Picking through the bin of apples, you find a list, written in precise penmanship on paisley patterned stationary, that reads as follows:
(2) Green Apples
(1) White Onion
Baby Spring Mix
Cereal (Peanut Butter Puffins – Ethan, Kashi – Sophie)
(1.5 lbs.) Lunch Meat
In the bottom corner of the list, written in a scrawled, masculine hand, is a telephone number & the name it belongs to: Adam.
You look around the produce section, wondering if the list belongs to any of the yoga-panted, pony-tailed women skimming & selecting from the bins & racks. Perhaps you should say something- but what? “Anyone lose their list? Sounds like a pretty good salad! Cereal for the kids? Anybody? Bueller?”
That would be stupid.
Besides, the sort of woman who makes such a specific list, in such an inimitable hand, & on such mannered stationery would be the sort who’d commit such a great salad recipe to memory. The writer of this list is a women who leaves nothing to chance. Not a lettuce leaf, not a bruised apple, not the health of her children.
She would leave nothing to chance. Nothing at all.