The Victorian Error: Lite Jazz


The parents came this weekend for my dad’s birthday:

Can you guess which two are mine? It's a trick, because I don't look like either of them. Is there something you would like to reveal to me, Mom and Dad, now that I can handle it?

Can you guess which two are mine? It's a trick, because I don't look like either of them. Is there something you would like to reveal to me, Mom and Dad, now that I can handle it?

Whenever the parents come, they come under the assumption that suburban Washington, DC is a third world country struggling with inflation and that we are not capable of purchasing of the vital food supplies that are readily available throughout southeastern Pennsylvania.  As a result, we now have a watermelon, three more loaves of bread, two cakes, and a basketful of peaches and apples.  My mom was going to make me soup before I assured her that our drinking water here in Montgomery County is clean enough to make soup with.

Mr. B with his potato digging stick.

Mr. B with his potato digging stick.

Anyway, a great time was had by all.  But that’s not the important part.  I’m giving you this background to tell you that, even after the great Berlin Airlift of 2009, Mr. B and I still needed to go grocery shopping.  So, we went to our neighbohood grocery store, which had been remodeled.  Apparently, being remodeled means that you now look good enough to charge double on everything.  Because the new prices were ridiculous.  Also, there was a five-piece jazz orchestra playing lite jazz.  Really?  I know MoCo is of the richest areas in the country, but do you really need to rub in how WASPish the area is with live Kenny G as I’m buying salmon?

Mr. B and I were bemused.

“How much more white do you need to get,” he asked, “that there is lite jazz playing as you grocery shop for organic ice cream?   I like this grocery store so much I’m going to drive to it in my Prius.”

“I like this grocery store so much, I’m going to tell my fair trade anti-Starbucks-drinking writer’s group about it,” I mused.

“I like this grocery store so much, I’m going to tell my weekend cycling club,” he enthused.

“I like this grocery store so much, I’m going to tell my pro-breastfeeding-in-public mothers’ group,” I said.

“I like this grocery store so much, I’m going to go to my local farmer’s market and tell everyone there,” Mr. B promised.

“Well, I like this grocery store so much, I’m going to distribute a 100% post-carbon paper recycled leaflet about it at my local food cooperative,” I proclaimed.

“Aren’t a farmer’s market and a food cooperative the same, ” Mr. B asked.

“No,” I said.  And was ashamed that I knew the difference.

Kenny G, take it home.