the harvest never ends
my inherited ritual of asian grocery shopping
You can find me on Saturday afternoons in cramped grocery aisles that are too narrow to fit two people standing side by side, much less a plastic basket or a compact shopping cart. The floors by the seafood tanks are perpetually slippery. I’ve learned to watch my step and avoid pants that drag on the floor. Sometimes the cashiers have one airpod in to talk on the phone, tilting the other ear towards you only to hear the keywords ‘no bag,’ ‘cash,’ or ‘credit.’ In San Francisco, Asian grocery stores that are easily accessible by public transit are few and far between. After three years exploring the nooks and crannies of each neighborhood, Inner Richmond’s New May Wah Supermarket has become my weekend ritual. It isn’t glamorous, but it is where my heart sings.
My feet follow a mental map as worn as a forest path. I begin on the left. We start with mushrooms: the velvet caps of shiitakes, spindly enoki, king oysters, and the ruffled dark ears of wood fungus. One of those gets tossed in my basket for sure. Maybe I’ll add some to my noodle soups or a stir-fry. I smell my forage’s next find before I even turn around. The tingly zing of fresh mint and the woody crispness of rosemary reach my nose. Suddenly, I’m not in a grocery aisle but a luscious herb garden after a light spring rain. Fresh scallion bundles are usually on sale. I inspect the quality. Are any wilted? Are they skinny scallion whites or bulbous? I grab a bundle of cilantro, for good measure. It goes with everything.
I inch a couple of meters toward the leafy greens, where an endless greenscape fills my view. Bok choy, baby bok choy, crown daisy, mustard greens, celery, Chinese celery, broccoli, Chinese broccoli. As a child, I noted the differences like an archeologist with my mom’s garden as my digging site. In the discounted bin at the end of the lane, ‘imperfect’ produce wears its bruises like badges of honor; leathery lemons and soft-spotted tomatoes waiting for a kitchen that knows their worth. I rescue a bag, making the silent commitment between cook and ingredient.
Looping around to the adjacent aisle, I am greeted by the heavyweights, the squash and the melons. I stop before the bins of winter melons, their rinds dusty and cool. I stop, patting one on the side with my palm. My hands remember this weight before my mind does. It pulls me back to weekend trips to Flushing in Queens. We’d drive for ninety minutes from the suburbs of New York just to find a melon that rang the right vibrato to my parents’ ears. Here, 4,500km away from New York and a decade later, my knuckles perform the same diagnostic rap against the rind. It is a quiet inheritance.
My favorite is watching the fish maneuver through the tanks. They slip in and out of focus in their different colors, a living lava lamp. The fishmonger swishes his net and scoops a specimen out of the tank for a customer. When it’s rejected, he dips the net again, and the lucky escapee scurries out and returns to the school. He swishes it around before lifting another contestant to see if it meets the customer’s fancy. The scene plays out like a crane machine game. Below, the overflow from the hoses creates a constant current, hydrating the oysters and clams in a rhythmic, mechanical hum. I don’t even mind that the floor is wet.
The dry goods side of the store is a different kind of meditation. While I soak in every detail of the first part of my hunt, I must let go of those same details here lest the insanity and paralysis of choice claim me. I’ll get trapped scrutinizing which brand of tofu is superior, or which width of rice noodle brings me the most joy. The ones I got last week were just fine. I repeat my selection and add them to my nearly-overflowing basket, cautious not to spill my mushrooms or bruise my greens. There are two check-out lines. One runs down the aisle with alcohol and candy, and one by the sauces and canned goods, each spanning single-file well over half the aisle. I hop on the closest one since, through trial and error, my findings prove it’s inconsequential.
When it’s my turn, I motion to my reusable bags. In the time it takes me to plop them beside the register, a pile has already formed, waiting for me to bag as the cashier scans each item in a rhythmic ‘beep.’ They run a tight ship here. I sort the haul methodically: heavy dry goods at the base, melons and squash together, leafy greens tucked safely in the middle, and delicate herbs on top. Bagging was always my job when grocery shopping with my parents, too.
After my arduous bus commute of over thirty minutes, I drop my bags on the floor by my shoes like kettle bells after one too many reps and sets. My cat sniffs my haul and inspects the goods. He’s certain that I’ve brought back a bounty to feed both of us. He breaks his intense focus on the bag to look into my eyes. ‘Maow!’ The final applause for a hunt completed.
As the first blade-stroke hits the scallions, releasing that sharp fragrance, the ritual moves from the public market to my kitchen stove. I move through my week, opening and closing my refrigerator, reaching for my ingredients. I find them in the door and drawers, the positions to which I assign them, much as I encounter them in their perennial habitats on the “forest path” of the market. As the days go by, a bundle of scallions becomes a few stalks. The pantry empties of noodles. The final rescued tomato is eaten. The time for another hunt draws near. When I gather them at New May Wah, I think of my past with my parents. I think of my near future in my kitchen. And when I grasp them at home, I imagine my forage next week. The ritual never ends.