In Offense of "Food"

Be it then, or now, Safeway’s deli counter is NEVER a good idea.📸: wikicommons

Be it then, or now, Safeway’s deli counter is NEVER a good idea.📸: wikicommons

Don’t fuck with my food. Shit you need to know. Don’t. Fuck. With. My. Food. Y’all. It’s my shit. From growing it, to burrrrrnnnnning it… Food is my shit. So when folk come along and like to fuck with my food, I’m left without option than to come here and rant to y’all. So here we are… Cause they done fucked up my food, y’all.

Disclaimer. I ain’t even gonna lie. This lil tale might partially somewhat be my fault. Partially somewhat because maybe there’s a slight chance that I prolly partially somewhat knew better. But under the circumstances… Shit been busy. Work. Life. Everything. In good balance. But busy. And in one of those busy moments, I failed to buy actual food in the three grocery store runs I made in as many days. Vinho Verde? Check. Ice cream? Two pints, which performed well as this morning’s breakfast. Toothpaste? On it. Actual sustenance? Nope. Why? Because busy means responsibilities get re-prioritized… And as much as I love food, I often lack motivation and/or capability to make good shopping choices. Which is why all I had left to eat this morning was ice cream. Two flavors, yo!

Which brings me to the point of all of this: I BOUGHT MY DINNER FROM THE SAFEWAY DELI AND KNEW MY ASS SHOULDN’T HAVE! Six pieces of chicken - three fried and three something’d. A Greek “style” salad. And an apple fritter. Y’all. Why!? I don’t even know why or how I went so wrong… In my defense, Safeway is the closest place to my current home from which to get food. Unless you count 7-Eleven. Which maybe I should have… Ain’t nothing wrong with a chili cheese “all-beef” hot dog and a Slurpee when necessary. I digress. But yeah, y’all I ended up at Safeway! And the deli, of all places. Even en route, I was thinking of how my Mom (a former Safeway deli employee) told me don’t ever eat the chicken from Safeway deli. S a f e w a y. D e l i. Y’all. Specific instructions. Y’all. Y’all know Black moms don’t give out specific advice about shit like chicken unless it’s some shit you need to pay the fuck attention to. Y’all. I heard MY MOM’S VOICE from like 30 years ago ['“Don’t ever eat the chicken from Safeway deli”] on my way to get me some chicken from Safeway deli. Which is why I must admit that I deserve what the fuck I got.

The hot display had several wing options for my dining pleasure. Fried. Barbecue... which, if I recall correctly, these shits were high on Mom’s don’t eat list. But. Back to the S a f e w a y D e l i... They also had a few bins of wings carrying the appearance of being roasted, rotisseried, or some other method of cooking a chicken wing that would cook the inside while crisping the outer skin. So I ordered a few fried pieces. Two drums and a flat = a nice drum to flat ratio.* Something told me to go ahead and get six... But. Y’all. I made a detour to the “roasted appearing” wings. “And. Uh. Yeah. Gimme three uh those roasted wings.” [Emphasis added.] The EXACT muhfuggin words I said to dude behind the counter. ROASTED. Y’all. Y’all. Wasn’t shit roasted about those wings but what my Mom would prolly do to me if/when she reads this. (But she don’t like cuss words, so.) But. Y’all. They covered those fucking wings in what tasted like the perfecct soy - brake fluid blend. And that wasn’t even the worst part of it. Fuckers had the nerve to be soft, too. Y’all! Ain’t nothing worst than seeing what looks like a roasted chicken wing actually be a soft baked blackened mess that may or may not be fully cooked. Y’all. Repulsive in both flavor and texture, I couldn’t do it. Not one bite ingested. And for real, for real. Dude behind the counter set my ass the fuck up. He heard me say ROASTED and proceeded to put shit in the bag that he knew good and goddamn well wasn’t roasted. Fuck that dude.

So. My ass tries to do the healthy thing by buying one of those overpriced pre-packed salads because this particular Safeway lacks a salad bar. Purpose: counteract the six pieces of chicken I was about to GET. INTO. But since all of the salads on display had some sort of meat/meat-like substance in them, except one, I was forced to choose the Greek “style” salad. Umm. Food shouldn’t have “style” - last I checked that shit was for hair and clothes. But. Style. Explains the fuck out of those wings. Style. Ok. A medley of lettuce, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, red onion, feta cheese and kalamata olives - seemed decent enough. But. Y’all. Why they have to go and do that to that salad dressing? How they mess up balsamic vinaigrette??? (How many of y’all mamas call it baslamic?) Seriously, though. Y’all. They fucked that shit up. Tryna be all stylish and shit. They made it sweet. Like sweet sweet. Y’all. THEY PUT SUGAR IN THE FUCKING BALSAMIC VINAIGRETTE!!!!! Y’all. Sugar. America. THEY. PUT. SUGAR. IN. THE. BALSAMIC. VINAIGRETTE!!!!! Are y’all paying attention to what they doing to the food? America... Y’all... Yo... Trying to be healthy and now you got diabetes. Fuck these dudes.

And the shenanigans did not stop in the deli. But I blame Safeway for what happened next. Walk with me, talk with me… Like most grocery stores, Safeway uses psychology to trick you into buying things you otherwise wouldn’t. I’m not going to give the whole thing away (here’s another article just in case you (i) missed the first one or (ii) need more confirmation) but they place certain things in certain places/order in a sneaky effort to part you and your dollars. On this particular journey into thine hallowed Safeway, with chicken and a salad in my handbasket, I felt the right thing to do was to visit the Safeway bakery in the off chance that they might have one of those singularly sliced pieces of apple pie for my dining pleasure. Plus, the bakery is strategically placed in view of anyone visiting the deli. See what they did there? No? Me either. But. Mama never said a thing about the bakery, so I must assume she would want it for me. But let’s not forget where we are. This is Safeway. They never have what you want, so in lieu of the solo-slice of apple pie my soul desired in that moment, I settled for a tired ass apple fritter from the doughnut case, that had clearly been on since first shift and had just come back from its third smoke break this hour. And I got that shit. Because that’s what you do when you don’t have time or many options. Y’all. Fuck Safeway.

Let me tell y’all, after the terribleness of my ramshackle Safeway dinner, I was counting like a mother fucker for my dessert to come the fuck through because I had only eaten the three fried wings and like three bites of “salad” all damn day and was still like three hours from being done with work, so this was it. Y’all. That tired mother fucker did not disappoint being a fucking disappointment. And still. I ate that shit. That lump of old bread smothered in congealed oil became the foundation of my dinner that night. And ya know, I deserved every single disappointing bite. But fuck Safeway anyway for tricking me into buying that fritter. Because. Y’all saw they did that, right? Yeah. Fuck them.

And before y’all tell me that I could have just ordered something, I know I could have! I can’t tell y’all how weird it is having both an actual address and access to places that deliver.** And for real. Delivery fees are high as fuck these days. When I lived in civilization many moons ago, they didn’t charge so much to bring food. Even pizza joints are in on it. But that’s the hustle, I guess. And. How they fucked with my food. And by they, I partially somewhat mean me. Because. You know. If I had listened to my Mama - the chick with actual Safeway deli life experience, I’d be writing about that time the clerk at 7-Eleven said they didn’t have any hot dogs but there were several rolling on the grill thing and he just wouldn’t sell me any and maybe he was trying to save my life or tell me something about 7-Eleven hot dogs that my Mama never could (#truestory). And still. The next time I find myself in a storm of busy, unable to think clearly and find myself standing in front of the S a f e w a y D e l i hot case, I will remember the words of my mama and prolly order the same damn wings I did this night then find myself bitching and complaining to no one in particular.

*Fight your mama. Argue with her, too.

** Rural living, y’all.