January 7, 2009--Snowbirding: Salad Days

The other day I said to Rona that we should remember to pick up the local paper at least once a week. Not just for the news and movie times but also—perhaps primarily—for the coupons.

The ones that offer five dollars off any full dinner at Lucille’s Back-to-the-Bone Barbeque or forty cents off on three boxes of Kleenex tissues.

What is it that happens to us every time we are south of Georgia? Something not related to the current economic downturn that makes even financially secure people pay more attention to their spending?

It seems to be as much in the Florida air as the scent of oleander.

We are drawn beyond normal volition to having dinner at 6:00 or 6:30 rather than 7:30 or 8:00 as when in New York; we find ourselves taking long naps in the afternoon even after a good and full night’s sleep; we notice what kind of cars people are driving even though in the city we do not own one and are oblivious to what’s on the road; and we haunt the malls and super markets whereas when in New York it’s hard to get us to subway up to Bloomingdales even when things are on sale.

So yesterday, as the day before, we found ourselves prowling the aisles in Publix with a fist full of discount coupons.

There was nothing much on our shopping list—a few lemons, a replenishment supply of avocados, and some Pellegrino. We were there, to tell the truth, hunting and gathering anything we could find that was fifty-cents-off or two-for-one. Even things we didn’t remotely need much less want.

Like, for example, commercial salad dressing. Which we never use. In fact, I am disdainful whenever Rona mentions that there was this Wish-Bone low-fat French dressing we found in the refrigerator here last winter. It was delicious, she recalls, and even low fat.

“Why do we want that,” I would say, “I make my own salad dressings. You know I pride myself in that. I would never allow any bottled stuff in the house.”

“But I liked it,” Rona would say weakly.

To which, all puffed up, I would reply, “I can make you my own version of French dressing, not that I believe there is such a thing in French cuisine as French dressing; and when you taste it you will see the difference between it—the real thing (again if there is a real thing)—and this Four Seasons stuff.”

“It’s Wish-Bone,” Rona would say even more weakly.

We were having a version of this conversation as we, by chance, were pushing our shopping cart—one big enough to hold at least two hundred dollars worth of groceries—down the aisle where ten yards of salad dressings are shelved.

With her eyes welling Rona looked up at me and pleadingly said, “Can we at least look?”

Since I think of myself as being flexible minded, even when it comes to salad dressings, I magnanimously said, “Sure,” and tugged on the hulking cart to arrest its forward motion. “Take your time, when we’re down here we have nothing but time.”

And as she begin to work her way through the hundreds of brands and types, reading the labels carefully to see how much saturated fat each contained, I busied myself thinking about how I would go about making her some homemade French dressing. Needless to say I never had, being a vinaigrette man. At the risk of sounding immodest I cannot help but mention that I am famous for the dozens of versions I concoct without ever following a recipe.

“Look, look at this one,” Rona excitedly said, interrupting my concentration. “Wish-Bone makes this Honey Dijon dressing that’s only 50 calories per serving. And it has no saturated fat.” She was smiling up at me while extending a bottle of it toward me with an outstretched arm. “It might be worth trying. We are attempting to cut back on fat.”

I didn’t respond and, knowing how prickly I can be whenever any one interferes with my culinary plans, Rona slipped the bottle back onto the shelf and I returned to thinking about how I might create a French dressing. It is tomato-based, isn’t it, I thought. I wonder if I could make something special if I used fresh ones, which I can get vine-ripened in Florida even in January, rather than using tomato paste . . . .

“What about this one?” She held up another bottle of Wish-Bone for my consideration. “I know you don’t believe there’s such a thing as French dressing but this version is also light and look at the list of ingredients. It not only contains tomato paste, of course, but also soybean oil—which is healthy—pimento, brown sugar, Worcestershire, and paprika. I know you like to use paprika some times.”

Again I said nothing, thinking that yes, maybe it is a good idea to use a pinch of paprika in my version. And I was pleased to note that I had already, on my own, thought to add a splash of Worcestershire. My dressing was already turning out, as I thought about it, to be interesting. Perhaps tasty. Maybe even worth repeating for company.

Still lost in thought, still in the Wish-Bone area, this time more insistently in order to interrupt my concentration, Rona was waving in front of me a plastic bottle shaped more like ones found among kitchen cleaners. A spritzer bottle. “What’s that?” I said, unable to conceal my annoyance. I had just about completed my recipe. “Surely not another salad dressing.”

“In fact, yes. And maybe one you’ll approve of.” There was an edge to her voice. She was clearly getting fed up with me. I wisely choose not to respond. “And maybe one that you’ll even like. You do approve of ranch dressing don’t you?”

I actually did. It is very American. Very authentic. That is, when made properly from fresh ingredients. Which I sometimes do when we’re in the country. Always remembering to use buttermilk just as they did back in the 1950s where it was first made at the Hidden Valley Ranch out in Santa Barbara. It seems appropriate to whip up a small batch when we’re, say, in the west, which always seems like a nice gesture. And I do very much like how it tastes, saturated fat aside.

“That spritzer bottle can’t—can it—contain salad dressing? It looks as if it should hold oven cleaner or hairspray.”

“Take a closer look, won’t you.” She was now waving the bottle in my face. “That is if you can come down off your high culinary horse.”

Realizing that I was in trouble I took it from her. And sure enough it was ranch dressing in a spritzer bottle—the label described it thus. “Only 2 Calories per Spray” it also proclaimed. Though when I examined the list of ingredients I saw that it did not contain even powdered buttermilk (assuming there is such a thing), though sour cream and lactic acid were listed, which I assumed, in combination, would substitute for the real thing. And, I also made note, there was zero percent saturated fat.

“I think it’s worth trying. Don’t you? We are attempting to lose a little weight. The beach walking is fine and the Pilates even more important, but it wouldn’t hurt to cut back even more on calories. And this is only, what, a few calories per spritz.”

“Actually, two per spray.”

“So what do you say? It won’t kill you, you know. In fact it might do you some good. You’ve been saying you’d like to take off five pounds while we’re down here.”

Rona was right about that. In fact, while she was reminding me of the fact that I was having difficulty shedding that weight, I found myself looking more closely at the remarkable array of prepared salad dressings. And to be sure remarkable it was—evidence of American inventiveness, I thought. In that light, I couldn’t help but notice the number of brands and types that ranged from many varieties of Italian and Russian and Thousand Island to multiple variations of my own favorite--Ranch.

If we as a people are capable of coming up with such an array of these, I wondered, why should there be such a problem fixing our auto industry? If we applied the same amount of inventiveness to designing cars we obviously did to developing variations of Creamy Italian salad dressing, America would again become the world’s automotive leader.

I should probably write about this to Barack Obama, I thought, while perusing the fat- and sugar-free brands.

Lost again in my thoughts, I was brought up short by a series of stick-on signs back along the shelves that displayed those hundreds of bottles of Wish-Bone dressing.

“Buy One Get One Free” they promised. Involuntarily I found myself saying to Rona, “Did you see that? It says that if you by one you get one free.”

“Yes, of course I saw that. When I was looking for the French dressing I like so much. If you would only open your eyes . . .”

Again, I wasn’t paying attention. “Did you see this one?” Now I was holding a bottle of House Italian in front of her. “And this one?” It was Wish-Bone Thousand island Light. “And did you know they also make Tuscan Romano Basil and Caesar Delight?” I had two bottles in my hands and was waving them at Rona. “I know how much you like Caesar salad. They even have a light version. Maybe we should get this one.”

Rona was finally smiling at me since she saw me working my way toward the vinaigrettes: Balsamic Italian Vinaigrette, Raspberry Hazelnut Vinaigrette, and a vinaigrette made with genuine olive oil!

And she saw me loading the still-empty shopping cart with six bottles of Wish-Bone, including the Spritzer Ranch, knowing I was thinking more about the buy-one-get-one-free sale than the fact that at our rate of consumption those six bottles—consumed spray-by-spray—would last us at least three years. And she knew it was unlikely that we would take them back with us to New York at the end of April. We would never be able to get them though airport security—especially the ones in the spritzer bottles.

We did push on, adding three boxes of Kleenex Lotion Facial Tissue to our cart (40 cents off) and two containers of Philadelphia Soft Cream Cheese (also 50 cents off) and a bottle of Motrin (a dollar off) and a 16 ounce bottle of Soft Scrub (75 cents off) and a half dozen containers of Yoplait yogurt (50 cents off) and a 50 foot roll of Reynolds Wrap Heavy Duty aluminum foil (a dollar off) and two containers of Häagen Daz Extra Rich light Dutch Chocolate ice cream (like the Wish-Bone two-for-the-price–of-one) and two boxes of LU Le Chocolatier cookies (35 percent saturated fat but 40 cents off each if you buy two boxes).

Oh well, the diet will have to wait.

With our cart still less than a quarter full, we threaded our way to the checkout counter where the women scanning each item looked to be about 80 years old—perhaps doing this to keep active, perhaps for the extra money as her retirement income, like for many, has shrunk. We were regulars at her station and she greeted us with a genuine smile. I went down to the end of the counter to bag our purchases.

As she began to tally them, her smile broadened. She saw quickly what we had been up to—everything, literally everything we had in our cart was in one way or another discounted. In our bargain hunting frenzy we had long forgotten the lemons and avocados we had originally come to get.

And when she was done and we were ready to leave she showed us how on the printout that not only was each item listed but also the amount saved--$2.49 each for the “free” bottles of Wish-Bone; 40 cents for the Kleenex, a dollar for the Motrin and another for the aluminum foil . . . and that at the bottom of the itemized list was how much we owed—about $35—as well as, much more important, how much we had saved—yesterday alone that amounted to more than $20.

Noticing how pleased we were, she added, “Isn’t it wonderful? But then again,” with a wink, rhetorically asked, “how can you afford to save so much money?”

We heard her laughing as we pushed the shopping cart toward the parking lot.