Kalamata Bound

The young lad checking me out at Aldi said, “I like your style,” I looked at him with the register between us, my head cocked as if to say what style? I look like a flavored marshmallow as usual with my puffer, my wool cap with pompom attached and my shotty frames holding my scratched and smudged lenses. He proceeded to say, “it must be the gold in the frames.” “Must be,” I responded sharply and reached for my freshly scanned snack as I was famished, at least my hanger didn’t kick in, but then again, I love my visits to Aldi…always a friendly soul to greet at the register there, anyone else concur? Then again, I don’t patronize any other markets that don’t have service that keeps me coming back for more and where I can dash in and out in less than thirty minutes with everything I need for the week. Never liked the aisle after aisle with an overwhelming amount of product…it was always an overpowering and all-consuming feeling I could never bare. Gosh, I miss those outdoor markets where I would be greeted with a smile from the one who cultivated the fruits and vegetables that were plucked from the earth that morning. I’ve been Kalamata bound lately…can’t find my prized fruits there for some time now. I never start a day without a handful over my toast swimming in olive oil and if it ain’t a Kalamata then I don’t want anything to do with its fleshy mesocarp. Time to hit the specialty purveyors, you know the ones on the fringe with their own randomness of operations.

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