Column ideas leap out when I least expect them. Usually, like Norman Bates in "Psycho," they strike in the shower.
My great shower-induced ideas have less to do with my location and more to do with it being the first thing I do most mornings.
My half-awake brain uses the time to mull over the previous night's dreams. I stay in this quasi-conscious state until I step from steamy enclosure to freezing bathroom, at which point the added adrenaline knocks me completely in to my morning.
A warm bathroom might be one of the reasons why I never quite feel awake during the summer. Without that moment of gooseflesh first thing in the a.m., no amount of coffee will do the trick. It's a theory.
It could also be that good ideas strike in the shower because it is just so blessedly quiet in there.
But this column has nothing to do with a shower idea.
Instead, it is about a trip to the grocery store.
In many ways, Hannaford has become my Cheers. No, not everybody knows my name, but everybody does seem glad I came. There's no beer on tap, sadly. Still, I'm there about as often as Norm was at his hangout.
I'd wager that Norm was having a better time, however.
Which isn't to slight Hannaford. As grocery stores go, it's lovely. No complaints _ except beer-on-tap or complimentary cupcakes would be lovely if entirely unexpected. I'm just tired of finding myself there a couple of times each week.
It's not that I can't plan a week's worth of meals. I can and I do. I make lists. There is the occasional chart. The weak link isn't in the logistics department.
The problem is two-fold: my memory and the nature of children.
I frequently forget to put things on the list. Like, say, I notice that I need shampoo while I'm in the shower. In the time it takes me to walk downstairs to put it on the list, I've already forgotten about it _ until the next morning, when I have the thought again. And forget it again, because nothing stays in my brain for very long anymore.
Or I'll make the week's food plan.
Chicken for Monday, I'll write down, then add all of the ingredients for a chicken dish to the list. Except, of course, for the chicken itself, which I'll realize I've forgotten while I'm assembling dinner on Monday night.
The results usually involve improvisation and swearing. Some of the results have been better than others. Sometimes, I don't tempt the fates and just go buy a stupid chicken, already.
The kids create different sorts of problems, the least of which is that they'll finish up a food, then forget to mention it. Then, of course, get all bent out of shape when their favorite snack doesn't miraculously reappear on the shelf.
But that's fairly minor, as kid food issues go. The larger problem is that the children are always hungry.
Food disappears at an alarming rate in our house. Before we had kids, my husband and I would cook something substantial twice a week and live off of leftovers. Once we had real jobs, we also ate out a lot, which cut down on the grocery shopping considerably.
I can count on one hand the number of times we've been to a restaurant this month. It's not a complaint _ or a hint _ it's just that with an almost-3-year-old who can sit still for about 15 seconds and an almost-6-year-old who has a digestive disorder that means she can't eat most of what's on any menu, we cook at home most of the time.
I'm thrilled by that, actually. I like not eating a lot of processed food that has traveled great distances to reach our plates. I like having more control over what goes into my kids.
But, at times, it seems like a relentless treadmill. I make a meal, it disappears into bellies, then mere hours later, I make another meal. Usually, I realize I've forgotten something important, and have to run back out to the grocery. Then I make another meal. Somewhere in there, I go to work or sleep. Then, wouldn't you know it, another meal.
It was during one of those grocery runs when I ran into a colleague. I was hunched over a cart, muttering about how it just never stops, the groceries and the cooking and the eating.
"You should write about that," she said.
"Great idea," I replied. "First I need to pay for this chicken."
Adrienne Martini is freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta and Hartwick College, mom to Maddy and Cory and wife to Scott and author of "Hillbilly Gothic," published by the Free Press.
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