She’s in the Market for a More Nurturing Space
Four years ago, my husband and I bought our first and only house nestled in a quiet neighborhood below the Hollywood sign. During the renovation process, I stared at the old metallic wallpaper and mauve-colored halls, and wondered whether it was the new Swiss Coffee paint fumes or the new 30-year mortgage that was making me dizzy. In my mind, the move signified more than just a change of address; it meant I had crossed over into the surreal world of adulthood, where I was expected to be on intimate terms with things like property taxes, S-pipes and grout.
My mother, an indomitable woman with the big personality and childlike sense of wonder, had died only a few weeks before. Now my father was talking about relocating from their home in North Carolina, although he didn’t know to where. I felt like someone had plunked my life into a giant blender and hit frappe. Nothing was in the same place anymore. I ached for a touchstone.
I found it in a cotton-candy pink building at the edge of my new neighborhood: the Hollywood Hills Mayfair Market. I had frequented this Mayfair in my previous incarnation as a single chick. The place was--and still is--a magnet for hipster hybrids, celebrities, eccentrics, 12-step candidates, and anyone else who craves a Shopping Experience. In the old days, I’d drop by apres-StairMaster and nonchalantly slink down the aisles in leotard and leggings.
With all the furtive glances and orchestrated “accidental” meetings, buying just three items would take me up to an hour. I never made a love connection at the Mayfair, but I did get a lot of cheap thrills.
Now as a local homeowner, I found different merits to marketing. In a city bursting with multiple area codes, the Mayfair was one of the few places I could get to on foot. En route, I’d study the eclectic procession of houses, admire this bungalow’s rose garden, that Craftsman’s wraparound porch.
The homey environment inside the store soothed and grounded me, especially during those discombobulated days following my mother’s death. Unlike the search-and-recover atmosphere of the big chain market in my old neighborhood, where shoppers tried to get in and out as fast as possible, Mayfair marketers were more Zen about the experience. If an elderly lady’s cart blocked the aisle, people waited patiently behind, instead of careening past, roller-derby style. The elevated prices kept most shoppers from buying more than a few bags of groceries, thereby keeping the checkout counters free of traffic jams.
Instead of sussing out potential dates, I now sought out neighbors I wanted to get to know. I’d smile at the young couple who walked their dog past my house every morning, or the woman who crossed jogging paths with me on balmy summer evenings.
Buying food became more than a function of necessity; it evolved into a cozy, nurturing enterprise. On the surface, a carton of eggs is still a carton of eggs. But now it had transformed into the metaphor for one of my greatest pleasures: a lazy Sunday brunch with my husband, a steaming mug of French roast and the New York Times crossword puzzle. Similarly, when I eyed yellow peppers, I imagined the first course to an intimate gathering with good friends: creamy gold dollops of pureed sweet peppers ladled into white china soup bowls, consumed amid banter and laughter.
Unexpectedly but happily, I soon found myself pregnant. Planning for our future Money Eater, David put me on hiatus from the pricey Mayfair and suggested I switch to a market farther away, one that I’ll refer to as Cheap Eats.
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Sort of a grocery store on steroids, Cheap Eats boasted massive aisles, bulk quantities and aggressive shoppers. Muzak blared and fluorescent lights cast an Orwellian pallor on glassy-eyed patrons. Mothers with carloads of children shot territorial looks at each other, as if to say: “That’s my family-sized package of toilet paper!” After a minimum 45-minute wait at the checkout counter, frazzled shoppers bagged their own groceries, hurried along by hostile stares and impatient elbows.
When did going to the market get so stressful? Was I a dilettante because I didn’t want to circle the parking lot for 20 minutes searching for a space, or battle crowds vying for the last ear of corn?
When I miscarried a few weeks later, I found I no longer had the psychological stamina for Extreme Marketing. So I returned to the Mayfair, much to my practical husband’s dismay. As was the case after my mother’s death, this little market became my security blanket. To me, having that anchor justified the plump price tags.
In those wrenching weeks that followed, I could walk through the Mayfair doors and feel connected. We shoppers were united in performing the most mundane yet the most timeless activity: gathering food for our families. And without the rush, the clamor, the sensory overload, I could engage in the process. The physical act of filling my cart with bread, juice and the occasional box of frozen Mrs. Field’s cookies comforted me; and unlike so many other things in my life, this ritual never changed.
Happily, I got pregnant again. Since the birth of my son Jack, 2 1/2 years ago, my increasingly frequent excursions to the Mayfair have strengthened my ties to the community. My neighbor, Carrie, and I cultivated our friendship during walks to the market with our infant sons. After shopping, we’d stop at the bakery counter and exchange baby updates with other parents while our sons sat in their strollers, grasping each other’s chubby hands.
Taking Jack to the grocery store has also helped me forge a link to my past. One of my earliest childhood memories entails sitting in the front of my mother’s shopping cart, clutching a box of animal crackers as she pushed me along. When I got older, I’d accompany Mom to the Acme Supermarket after school. While she stopped to talk with another mother, I’d load up the cart with 1970s delicacies: Pixie Sticks, Sara Lee cupcakes, Snack Pack pudding. We both enjoyed these outings; it was our time together.
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In the years since my mother’s death, my father has remarried and moved into his new wife’s home. It’s a lovely home, but it’s not my mother’s. Her absence is a bittersweet reminder that she never got to see her only grandson. Because they live 3,000 miles away, my father, sister and her family see my son maybe once or twice a year. So I’ve come to think of the Mayfair employees as an extended family. At the bakery, Yami gives Jack sprinkle cookies and coaches him on blowing kisses; she also baby-sits on occasion. May, Bertha and the other checkers note how he’s grown or coo over his wavy gold hair. Nathan, the Generation-Y bag boy, slips into big-brother mode, giving Jack playful nudges as he helps us to the car.
The other evening as I drove out of the parking lot and up the darkened canyon toward my house, I realized I’d forgotten the item I needed most: Jack’s soy milk. I considered turning around but decided against it.
I would be back at the Mayfair tomorrow.
