Tonight, I’ll have pasta primavera. Italian for “first spring.” I picture myself at the sink, washing the spring peas, the asparagus. Humming as I snap the asparagus stalks between my hands like twigs. If you break them by hand like that, they always break at the right place, I find. I’ll make my own pasta too, that sounds fun. I weave my way through the aisles, gathering the ingredients—eggs, flour, salt. Where’s the salt? There. Still there on that bottom shelf in the baking aisle. On the bottom shelf, I used to think, to spite me. I remember how long I used to stand there crookedly, staring down at the salt canisters. So beyond my reach they might as well have been stars. Tears gathered behind my eyes.
Everything okay, ma’am? said a stock boy to me once.
How the ma’am stung. How the ma’am was a slap.
I’m sorry, but could you get me that kosher salt on the bottom shelf? I asked him.
I can’t bend, I said. I’m sorry.
Sure, ma’am, he said. And then he reached down so easily and grabbed a smoked Celtic sea salt. And he presented it to me, the wrong salt, so pleased with himself, his good deed.
Here you go, ma’am, he said.
Couldn’t tell him it was the wrong salt. Couldn’t bring myself to say, Can you bend down again and get the kosher salt? So I bought the wrong salt.
For two months I shook the fat dark gray crystals over my plate, cursing him quietly, cursing myself. Everything tasted smoky, brined, unnecessarily witchy.
Now? Now I crouch down low before the canisters on the bottom shelf. I feel the wondrous stretch in the backs of my legs. I bounce a little on my heels, observing all the salt that is mine to plunder. They have far more salts than the last time I was able to bend down.
From there, I go to the butcher counter.
The butcher says, “What can I get you, miss?” Miss. It’s always miss now.
“Guanciale, please,” I tell him. Pig’s cheek. That memory of pork crackling in the office with Ellie gave me a craving.
“Guanciale. Nice. What are you making?” They always want to know what I’m making these days. They’re always so curious about me.
“Pasta primavera.”
The butcher smiles. “Pig’s cheek for pasta primavera? Never heard of that before.”
“I’m mixing it up,” I tell him.
And he looks delighted by this, by me, by my unconventional approach.
“Sounds wonderful,” he says. “Sounds like my kind of spring.”
At the checkout, I wait in line, admiring my pig’s cheek in its butcher paper with the butcher’s phone number written on it and a , my cart brimming with salt, with spring greens, rosemary, sage. I’ll tear the sage with my hands. I’ll strip the rosemary of its spikes. I stand on both legs, and I do not lean, I do not crumble, I do not die a thousand deaths. I do not curse the line, the cashier, my body. Instead I take pleasure in contemplating the sideline merchandise. The echinacea pills, the chocolate truffles; I even take a few. I flip through the cooking magazines languorously. Read about dinners for two and heavenly desserts. A chocolate lava cake with a caramel sea-salt middle, how wonderful is that? Maybe something to make for Hugo and me, sometime, if all goes well. I grab a bottle of red wine from a pyramidal display, why not?
Then I hear a throat clear itself pointedly. The person in line behind me. I can feel them ticking like a bomb. Breathing impatiently into the back of my neck. Shifting their weight from foot to foot. Moving their basket from arm to arm. Come on, now, I can feel them thinking. Let’s move, please. An old or ailing person, no doubt. I’ll turn to them and smile. I’ll say, Go on. You go ahead, in front of me, please, I insist. I don’t mind, I’ll tell them. I’m not in a rush today.
I turn, and the smile falls from my face. Fauve. Standing there in a worn black coat covered in cat hairs. Holding a shopping basket overloaded with cans and frozen dinners. Wrist tendons straining visibly under the weight. Looking dour and miserable but she dagger-smiles when she sees me.
“Miranda,” she says to me. “Grocery shopping, I see?”
As if even this is a crime. But I’m immune.
“Just a little dinner,” I sing.
She looks down at my cart.
“Pig’s cheek?” she says, and sniffs. “Bit rich for my blood.”
Always needs to remind everyone they’re not paying her enough. It’s sad, really. I pity her, if I’m honest. I look at her sad basket of cans and trays.
“You look like you’ve got a good haul,” I say. “Always good to have something you can just heat up.”