We will have brunch.
A traditional brunch.
The Traditional Salmon Plate Brunch.
Emily believes this is a thing. Wikipedia knows nothing about it. Either way, we trail off to Fiesta Farms to find the ingredients for the Traditional Salmon Plate Brunch.
Fiesta Farms is like Coleman’s in Newfoundland. Very specific. A certain smell. Yeasty. The dirt from the vegetables. One could say that Coleman’s smells like everything tastes in England. Dirty and beautiful.
As we search for the ingredients for the Traditional Salmon Plate Brunch, to which neither Mitch or I can take the lead, everything seems a little more interesting. The vegetables. The deli. The bagels.
A man heaves a heavy sigh as Emilys cart blocks his access to the bottom right bagel tray. This tray housed his favorite bagels. Flaxseed. As Emily apologized for her cart barricade, he told her that the flaxseed were the best. She curtly thanked him yet defended her choice of the poppy seed. I don’t even know if Emily likes poppyseed that much. She just knows I do. So I guess she was defending me.
As we walk away, bagels in hand, the man moves in the opposite direction. I notice him swiftly grab a loaf of bread and pulse it slowly. To gauge its freshness. To discover its strength. To touch something. I don’t know. In his efforts, he accidentally dropped the bread and quickly ran away. I think he’d become carried away in his appreciation of baked goods. And I had caught him.
“Who would ever need that much dill?”
Emily is perplexed.
The bunches of dill are ginormous. No single servings here. Apparently Traditional Salmon Plate Brunch does not need 100 sprigs of dill. We assess.
Do we need it?
Yes. Emily says yes. Will they ever use it? No. Definite. Never ever a reason for these roommates to ever create enough dill infused recipes to use it up.
Do we buy it?
Yes. Emily says yes.
As Emily bounds around the grocery store, full focused on the items on her list, I wander around looking for colours. Just colours. Fantastic colours. Jesus, we have a lot of options for Vitamin C.
Emilys neighbour works at a different grocery store. She sometimes is afraid when people bring up a strange vegetable. She is afraid to admit. She is afraid to admit that she doesn’t know what it is.
She rings it in as a potato.
We have different levels of knowledge and appreciation, I guess. Sometimes I am afraid to say that I don’t know. Sometimes I laugh when people take the time to figure things out.
Sometimes I don’t take the time to pulse the bread.
Mitch and I walked down the sunny street to the art gallery early on the Saturday morning before Traditional Salmon Plate Brunch. He had a piece in a show that invited established and emerging artists to submit small pieces, a foot by a foot each, that were displayed along the walls of the bright gallery like a collection of small windows into different lives. Mitch painted a beautiful picture of Emily. A perfect portrait of Emily. And it was at home amongst the barrage of faces, collages, and crows. Mitch had noted that crows were a huge theme of this years pieces.
So many different pieces. Some seemed obvious, some very abstract. Everyone took their time to walk around. Asked questions. Created answers.
So much beauty in the world. At the gallery and the grocery store.
Potato. Potato. Spelled the same. There is only an ‘e’ if there are many.