Meatloaf in a Mess Tray
You Wish I Was Your Mother
By Willow Pennell
I remember the weekends when we shopped at three different farmer’s markets. That was when the kids were little, before the pandemic.
It was an outing, a feeding, and grocery shopping. The produce was better, fresher, and with far more variety.
There were charity buys too— broccoli we composted for the aphids, or small, wormy, virtuous corn. Everything we ate was seasonal and handmade.
That was then, this is now.
Life changed; we moved into a rural neighborhood. The kids started having their own social lives and activities. I realized I wasn’t changing the world with my dollar votes. My insistence on organic felt like snobbishness— especially when big farmers pushed what could be “organic” so egregiously, that organic food didn’t seem better anyway.
At the height of lockdown, a question went around Food-Twitter about what diner orders people would make, if they could only sit in one right now.
That’s how Reddi-Whip made it onto our weekly grocery order.
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