GROCERY SHOPPING IS not for the faint of heart. Every second Saturday, I woke with tremors knowing that I would have to lace up, ship out and somehow make it back alive with dinner. The East Village crowds I had learned to fend off, swimming through strangers to grab frozen pizzas and fajita mixes. But the sheer physical pain of carrying plastic sacks home a half-mile, two or three committed to each forearm, had me worried I would lose a limb before the ice cream melted.
Read more
Read it in print
