Realization with Whole Foods and Daughter

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Sometimes, for fun, I take my daughter to Whole Foods. It beats staying inside, and the vegetables are resplendent, plucked from loving terrain. So a red pepper wants only its potential. My daughter likes hearing the names: daikon, butternut squash. She points; I hope she’ll remember these outings when Daddy is broke from buying vegetables, more likely wine to accompany meals. Protein. We bounce through the store, her in an Ergo, me cycling through jingles … and the stares. She faces outward like an unassuming queen. Sometimes she jabbers. We don’t make good time. We purchase five items then return the next day for more. This is a white thing to do, going to Whole Foods three times a week, but I’m not a hoarder, and while the other stores offer less of a selection, the other stores look more like America too. She would tell me to shop around. Sometimes we eat samples of cheese (as long as they’re pasteurized) and stand there, her holding a squeaky giraffe, me wearing yesterday’s sweater, embarrassed by our lack of embarrassment.