You Eat What?

Okay, don't get me wrong. I'm smitten with Canada in many ways, but come on, Cannucks, what's up with the grocery stores?

I was so relieved to find a familiar store just down the street from me. When everything seemed so unfamiliar and new, a small reminder of home was a breath of fresh air. (I know--I didn't move to rural China. It's not like I'm really suffering here, so I promise to keep my whining mostly in check, and I won't expect you to feel any kind of sympathy for me.)

Turns out, though, that I wasn't in Tucson anymore, and this was no American Safeway.

I go to get my cart upon this first visit to my friendly neighborhood Canadian grocery store only to find said cart locked to a long chain of others. Is there a secret password? Do I have to do a Canadian handshake or hum "O' Canada" to prove my worthiness? I wait long enough to watch a veteran shopper pop a coin in a little slot on the handle. Okay. We pay for our carts here. After digging through my coin purse, dropping cards and cash in the process, I try various coins until I find one that fits--a quarter! A loonie, they call it, or is it a toonie? I can't seem to keep them straight. Alright then.

I then begin making my way around the perimeter of the store, stopping for fruit and vegetables. In the midst of putting a head of lettuce in my cart, I notice the sign: "Green Leaf Lettuce--Product of the U.S." I figure this is early summer, perhaps Canadians have a later growing season; maybe this is just an exception. Item after item, though, I find the same, all imported from the U.S. and all expensive. It's puzzling. Here I am, surrounded by lush farmland in a province known for its farming. Why are these items being imported?

We would later learn the trick to locally grown produce--just shop the farmer's market. The Hutterites will gladly sell you their shiny fresh chard and glowing orbs of onion. . . for a price.

Rolling along down the dairy aisle, I scan for cream cheese and am shocked and horrified to find the strangest flavors--dill pickle, ketchup? Really? The chip aisle was equally foreign. It is here amongst these odd-flavored junk foods that I realize all the product labels are in French. This is not a terrible problem. I took eight years of French, and enough scraps of my education have remained to decipher basic phrases--"Frites Ébouriffés!" "Gras Réduit!"
--but aisle after aisle reveals the same story--French labels proudly displayed. Has Quebec secretly taken over the Commonwealth? Have they agreed to postpone their rebellion as long as the Canadian grocers accept "French First!" as their motto? It is all very suspicious.

Having partially recovered from my disappointment at not finding my favorite comfort foods, I head straight for the alcohol. Up and down the aisles I go, seeking comfort in a cheap bottle of Shiraz. Nothing. No beer, no wine, no hard stuff. I'm bereft. Fearing I've somehow moved to the Canadian version of Provo, Utah, I panic and tug the sleeve of a wide-eyed employee. "Oh, that's a bummer, hey? You've got to go to the liquor stores to buy those items. Sore-y!"

I'll spare you the tale of the wine shopping experience. A dollar for a cart? Twelve dollars a bottle for cheap wine? Where is Trader Joe's? Where is Two Buck Chuck? Okay. Okay. I promised not to whine.

Turns out I get my 25 cents back for the cart. My husband, the ever-observant neuroscientist, marvels at the "amazingly effective example of human engineering." One lousy quarter will motivate the laziest of shoppers to return their carts through rain and sleet and Chinook winds. He's right. I dutifully schlep my cart back to its home to retrieve my reward.

Of course we're managing just fine. We're certainly not starving. I just feel a little twinge of sadness without the comforts of home.