On a Tuesday morning when a college paper was past due and accruing deductions by the day, I decided that David Lynch’s daily lunch of tuna, feta, olive oil and tomatoes was just the thing to fill the small but problematic gaps in what I intuited was missing — not only in my daily lunches but in my life generally. With my food stamp card reloaded with $139 from Uncle Sam, I headed to the fanciest grocery store in Houston.
Feta was on the list, and I happen to be quite bad at gauging the weights of small things — things that are not between 0.5 and 5 grams. Furthermore, I tend to err on the side of buying in bulk when the chance presents itself, especially when there’s an expectation for the thing to get used daily. Of course, it’s often our expectations that get the best of us.
I’ve learned that the bulk buyer often finds themselves standing at their cabinet, hand atop their head, wondering why they thought six pounds of anything was a good idea. I only wish every shopper buys just enough to live well — for a stockpile can intimidate a home as much as a blank page can a writer.
Now, most feta cheeses come in 8-ounce containers, some up to 16 or even 32 ounces, and range in price from $5 to $20. When I saw what was essentially a squared log of feta next to the smaller boxes, something told me these were for similar purchasers — that the buyer of small-box feta and the buyer of a dense, nearly cumbersome log of feta were in roughly the same financial tier.
I thought there must be a diminishing increase in price per ounce as one buys more. My logic was that something exorbitantly priced wouldn’t sit next to affordable options without fanfare — no little wooden stand, no colorful flag declaring its premium status. Furthermore, this lumbrous mass of cheese had no special literature to accompany it, and for that, the dying embers of my trust issues were stoked.
I wish I could say my intellect at the time gave thoughtfulness and peace, but I was worn out by the intimidating amount of dairy from seemingly every grassy farm in the Western world. Feeling trapped in a fluorescent haze of indecision, I threw the cinder block into my cart and wheeled away hurriedly.
It was, in hindsight, much like Indiana Jones in “The Last Crusade“, choosing a cup that could either heal or destroy him. Unlike the leather-wearing archaeologist, I made the wrong choice. Although the rain beat down on that dreary afternoon, I was still a spitfire — one who fell victim to hungry hubris.
At checkout, I forced myself to look at the magazines walling the stands: beautiful celebrities and decadent meals. I wondered how they handled buying feta. Surely, I thought, the chefs of those spreads bought large amounts too.
Still in my stupor, I figured that this amount of cheese put me alongside the elites of dairy consumption. If Wallace and Gromit had the choice, they’d surely do the same. What better way to start an eccentrically minded adventure than with a load-bearing beam of cheese?
Before I knew it, the block of cheese was being scanned by the nice lady at the register, whom I greeted with genuine joy. “Finally,” I said, “a person to greet whose mind is on something other than obscure ingredients.”
But the process halted — and by me, with my big cheese. The price tag and barcode were both missing.
You may ask, “Did you not look to see how much the cheese was?” No. I simply intuited that this was the necessary thing to do at this point in my life — that buying big feta meant buying into a new version of myself.
The cashier called for a barcode, and minutes passed. The customers behind me shifted from curiosity to annoyance, as if thinking, “What kind of big cheese guy doesn’t check the price?” I could almost hear them deciding that I was not, in fact, capable of good decisions.
When the barcode was finally retrieved, I stared at the screen as the total jumped upward of $150. I wasn’t frustrated or anxious. My bed had been made, and I was going to sleep in it.
After my food stamp card failed to read, I swiped my debit card and watched a large chunk of my balance disappear. I thanked both employees sincerely and walked out into the rain.
In my rattling car, I opened a pair of chocolate chip and walnut cookies from the bakery. It wasn’t a day for chocolate chips alone; I needed something more substantial. As I ate the second cookie, soaked and satisfied, I thought about what this purchase demanded of me.
David Lynch ate well — and made good art. If I was to justify this cheese, I’d have to do the same. There was no other option but to focus intensely on endeavors worthy of fueling myself with fancy cheese — now the fifth most expensive item in my apartment.
I haven’t lost my appreciation for bulk items, but I’ve learned what the unconscious often wants: security and things that encourage moving forward with intention. There are no other bulk purchases in my house besides a half-used gallon of Great Value olive oil — something that keeps me grounded and reminds me of what I am: a poor college student who mows lawns and writes.
This cheese decision, which I may or may not come to regret, has continued to remind me of what’s important — to work with intensity. With each distracted or sleepy opening of my tiny fridge, I’m greeted by a big choice made, one in the form of a block of cheese closed off from air with a series of clothespins.
The prose of Dylan Thomas echoes as I write this, amid my half-finished projects, reminding me of the spitfire we must all be if we are to “Be Someone,” as graffitied on a Houston highway — to do something worthwhile. While he probably didn’t advocate purchasing food as a means to propel us forward with the maxim of “Excelsior,” I like to think he wouldn’t disapprove either.
