In which I confuse risotto with pilaf

Returning to Trader Joe’s in Portland this week was a bit of a rush. A little over a year ago we turned into the parking lot to see a line of masked-up, socially distanced people outside, extending the length of the store, eyes fixed on their phones, waiting to get in. We circled back out of the parking lot and went home to Bath. Since then, our food shopping has consisted of rushed, claustrophobic, anxiety-driven experiences divided between Shaws and Hannifords, with the occasional pop into the Bath Natural Food Market. All of these places are shrouded in my mind with pandemic pallor.

No line outside TJ’s today. And inside, the familiar, quirky, upbeat displays. I must admit, my heart leapt at the sight. There were the bins of daffodils from Ireland, $1.79 a bunch, that I’ve purchased every spring (in Maryland, in Seattle, in Maine) for at least the last 8 years. There were the Valrhona chocolate bars, the bags of roasted sunflower seeds and walnuts, the cheap but tasty Chardonnay, and my favorite “European-style” yogurt, not found anywhere else on the planet, including (I’m guessing) in Europe. We headed for the frozen food aisle, but alas, could not find the bags of rice and veggies we used to buy weekly in Seattle and mix with anything from fish to chicken to tofu. Pilafs, I thought they were. An employee asked if she could help, and again we cruised up and down the aisle, until the memory clarified and I realized the mixtures were risottos, not pilafs. We found them at last with a delight disproportionate to frozen food and grabbed up half a dozen. The employee cheerfully described the process as a treasure hunt. And that’s the magic of TJ’s, the children’s bookstore quality of it, at least for now.