On Me and Spanish Grocery Stores 1

Well, it was almost eight o’clock and I realized I had to get to the grocery store before it closed.  Things here aren’t like the states, and the supermarket shuts its doors by around nine.  There’s a new one up the road, recently inaugurated beneath the neighborhood market.  For a while there, hardly anybody knew about it and I could shop leisurely as if they had built it entirely for me.  But lately the crowds have gotten bigger and sometimes have to wait at the cashier for my turn to pay for my things and it’s just not right.  I was one of the first customers there.  But word has somehow spread and now the place is plagued with life forms trying to get at my food.  I’ll just have to accept them being the democratic guy that I am. 

       As usual, I had just three things to get and ended up buying three bags of things and forgot to buy one of the three original items.  My daughters had requested Macaroni and cheese, the real stuff, they said.  The kind I make.  Of course, they don’t realize that no one has made the real stuff in generations in the United States, ever since Kraft has been able to successfully supply us with the necessary provisions.  But my daughters didn’t have to know that and, what was worse, they didn’t want to.  They felt the homemade recipe the way Mama Murdock used to make it would suffice. 

       So…I descended into the depths of the new grocery store to pick up the goods.  I grabbed my plastic basket, flung it on my arm, took two steps and looked right.  “Salami!”  I said.  “That would be good for and appetizer!”… I’ll tell more…

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