two nominal purchases. Once inside, of course, it was impossible to restrict myself to just two items. I remembered we needed some food storage containers for the fridge, and then I decided to explore the grocery section and discovered, much to my delight, that Wal-Mart sells my favorite Amy's frozen entrée for more than $1 less than anyone else in the area, so I piled a bunch of those into my cart as well. I was also delighted to discover cans of Progresso Turkey Noodle Soup, a product that has mysteriously vanished from the shelves of all other grocers. And so I was actually pretty pleased with the experience on the way out the door. Did I get my karmic comeuppance? Would I be telling this story otherwise? On their second day of service, my new sweatpants divested themselves of their drawstring. They are now good for comedy routines that require one's pants to fall to one's ankles, but not for much else (someone 50 pounds heavier than I might be able to use them, I suppose, although that's something I surely would not want to see). Alas, I lost the receipt so I'm just going to have to write off that $7.55 investment. I can't help wondering whether the windshield washer fluid I bought is right now inflicting thousands of dollars worth of damage on Donnie.

Finally, last night I baked the locally produced pasture-raised chicken I bought at Weaver Street over the weekend. It was much, much better than the factory-farmed chickens we'd previously grown used to: lots more flavor, and not so grotesquely proportioned (factory chickens are built like Mamie Van Doren). However, it was a little rubbery. Small price to pay for knowing that this chicken was actually allowed to use its muscles during its lifetime, but all the same I'll try to remember to brine the next one, which should help. I cooked it with the red rice mentioned in the previous blog, which was disappointingly ordinary in taste, although quite appealing to the eye. Salt helped it quite a bit (that's the Marge Simpson cooking tip of the day!).