January 21, 2008--Snowbirding (Continued)

We’ve been here for a week now and I need to bring you up to date:

We did in fact go back to Veri Amici. Twice. And both times Alfredo recognized us, greeted us as long lost amicis, and took us to one of his best tables—the quiet one nestled under the arm of the banyan tree. The food continued to be excellent. So good in fact that Rona had the rack of lamb again on our last visit. Just yesterday. And Alfredo insisted in packing up the two leftover chops again. Of course we did not tell him what we did with the last ones. No need to insult his generosity.

But as planned we did do some cooking and eating in. I left you last time as Rona was suggesting that we go to Publix and stock up. Which we did. It had been at least twenty years since either one of us had been in such a supermarket. Perhaps I am exaggerating—there were a few times when we needed paper towels and certainly toilet paper--but never had we pushed a shopping cart the size of a hot tub much less, after wending our way up and down what felt like fifteen aisles, finding it full.

Our unalloyed excitement about what was available there reminded me of those old Cold War stories of escapees from East Berlin who when they found themselves in a Western supermarket wept with joy when the experienced the bounty that only capitalism was able to provide.

“Can you believe it,” Rona said, “they have two aisles the length of a football field just for wines.”

“Just like Europe,” I chirped.

And so we loaded our cart with sprightly French Chablis and a Spanish rose with which we were familiar. As well as a package of pita breads; a small tub of Sahara humus; Hagen-Dazs ice cream (chocolate—oxymoronically labeled “Ultra-Rich-Low-Fat”); a half-pound of honey-glazed turkey; another half-pound of hickory-smoked turkey (both sliced); a quarter-pound wedge of Vermont cheddar cheese; a can of Doll pineapple chunks; a package of Nathan’s frankfurters; Guldens mustard (the cheese, pineapple, Nathan’s Famous, and mustard are ingredients for my famous hot-dog casserole—we were planning that for the upcoming Sunday when there were back-to-back NFL football games. Marcella Hazen is not my only inspiration). And to drink with the casserole and other in-home lunches and dinners, a six-pack of Spaten Lager; caffeine-free diet Pepsi; and for Rona a gallon jug of Arizona ice tea (“Did you every see such a thing?” Rona mused, “A gallon!”). For an impulse dinner we selected a thin-crust California Kitchen pizza (Margarita—thinking perhaps Wolfgang Puck might somehow be involved in its preparation) and some ripe cherry tomatoes and fresh arugula (still with their roots attached) to doctor it or, as Rona suggested, to “enhance” the pizza and by so doing make us feel better about eating frozen food. And for a second last-minute dinner at home, we tossed in our rapidly-filling basket, a pound of ground sirloin (the label stuck to the Saran Wrap promised, “Extra Lean”). And in compensation for these, in spite of the label, awaiting high-fat transgressions, we found some fresh-looking tuna, which I said I could sear, slice, and turn into a heart-healthy salad using the remaining arugula since it was quite a generous bunch. Then we choose two Haas avocados, after squeezing more than a dozen, though both still needed considerable ripening); and for Rona’s version of vegetable couscous onions, sweet red peppers, young asparagus, white mushrooms, and of course a box of couscous. We stocked our wagon as well with fruit and juices, lots of fruit. The hot-dog casserole aside, we were committed to a healthy diet to complement our plans for a different kind of lifestyle. We were just steps from the beach, as you know, and also planned to rent bicycles so we could get to town that way (it is just two miles from our house). Thus, we chose oranges (from Florida we assumed); fresh-squeezed (“not from concentrate”) Indian River grapefruit and orange juices; a mango, papaya, strawberries (clearly marked as from our adopted state), grapes, and a quarter of a watermelon (also, we assumed, more-or-less local from well north and west of the condos). For other kinds of noshing, we found low-sodium Planters mixed nuts in a can with a bold label that claimed it contained less than 50 percent peanuts. And there were some excellent chocolate and almond cookies (both from Belgium—Jules Destrooper) we stumbled upon right near the Carr’s Water Crackers that are a staple for Rona (we were learning the seductive power of shelf-placement); and to place on top of them, when wanting a light lunch on the beach, two cans of Italian tuna in olive oil; two more of Spanish sardines also in olive oil; and yes olive oil itself and balsamic vinegar for cooking and salad dressings. All again for Rona. As was the pickled herring in wine sauce and the Manischewitz sweet whitefish and pike gefilte fish. For me, we found a six-ounce jar of Hellmann’s Real Mayonnaise. I do like a dab with my avocadoes, assuming they would ripen before we are scheduled to head north in March.

Finally, there were the inevitable stacks of cleaning supplies and paper goods. No need to enumerate. Suffice it to say that when I saw the size of the packages of toilet paper that represented the best value per roll, I realized why we needed such a huge shopping cart. And it was good that back at our Delray place, unlike Manhattan where we had learned to make do with 850 square feet, we had room to spare to store them.

All of this at the checkout counter added up to slightly more than a hundred dollars. “Can you imagine how much this would have cost at our Gristede’s on University Place?” Rona rhetorically asked since we both knew it would amount to much, much more. “For example, the toilet paper . . . ”

I, on the other hand, was concerned about how we would get this vast trove home. But that worry evaporated when the Bag Boy, that’s how he referred to himself, loaded all our purchases into what looked like at least twenty-five gallon-size plastic bags, virtually one for each item, with most doubled up for extra security or, in the case of the ice cream, insulation—it was 80 degrees in the sun and we had to navigate the parking lot. To further alleviate my concerns, which he must have intuited from my furrowed brow, he said, as he loaded the tiny bags back into our shopping cart, “There’s no need to be concerned about this,” he swept his free arm across the mass of bags entirely filling both the upper and lower baskets, as if delineating a western landscape, “you can wheel the cart all the way out to your car. No matter where you’re parked. Even two hundred yards from here. And, there’s no need to take it back inside--Miguel here’s job is to bring all the carts back to the store.”

Again, swelling with emotion, I was falling even more fully in love with Florida—they think of everything here! Including my then emerging concern about what to do about all these non-biodegradable plastic bags. As if intuiting this, Miguel offered, “You can use them for garbage.” Adding in a whisper so the manager wouldn’t hear, “No need to buy no Hefty’s here.” He was all complicitous smiles. “And you can bring back the ones you don’t use. Publix recycles them.” With his assurances, my conscience cleared as quickly as does a typical late afternoon Florida burst of rain.

Thus provisioned, we did in fact during our first week here do more cooking and eating than in the previous two decades up in New York. And I was amazed at how quickly my culinary skills returned—especially my slicing and dicing abilities. I still retained most of my Jacques Pepin-like moves with the knife. Rona said, “It’s just like riding a bicycle” we still, I confess, have not gotten around to renting them, “You never forget. But I see that you now need your eyeglasses when slicing.” How nice, I thought, just as I was feeling newly robust and good about myself, to be reminded of how much time had passed since my last efforts in the kitchen, and its effect on me. “Otherwise you’d probably mince your fingers as well as the onions.” I knew she was joking but still I took extra care since I was helping with her couscous and certainly didn’t want to add any bits of my fingers to the mix of chopped and julienned vegetables.

The couscous, seared tuna salad, and even the “enhanced” pizza worked out so well, as did the glasses of Chablis on the beach at sundown, since we were in such an ideal location and the place we are renting is so perfect for us, rather than setting up appointments with agents at Prudential and Sotheby’s, we wrote a cheery note to the owner of the house letting her know how much we were enjoying ourselves and that if she ever, ever thought about placing it on the market, to please let us know because we are interested in the possibility of buying it. We could both save the broker’s fee by doing it his way. Though we knew by sending her a effusive note of this kind we were undercutting any likelihood of being able to negotiate a better price. We were over the proverbial barrel. But c’est la vie. Casting care aside, we embraced and said to each other, “You only live once. Dying happy and broke isn’t the worst thing in the world.”

To be concluded on Tuesday . . .