By Gerry Moran
Shopping, grocery shopping, is a man’s job. A REAL man’s job. I know. I do the grocery shopping in our house. And it’s a REAL man’s job, not just because I do it (God forbid) but because it’s in Man’s chromosomes, Man’s genes; ‘shopping’ is our lineage, our legacy.
Ever since Man got up off all fours and sat down in the cave he has been foraging, hunting, scavenging, call it what you will but it’s still ‘shopping’; it’s about going out there and bringing home the bacon.
And cabbage. And organic spuds. And cauliflowers and carrots and parsnips and maybe a creamy, lemon cheesecake for dessert. All of which Homo Erectus would have brought home, along with a small mammoth, if they’d been available back then.
Whereas my ancestors went out with a spear in one hand and a small slab of stone (the shopping list) in the other, yours truly goes out with a Euro in one hand (for the trolley) and a credit card in the other. And so the foraging, the hunting, the ‘shopping’ begins.
Veteran hunter (shopper) that I am I know the lie of the land like the back of my hand. I know exactly where the ripest fruit, freshest fish and plumpest fowl can be found. And the bacon. And the alcohol.
Indeed a fellow-hunter (another REAL man) tapped me on the shoulder recently as I was stalking a nice bottle of red and says: ‘Couldn’t help but notice that you’re spending a lot more time over the wine than you did over the vegetables’.
