Are you going to eat that? Tales of Weird Lettuce
Part one in which I delve into food deserts, and address my food pretentiousness.
Hi! I’m Sasha. I’ve lived and traveled full-time in an RV since 2018, and write Stories from an Anxious Traveler. They’ll land straight in your inbox every Monday, and shoudn’t take you more than three minutes to read.
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Growing up, my two sisters and I would pile into our blue-and-silver Dodge Ram van with my parents and trek across the small city of Bend, Oregon* on payday to Food4Less.
Armed with a list scribbled on yellowed notebook paper, we’d divide and conquer by darting up and down the aisles grabbing grocery necessities for the next two weeks. We’d bulk up on produce; in our home, we had nightly salads, but I’ve never tasted foie gras or caviar.
In April 2019, my travel partner, Jeremiah, and I found ourselves in a sleepy town right on the edge of Florida and Georgia. It had been ravaged by Hurricane Michael six months earlier. More homes than not had taut blue and black tarpaulins protecting what remained of their roofs while they waited for the overwhelmed roofing companies to make their way down their neighborhood road.
We discovered a small café called Rutabaga the Saturday before Easter. The cafe blended in with the surrounding line of older homes: unassuming with its white wooden façade and welcoming white gate.
We trotted up the front stairs, thinking we’d have a quick diner-like-bite, and head to our campground. A cinnamony sweetness of cobbler met us at the door. Inside, voices rose in the small space, hitting the pale saga-green walls. For a moment, I thought I had intruded on someone’s family dinner before being greeted happily by our server. The rustic tables squished together; surrounding groups’ conversations trickled into our ears.
When we had been seated, I skimmed the single-sided paper menu and realized an unfortunate reality: I was allergic to nearly everything on it. I thumbed the bright pink pill in my pocket; Benadryl. Our server, however, ran back and forth between us and the chef to plot out a dinner I could enjoy sans Epipen.
In a hurricane-ravaged town, in a small neighborhood with tarps covering the roofs of multiple houses, in an unassuming restaurant that was BYOB, I had one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.
A family of three sat next to us, ordered their meals, requested glasses, and pulled a bottle of wine and two sweaty beers out of the woman’s purse. The college-aged daughter and her parents chatted about her courses; she was home for spring break. Tomorrow was Easter, and they talked about the family meal that would be had. A normal conversation, a normal place, a normal dinner.
When their salads arrived, the daughter repeatedly mentioned that she liked the dressing, a tart raspberry vinaigrette, but that the “lettuce was weird.” After three or four mentions of how weird the lettuce was, she said she simply couldn’t eat it. Her parents nibbled lightly at theirs before pushing theirs away as well.
This is the kicker though. It wasn’t lettuce.
I’m not a greens-expert, but y’all, I’m pretty sure that was spinach.
After finishing my allergen-free dinner, we walked outside, past the beautifully lit Rutabaga sign, and I cradled my leftovers in a doggy bag. I could hear the rubbing of styrofoam together as we drove to our motorhome. My goal was to save the leftovers for Easter. I didn’t make it. I ate the rest in bed that night as the wind whipped the sides of our RV. I sipped a Blue Moon as I ate cold leftovers and all I could think about was getting to the age of 20 and not understanding what spinach was. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault that she didn’t know the difference between lettuce and spinach.
The reality is that food deserts are so under-discussed in America. The tiny towns on the edge of Florida are not so different than the physical deserts of Arizona or the middle of Kansas. I’ll be looking at how we’ve experienced food deserts across grocery stores and restaurants over the next few newsletters.
In my journey of life, I can only hope that I continue to learn and grow. I thought being called a foodie was a term of endearment. The past two years have shown me I was just food pretentious.
I hope you’ll join me in discovering the differences in food deserts across America.
Thanks for traveling with me,
Sasha
Down the rabbit hole
*Fun fact: the year I was born, Bend Oregon had fewer than 20-thousand residents. By 2000, the population was right around 50k. Today, the metro area is close to 200k, with bend proper being right around 100k. It’s growing. Quickly.
When I was writing this newsletter, I googled the town we’d spent Easter in 2019. I learned that it has been nicknamed “Tarp City” a year after Hurricane Michael hit due to the lack of help the city has seen. At the bottom of this Tallahassee article, you can find ways that could help the area’s residents.