Groceries

By Arvee Fantilagan

Onions. A hundred pesos per kilo. Expensive as usual, the eye-watering bulbs of gold. Things had gotten so bad, she’d actually been forgoing them the last few weeks and settling for some mediocre chicken tinola or forgettable adobo. For tonight’s sinigang though, they would be worth it. They’d spice up the warm tamarind broth, soak the pork in their juices, and most importantly, set up this special night for her and her husband. She smiled, feeling silly, but perhaps it’s the blessing of some heavenly dish they need to get the little angel they’ve always wanted. Then when they’re watching it laugh in its crib a year from now, they could also giggle to each other that those devious onion cartels won in the end, because they were apparently justified in their extortions.

Tomatoes. P60 per kilo. She mouthed a soundless thanks for her officemate who gave her a packet of seeds a few months back, tiny green babies that have finally matured in her humble Eden on the balcony. Not much of a cushion against inflation, sure, but sidled next to her other pots of lemongrass, basil, and oregano, they tended to soothe her eyes and shorten her grocery lists. She pulled out her phone and texted her husband to pluck a couple of tomatoes and lemongrass, so she could get started with the sinigang as soon as she got home.

Eggplants. P40 per piece. She loved them grilled, she loved them baked, she loved them mellowing into chewable clouds in the sour broth. She liked them best, however, as the omelets her husband used to whisk up early in their marriage, simply to celebrate waking up together. Then after she’d cleaned her plate off, he would smirk at her for liking his “eggplant,” and she always needed to bite her lips to stop herself from grinning too much. The years had sapped a bit of that warmth, but that’s just marriage; she hoped parenthood would bring some of it back. She grabbed one eggplant for the sinigang and immediately mused about it being a lot bigger than her husband’s, and the thought made her crack up.

Sinigang powder mix. P28 per sachet. Of course fresh tamarind would be better, especially since it would loosen up her husband’s eyebrows that furrowed whenever she emptied a pouch into the pot. But the farmer’s market was an entire jeepney ride from her office in the other direction — and it was a Friday rush hour. If he’d instead given his legs a stretch for a quick tamarind hunt on this, his sacred day-off, she was sure she’d jump him right at the door. Unfortunately, hell hadn’t frozen over, plus she knew it was safer to disappoint him a little than to send him on an errand when he was hungry.  

Shrimp. P150 for half a kilo. Their distinctive salty aroma as they bubbled atop her mother’s sinigang still wafted past her mind from time to time. They were delightful and tender, but they also made her husband’s face crumple, as if the whiskered critters themselves were crawling all over his cheeks. So while she knew her mother was clucking her tongue in disapproval somewhere, may god bless her soul, she just passed the shrimp with a sigh, wondering if she’d ever indulge in their memories again.

Pork. P310 per kilo. Overpriced and undersized, as usual; thank goodness they still had a kilo — and she smacked herself remembering just now they were still frozen rock solid at home. “Can you take out the pork from the freezer and let it thaw by the sink, mahal?” she texted her husband again, only to be enveloped by the familiar dread that he still hadn’t even seen her previous message about the tomatoes.

Ice cubes. P30 per bag. Their seductive chill made her wonder if he was sipping Coke on the couch, or perhaps taking his afternoon nap, his two favorite house chores. He’d always been her rudder and her sails, but ever since she got this job, he’d seemed closer to an anchor. She wished he’d shake off the moss for a second and roll over to the fridge; the time she’d waste waiting for the pork to thaw, she’d much rather spend debating him in bed about the cutest baby name combos.

Coca-Cola. Oh boy, just P40 for a bottle of a liter and a half. She could already imagine her husband bursting into a tap dance if he were there, twirling her toward the freezer so she could grab one, if not the entire shelf. He’d woo her and serenade her until she forgot about all the half-empty cups scattered everywhere like goat droppings — on their couch, on his desk, on the bed, everywhere. “Consider it practice for when the baby comes and vomits all over the house,” his handsome grin while she murmured and mopped. She sighed, seduced by his lovely mirages. “Cokes are on sale today,” she texted, another piece for the pile in their chat room he still hadn’t even opened.

Ice cream. A pint for a hundred. Her own guilty pleasure. With how hot it could get these days, she often wondered why she had to feel that way. So what if she gained a few — oh, and now the devil decided to reply! “At least one bottle, please, mahal!” She turned back a couple of fridges and loaded two giant Cokes into her cart. Then she wheeled along and plucked a cup of rocky road, her favorite, though its frigid bite on her skin also reminded her of the pork that was probably still in their freezer, now a few stalactites thicker.

Toothpaste. P80 per piece. Helpfully parked right beside the cashier too, as if volunteering to replace that empty hapless tube by their sink they’ve been squeezing and torturing for about a week now. She picked one ornamented with cherry blossoms, the brand that had become their regular ever since he remarked how it tasted like their honeymoon a lifetime ago. It deluged her in figments of their romantic night ahead, drunk in his words and her luscious sinigang, although it was interrupted by a text from him — that they had no more meat in the fridge, after all.

Deodorant. P150 per roll-on. Something he often teased that she needed more than he did. She nervously hoped it wasn’t too obvious right now, as she sweated and gushed in apology to the cashier and the parade of humanity clogged behind her. They parted to let her pass, a pebble crumbling down the mountain they were trying to summit; a pebble that would have to scale it again kilometers away later as the line continued to grow.

Pork. P310 per kilo. She picked up two. She tried her hardest to envision them atop steaming islands of rice flooded by tamarind lakes. “This is so good!” he’d exclaim. Their satisfying sourness would shut his eyes tight in relishment and tickle his dimples back in sight. He might even pull her to bed right there and then, reciting his wedding vows anew: “Since you’re already out there, can’t you just go to the wet market for fresh meat and real tamarind?” She thought she misread his latest message, so she read it again. She kept doing so until people began clucking their tongue at her for blocking the aisle. She even recognized her mother among them, clucking like she had always done since learning her son-in-law’s tendencies when he got mad. It was a sound she loathed — but it was justified.

Ice cubes. P30 per bag. She could hear them tinkling in her glass, chilly and refreshing, the ambiance of a nervous delicate date. Of course, of course, they could just refrigerate their drinks. But with these ready for use anytime, she hoped to cool his flaring temper much faster, or numb her lips quicker in case they get busted open. Most importantly, sprucing up their soft drinks might still salvage their romantic night together.

Ice cream. P250 for a liter and a half. She swapped the cup earlier for an entire gallon of rocky road. It was a Friday, after all. It could take the whole weekend for him to come around. In the meantime, she was going to savor her nostalgic sinigang, some ice-cold Coke, and scoops and scoops of ice cream. Her mother would surely prefer that she makes a different change, but she still believed in the mirage that he could change as well.

Shrimp. P150 for half a kilo. She grabbed a pack. The aroma from her childhood started to drift by her again, tiny delectable seafood bits crumbling in her mouth. She salivated. It was going to taste like bliss, her long-missed shrimp dish. Though across the table from her later, she could already see her husband, scratching and starving and seething, and the image curled her lips into an anxious, guilty smile.

She grabbed another pack of shrimp.

Then she pushed her cart toward the cashier and braced herself for the end of the line.