Does anyone buy iceberg lettuce anymore? Seriously, if you had to buy lettuce after 1977, would iceberg be your first choice? It’s so Scarsdale Diet, dry toast and black coffee – neither here nor there, negative-food.
M and I have lived together for more than two years. It’s fair to say that I do most of the cooking and, therefore, most of the grocery shopping (conventional I know, but for reasons already expressed in earlier posts, necessary). The other day, I asked him to pick up some lettuce for dinner – a homey Sunday night spaghetti and meatballs, with a sauce that I made in my beloved slow-cooker (at less than $60 bucks, the best appliance I’ve ever purchased).
I come home after a long day with dad at the hospital, uncork a bottle of wine and open the fridge to grab the sauce. I know where everything is in our fridge, and seeing as I’m the only one who buys produce, I’m particularly familiar with the see-through produce bins. So my eyes instantly land on the big, green ball wrapped in cellophane in the bin on the right. What the…? Is that actually…?
“Oh my God, baby!” I say, equally amused and horrified.
“What?” M asks, from his “man-chair.”
“Why did you buy iceberg lettuce?”
“You said to buy lettuce.”
Clearly M hasn’t bought lettuce since 1977.
We don’t have a salad spinner (yet), so I admit I’ve been buying the pricier, but super convenient ready-washed boxed lettuces – usually spinach, arugula, sometimes romaine – for more than two years. For all these reasons, it never occurred to me to specify to M what type of lettuce to buy and yet, M chooses iceberg. Filler lettuce. Bad buffet lettuce.
I spend about 15 minutes and waste too many paper towels trying to wash and dry the lettuce and, despite my best efforts, the salad is soggy. But, dinner was still fabulous, and in some ways, the iceberg added a retro flair to an already old school meal.
And this makes me think of home, and our “roles”, and Ozzie and Harriet, and how at 45, after years of being single and self-sufficient and career-focussed, I’m finding an undeniable pleasure in making a home (being a homemaker?) with M. And while the ballsy, single gal in me is screaming, “Nooooo, don’t do it!” the ballsy, relationship gal is saying, “Fuck you! I actually love this!”
Do you know what I’m talking about? Have a fondness for iceberg? Please share your comments below…