When You Agree to the Dream

Sometimes Wegmans grocery store brings food. Sometimes it brings flowers and housewares. Sometimes it brings random social connection, with smiles and chats. But if you’re lucky, Wegmans will bring you something much better. If you pay close attention, put your ear to the ground, you’ll witness how remarkable the will to reach for meaning and contribution can be.

I believe this can be found anywhere if you pause to notice, to listen. It can be found in any walk of life, in any place. It can be found in the smallest of gestures, and the grandest of efforts. We want to matter.

The other day I discovered this fundamental want can also be found in the produce section of Wegmans, and that is where this story begins. . .

It started like any Wegmans trip, full of hope and possibility. Walking across that parking lot towards the front door is one of life’s greatest joys. On the other side of that door is my personal heaven. (Don’t laugh. It’s true.) As soon as I grabbed a shopping cart, I was bouncing like a gnat, one vegetable display to the next. The colors, the precision of stacking, the marquee lighting, the rapture of it all sent me into a euphoric daze.

And right about then is when it started to happen. Just as I rounded the corner of the apple stand heading straight for the bell pepper wall, I heard him call to me.

“Yo! Lady!”

I looked around for who this could be even though I was in a hurry.

“Yoo-hoo! Over here!”

The voice was zesty though patchy. My eyes scanned everywhere for a feisty sort until they landed on a red bell pepper in the middle of the stack of yellow/orange/red. He was waving his tiny hands that stuck out of his curvy body. His face was simple, but it suited him, and he was looking straight at me. I bent my head closer to the vegetables and could clearly sense a hasty attitude. I decided I would not choose this one for my salads. I didn’t want any trouble. I like my vegetables cool--like a cucumber, or a cat. I’d just see what this dude wanted.

“What do you want?”

“Lady, I need a ride out of here. Can you give me a lift?” His two beady eyes looked up at me in such desperation that I could feel my original decision shifting. Maybe I could put him in the bag, whatever, who cares.

“What do you mean you need a ride? Peppers don’t normally 'ride' anywhere.”

“Lady, trust me. If I don’t get out of here today, I’m going straight into the Bad Bin tomorrow. That means lights out. End of the road.” I could see the tiniest shiver move like a wave through the entire pepper pyramid when he said this. “Lady,” the dude said to me in a new serious tone, “I want to at least try to go for my dream before my time is up.”

Oh, come on. Is he serious? I stared straight into his tiny eyes and noticed the urgency there. He was serious, and I had to agree, this was serious. We all want to go for our dreams before the clock runs out.

“Well, I guess I can at least get you out of here. But after that,” I waved my finger at him, “you’re on your own.” I wasn’t in the market for inconvenient vegetables. I had things to do.

“You bet, lady!” he answered. “I’ll be very obliged for this generosity.” And with that, the dude bowed to me in a deferential flourish and suddenly became a rather chipper fellow. This was unforeseen. Is that all it takes to turn a humor?

“What’s your name, mister?”

“Sgt. Pepper,” he said, reaching out his teensy hand, “At your service.”

“You mean like the rock album?” I took a fleeting glance at the shoppers nearby. Were they hearing this? “Anyway, I’m Stephanie. Nice to meet you.” And we shook hands. Sort of. It was weird.

I picked Sgt. Pepper up from the pyramid and put him on the front baby seat of the cart. It felt a little criminal by then to put him inside the plastic produce bag, so I made a little fluffed up cushion with a bag and sat him on top. He perked up immediately and began turning every which way to see the sights as we started to move along. I have never seen a smile so truly beaming.

This is when another two voices piped up from the display wall. You guessed it. More vegetables. In fact, Sgt. Pepper’s buddies.

“Peppio! Ciao amico!” A zucchini was pointing our way. Just above him was an artichoke waving its scales at us. “Hi Sergeant! Where you off to?”

Sgt. Pepper asked me if we could stop and talk. I circumvented a discerning shopper who was studying the yellow squash next to these two new characters. The thought occurred to me that maybe I could roast some zucchini over the weekend, so I parked in front of Pepper’s friends.

“Guys!” Sgt. Pepper called from his perch, “This nice lady is getting me out of here. You want to come? This is your chance.” I cleared my throat behind his back. Were you going to consult with me on this first?

“I mean,” Pepper stuttered, looking up at me, “that is . . . if you could use a fine bunch of vegetables like these for your cuisine this week, Ms. Stephanie?” He gave another flourish with his fly-sized hand toward his friends, sort of like Vanna White.

I rolled my eyes, but he had a point. I’d been meaning to try an artichoke recipe for weeks now and hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I sighed. “Sure. These two can come along.” I picked them carefully out of their spots on the wide continuous mound of fresh produce and placed them next to Sgt. Pepper.

“Let me guess,” I said with a tinge of sarcasm to the artichoke, “You’re Artie.”

The artichoke grinned at Pepper. “Did you tell her?”

“And I suppose you’re, what, Zukkie? Zucchini?” I asked the green summer squash. “Zeus?”

“Heavens no,” he started to sing in a deep operatic voice, albeit small. “I’m Puccini!” He sang with a dramatic sweep I never thought I’d associate with garden product. This is when I decided the four of us needed to have a reckoning before I took one step further. (Who knew how many of these vegetables were out there?!) I pulled us away from traffic and looked down with pure business in my eyes.

“Friends, we need to talk.” The three foods looked up at me, waiting. None of them had a hint of wariness on their faces. They seemed to trust that I had the purest of intentions. This made me wonder how often vegetables are ever wronged or worried. Do they fear?

“Sgt. Pepper. Artie. Puccini.” I looked across the row of them. “What are we doing here? Am I going to keep finding ever more of your friends who want to escape the Bin?” A teeny shudder went through them. “I don’t think I am in the position to refrigerate everybody here.” I felt a little relieved to get this off my chest, but then I worried it made me look uncharitable. I couldn’t guess what they were thinking just then.

“Ms. Stephanie,” Puccini began in a softer, more tender song, “Not everybody here realizes the reality of our collective situation.”

“Yes,” said Artie, “They haven’t figured out yet how great the dream, but how short the time. This is unfortunate, but it’s true.” He glanced down at the ground as he finished his sentence.

The four of us were hushed and sad for a spell. Then I got a burst of determination in my bones. We’ll try to reach those dreams, by golly. We are a team. We can do this! I smoothed my shirt and looked into each of their button eyes.

“Folks, let’s try,” I said to my cart mates with pure sobriety and pure belief. “We must try. Let’s go for this dream you speak of.”

The three vegetables looked up at me with a sudden heightened energy. Their eyes were as wide as tiny eyes can be. This is when I realized I hadn’t done my due diligence. I had no idea what we were talking about here. With a little trepidation I asked, “What, pray tell, is your dream?”

They all chimed in together but chattered over each other so that I couldn’t make heads or tails. Sgt. Pepper finally raised his voice above all of them.

“To become the best pot of stew someone has ever tasted!” He jammed his undersized fist into the air.

We all looked at each other and started to giggle, and I don’t even know why. But at that moment their dream had become mine. I wanted to support these guys. It was a doable dream.

“But,” sang Puccini, “we want that someone to be someone who doesn’t have any food.”

This caught my heart. My mind wanted to hold them like that forever. Sgt Pepper was reaching his miniscule arm around the zucchini’s middle. Artie was smiling up at me with a goofball look only an artichoke can pull off. Look at these guys. I slowly shook my head. What a dream. To be a stew for the hungry.

“Friends,” I said. “Where do we start?”

Epilogue

Gradually Team Stew [Artie’s idea] made its way around the store and gathered up members, support systems, and ideas. Miss Aubergine, who was the actual winner of the Ms. Eggplant Olympia contest that week, came on as our whole-body counselor to aid in devising ways to utilize the most of each member in the stew as possible. The Shrooms were a set of quintuplets who, honestly, seemed a little questionable but I shrugged it off. Their time for Bad Bin was very close and making it onto Team Stew was their luckiest of second chances. A Wegmans employee almost threw them onto the pile headed for disposal moments earlier but got called to an emergency spill in Aisle 7a. Team Stew prevailed.

My cart was becoming the messenger for ‘carpe diem’ around the store. Gradually, as we journeyed to the various ingredients in Seafood, Dairy, and Spices, banners started to fly from the shelves with cheers to be heard from halfway round the store.

“We love you, Dream Stew!”

“Accomplish the Wish Dish!”

“Artie, will you marry me?”

By the time I unloaded the many bags onto my kitchen counter that day I suspected these foods, who insisted on striving for what they felt they were meant to do, had already made an impact before they even started to simmer toward their dream.

I won’t sugar coat the part of the story where I had to dissect my friends. I cried inconsolably. But that was mostly due to Ophelia the onion. Things started to get into a groove once she washed away into the stock. In the end, what an inspiration it was to see regular old vegetables create something that might change someone’s life. Who knows how pivotal a hot meal would turn out to be for someone who really needed sustenance at a time of difficulty? I can’t answer that question, and neither could Sgt. Pepper, Puccini, Artie, or the rest. But they didn’t let perfect assurances stand in their way. Their plan was to do their best and learn on the road. They wanted to try to make the most of their short lives and reach for the stars.

That’s not pie in the sky.

It’s food for thought.