Driving by Whole Foods the other day, I was suddenly overcome with two strange, near simultaneous pangs of longing: 1) Wishing I could go in and shop, and 2) Missing my son’s baby days.
Those two thoughts aren’t as unrelated as they seem. Whole Foods and, to a greater extent, Seattle’s
PCC were a huge part of the baby days. I was in the earliest weeks of my pregnancy with The Boy when our neighborhood PCC moved from its cozy, old school crunchy-granola space to
this grocery store paradise:
. . . Which was all a bit disorienting for my little first-trimester self, wandering up and down the fancy new aisles in a queasy haze, trying to find the kale. I didn’t even
like kale, but I’d feel instantly vibrant whenever I could manage to choke some down. Besides, all food was equally nauseating during those early weeks, so I figured I might as well go the nutritious route.
Second trimester was more fun. My appetite returned with a vengeance and by then I knew where to find everything in the new store. But the real fun began after the baby came. I
loved shopping at the PCC with my baby. When he was tiny, I’d meander through the store with him in the Bjorn as he kicked his legs delightedly at the lovely shapes and colors. When he was a toddler, I’d bring him in the stroller and use it to haul all his favorite organic pastas, fruits, and snacks back home.
I’d branched out to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s by then, too. Those stores weren’t in walking distance, but if we happened to be in the neighborhood I’d be sure to stop by and stock up on staples: Fresh ground almond butter. Wild salmon. Rice crackers. Rainbow tortellini. Organic broccoli, yams, cherries, or plums. Fair trade shade-grown coffee. Horizon string cheese and baby yogurt (which no longer exists, but was
so much better than Yo Baby in its day).
I know, I know. Regular grocery stores have these same items, if not the brands, at much more reasonable prices. Eventually I had to face that fact, be merciful to our budget, and scale our fancy grocery adventures way, way back. But for some reason, procuring these items at
Fred Meyer just wasn’t the same. I wonder why not? What was it about Whole Foods et al that made shopping for food feel like an
experience?
Is it really as simple as store design? Do sage-and-pumpkin-colored walls and ambient lighting make that much of a difference? Well, that’s part of it, yes. The prettier the space, the more time you want to spend there. But I think there’s more to it than that.
On a visceral level, those stores can make you feel like you’re being taken care of. Especially if you’re new to the whole “organic” thing and have no idea where to start. Like trying to feed your newly-pregnant self or transitioning that first baby to solid foods. If you’ve never given much thought before to the quality of food we put in our bodies, it can be a bit overwhelming. How tempting to just put yourself in a store filled with All Things Healthy. You figure you can’t miss, right?
And there’s some validity there. These companies do claim commitments to local, organic produce; sustainable farming; trans-fat and HFCS-free treats; and equitable treatment of their workers. (And you can read all about that on
PCC and
Whole Foods’ Web sites.) There’s sure to be some disagreement about how well the companies live up to these values, but the very fact that they tout them in the first place instills a sense of virtue in the consumer that you’re just not going to get from an ordinary grocery store.
These stores speak to a lifestyle. You’re not just buying food; you’re buying an identity of sorts. “This is me, gathering the healthiest of foods for my baby.” Maybe you just came in to buy a few pears, but the very fact that you’re buying your pears from a store that also sells Natural Organic Everything from dog food to diapers to toilet bowl cleansers makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger. Those vibrant-but-neutral colors on the walls, those mountains of impossibly gorgeous fruits and vegetables, even the arty signage all send the message that we shoppers are Of the Earth.
One could argue that what they’re really selling is elitism . . . whatever
that means anymore. I get that it’s a little silly to find meaning in a bag of pears, but I don’t get what’s so deplorable about simply loving delicious food or shopping according to one’s principles. Although there certainly can be an air of sanctimony in the shopping experience sometimes.
Like the time I asked the guy at the PCC deli counter if a certain item had dairy in it. He went on at length about the general awfulness of dairy and assured me that what I was buying was vegan. Great. Except that I’m not vegan and I
love dairy. I was giving it up temporarily for a health issue, but as soon as it was done I had every intention to put cheese back in my life. And besides, there were several other customers within earshot who would have probably loved some delicious dairy in their deli purchases. Why alienate them?
But that experience certainly isn’t typical. And believe me, those stores were a godsend during my reluctant dairy-free months. Giving up a food you’ve always loved can be downright heartbreaking. At least they had plenty of vegan choices that were genuinely delicious to tide me over. I could stomach a little attitude in exchange for that.
But, the bottom line is, we simply can’t afford to shop at those stores on a regular basis. I expect that’s the case for most people, and I expect that’s where most of the public resentment and charges of “elitism” come from. And I agree, it can be infuriating to stand in the “15 Items or Less” lane and still have your purchase suck up the contents of your wallet.
But in the end, I don’t begrudge these stores their costliness. That’s their business plan, and if they weren’t making a profit they wouldn’t be here at all. I appreciate how they’ve raised public awareness about healthy eating. I appreciate how they’ve raised the bar for mainstream grocery stores, many of which now feature “organic” sections. And I’m glad they’re here when I’ve got a few extra bucks to spend on the good bagels. Just like anything else, we enjoy it in moderation.
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