I’ve had the most distressing day. I attempted to buy packaged meat at the grocery store. I know what you’re thinking, housewives, “Why did she do it?” I, too, am perplexed and have surely learned my lesson.
There are two butcher shops in our neighbourhood. I usually don’t go to the closer one. It’s the more recently opened and has less selection, but they do offer a class on how to butcher half a cow. Instead, I most often head up the street to the more established butcher shop, where potential serial killers are less likely to be taking coursework. It’s family-run, and they have a delectable assortment of meats as well as samosas and pies.
But today. Today, I saw that our local grocery store had a sale on pork ribs. I thought, “Why not just grab some ribs and save yourself some time?” I could have them in the oven and ready for dinner by the time my wife Kit got home from the office. I tossed the ribs in my basket and headed up to the cashier. That’s when it happened.
I had just placed my groceries on the conveyer belt, including the shrink-wrapped ribs, when the woman behind me in line reached over and with her right index finger gave my pork a poke. At first, I wasn’t sure what was happening. It just didn’t register, you know? Like when you see some someone wearing white shoes after Labour Day: It’s too bizarre to actually be true.
But then the woman poked my pork again. I confronted her in the most Canadian way possible, “Sorry, is something wrong with my ribs?” She replied, “That’s not a bad price for ribs. They seem pretty good,” and she proceeded to poke my ribs again. This time her fingernail pierced the plastic shrink wrap, and she used the opportunity to slip in the very tip of her finger, giving the meat a slight, tactile inspection.
And that, housewives, is why the Commonwealth can’t have nice things.