Grocery Bonding Quotes

Those were wonderful days, Doc’s childhood, full of strong men whose handshake was their bond and women who knew how to cook and raise children. Nice, clean families. This was before the “new people”—the Jews, the Negroes, the Greeks, the Mennonites, the Russian Orthodox—arrived.

The secret to a good marriage is grocery shopping . It's a boring duty , you will always bond with someone you struggle together with , you are making financial decisions truly together and learning compromise , you are being seen in public together thus committing to the relationship in front of the community , and when you get home you get to enjoy the fruits of your labor Together .

I shared my love of books with Benny, but Aunt Yolanda opened my eyes to the world of food as art, cooking without cans. She introduced me to the magic of spices, the exotic perfume of fresh herbs crushed between fingers. Younger than my mother, she was rounded in just the right spots, from her love of good food, and when we talked she looked right at me and listened, nodding and laughing loudly when I'd tell jokes, holding my hand when we'd walk, as if we were best friends or sisters. She liked Anne and Christine, too, but I could tell I was her favorite. She took me with her on shopping trips, to the fish market near the waterfront and the farm stands out west. Sometimes she'd journey to the Asian grocers in Northeast Portland or the hippie vegetarian markets on Hawthorne to find something special. We'd come home laden with ingredients that I knew my mother had never heard of, and the resulting feasts would fill me with a yearning to go to different places, to try new things.

THE SUMMER BEFORE COLLEGE Mick drove trucks for the Coke plant, big lumbering GMCs with slide-up side doors from which he pulled down wooden cases of bottles and slung back cases of empties, delivering to corner markets, restaurants and grocery stores in Rockland County. He loved the hard labor and the changing scenes and people, the sun hot on his face through the GMC’s big windshield and on his arm through the open window full of all the scents of summer – spicy fresh-mown alfalfa, sun-warm bark of beeches and birches, black-furrowed soil, the redolent pastures of cattle and sheep, the cool moist air when the road went over a stream. Wherever he sold, people upped their orders. “What I like,” one corner grocer said, “is you never let me down. You always come when you say you will.” Mick shrugged it off but smiled, “Isn’t everybody like that?” “The way you work, you’re gonna make somethin’ of yourself some day.” He drove on, one arm out the window, shoulder warm in the sun, wind cooling his face, in the friendly grease, diesel and sun-hot plastic smell of the truck. Of course you worked hard, everybody should. It made you happy. How could you not work when your family needed it? Tara waiting tables full-time at Primo’s Café on Main Street, Troy running the farm all by himself and delivering papers at four every morning; Dad’s salary at the plastic factory had gone

Whenever she’s in the cleaning supply aisle of the local grocery store and her eyes land on the row of bleach, she turns away. Nearly a wince. She can’t look at it. She certainly can’t smell it. Like her sisters, it’s the little things—duct tape, pain relievers, the sound of a weed eater—that propel her back to a time and place where their mother did things they swore they’d hold secret forever.

Hell, just getting groceries with you is an adventure. I mean—no one needs four kinds of cereal.

He had turned forty yesterday, and a bunch of his friends had thrown a big party for him down at the bar across the street from his bail bond office. The beer had been flowing freely. They’d even sprung for a day-old cake from the deli section of one of the big grocery stores across town. Their gift to Wilson had been Wanelle, the prettiest hooker on their side of the city, which was a title Wanelle held proudly, even if her claim to fame came from a real long stretch of the truth. Still, Wanelle had all her own teeth and clear skin, and she was almost pretty when she laughed. Wilson knew her slightly. He’d seen her around Ft. Worth from time to time, but buying a woman had never been his style. He’d felt trapped when Wanelle had been presented to him, especially since his buddies had tied a big red bow around her neck. Turning her down would have been a serious social faux pas to his friends and to Wanelle. So, rather than hurt everyone’s feelings, Wilson had graciously accepted, and they’d spent the night in her fifth floor apartment, only to be awakened by the scent of smoke.

I made a list of what needed to be picked up from the grocery store for dinner. Making lists helped. Cletus had taught me to do that. Not many people knew, but Cletus had a terrible temper. As a kid his tantrums were legendary, and as a teenager his rage made him blind. He kept it all locked up now by making mental lists whenever he felt the urge to pummel someone. Of course, he also hatched maniacal plans of revenge against anyone who crossed him. Beau and I often considered giving Cletus a hairless cat as a present, so his James Bond supervillain image would be complete.

​Met a strange, svelte, gray man at the grocery store. We bonded over our hatred of sugar in everything and how the government is a corporation driving up our for-profit healthcare costs on purpose selling us unhealthy drinks and processed food. We’re paying for our own deaths!

An exercise in illusion via allusion. Wear it and after a few hours you will find your daily life suffused by the same feeling of peace you get when you settle into an armchair after tidying your apartment from end to end. If you think of all the best Chanel fragrances as varieties of little black dress - sleek, dependable, perfectly proportioned - Bois des iles is the one in cashmere. I have worn it on and off for years, whenever I felt I needed extra insulation from the cold world. To my nose Chinatown ( Bond No. 9 ) smells like a corner of a small French grocery in summer, in the exact spot where the smell of floor wax meets that of ripe peaches. Lignin, the stuff that prevents all trees from adopting the weeping habit, is a polymer made up of units that are closely related to vanillin. When made into paper and stored for years, it breaks down and smells good. Which is how divine providence has arranged for secondhand bookstores to smell like good quality vanilla absolute, subliminally stoking a hunger for knowledge in all of us. Perfume is, among other things, the most portable form of intelligence. Oman was making perfumes when Europeans only bathed once a year on doctor's orders. Chanel No. 5 is a Brancusi. The beauty and fragrance industry has lied to women for so long, convincing us to fork over cash for crud in shiny packages, that at this point event pure quality has trouble getting taken seriously. Clever marketing can get us to buy something once, but rarely again. We don't wear Chanel No. 5 because Marilyn Monroe wore it, we wear it for the same reason that Marilyn did: because it''s gorgeous. Sycomore, Chanel. If putting it on does not make you shiver with pleasure, see a doctor. Aside from beautiful aircraft, nuclear power stations, food and wine, perfumery is France's biggest export, yet there is no perfume museum in Paris. The ability possessed by certain fragrances to briefly turn the most arid mind into a fairy garden, to make us lament the passing of loves and losses we know full well we never had, is a miracle specific to perfumery.

As the scholar and writer Lewis Hyde notes, “It is the cardinal difference between gift and commodity exchange that a gift establishes a feeling-bond between two people.” Wild strawberries fit the definition of gift, but grocery store berries do not. It’s the relationship between producer and consumer that changes everything.

In India kundalini awakening is called initiation or, in Sanskrit, diksha, which means, etymologically, “to cut.” There is profound significance to this term, for yogic texts speak about this initiation as the means for an individual to sever, to cut, the three impurities that are said to bind each human being. The first impurity, known as anava mala, is also considered the foremost: our sense of separation from God. It is this impurity that is cut with the awakening itself—as I had experienced. The second mala, mayiya mala, involves our sense of separation from each other and from other forms in the universe, something I recognized experiencing as well. In the week after my awakening, I became aware that I was feeling a warm connection to the people I ran into at school, both my colleagues and students. Then one day something extraordinary happened in an otherwise insignificant interaction with a total stranger. I was at the grocery store, buying food for my evening meal, when I became aware that I also felt a bond with the clerk who was ringing up my purchases.

Shad, a man of fullness, purpose, and talent, whose word was his bond, deserved the best of what the nation had to offer.

Reb believed the genius builder was likely a drinker or gambler until he learned from his wife, who chatted with Shad’s wife, that Shad Davis had no long-term plans to stay on Chicken Hill. He was saving every penny to move to Philadelphia, to educate his young children there, then send them to Lincoln University, a Negro college in Oxford, Pa., or perhaps even to Oberlin College in Ohio, the first white university in America to open its doors to the Negro. Reb respected those aspirations. They lined up with Reb’s belief that in America, anything was possible, and that Shad, a man of fullness, purpose, and talent, whose word was his bond, deserved the best of what the nation had to offer. Alas, none of his dreams would come to pass.

Shadows of Hope In the quiet neighborhood of Saint-Michel, nestled within the vibrant city of Montreal, lived Maria, a single mother of two. Maria was a woman of color, navigating the complexities of life as a Black woman in a society that often left her feeling invisible. Every morning, she would rise before dawn, the faint light of the sunrise just beginning to pierce through the heavy curtain of her small apartment. She made coffee while her children, Aisha and Malik, still clung to their dreams in the soft embrace of sleep. The weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders—the bills piling up on the kitchen table, the constant struggle to find stable work, and the fears of raising her children in a society that still bore the scars of racism. Quebec, with its rich culture and beautiful landscapes, often felt hostile. Maria had encountered discrimination at every turn: during job interviews, at the grocery store, and even at her children’s school. The subtle glances and dismissive comments gnawed at her confidence, but she refused to allow despair to set in. One day, Maria stumbled upon a local writing workshop at the community center. It was an escape, a chance to express her thoughts and experiences. At first, she hesitated, worried that her words would not resonate with others. But one evening, as the instructor encouraged them to write about their truth, Maria felt a spark ignite within her. She wrote about her daily struggles, the sacrifices she made, and the joy and laughter her children brought into her life. With each workshop, Maria poured her heart onto the pages—stories of resilience, strength, and the unbreakable bond between a mother and her children. The tales of systemic injustices, the late-night arguments about the fairness of the world, and the moments of triumph—like Aisha’s first dance recital and Malik’s science fair project—all painted a tapestry of her life. Months went by, and her stories began to take shape into a manuscript. Each chapter spoke to the experience of Black women who often felt unheard and unseen. Maria crafted her words with care, articulating the nuances of racism and motherhood, hope and hardship, transforming her painful experiences into powerful narratives. With the encouragement of her workshop peers, she sought out an agent, and to her surprise, her manuscript was accepted by a local publisher. Soon, her book, titled "Shadows of Hope," was scheduled for release. The day of the launch was filled with anxiety and excitement. Friends from the community, fellow single parents, and advocates for racial equality filled the small bookstore. As Maria took the microphone, she saw familiar faces—people who understood her journey. Her voice trembled slightly as she began to read passages from her book, allowing her audience a glimpse into her world. As she recounted the injustices she faced and the love she held for her children, the room filled with a palpable energy. The laughter of the audience mingled with tears of recognition and understanding. Maria realized that she wasn’t alone; her struggles mirrored those of many others, and her words had the power to inspire change. "Shadows of Hope" became a bestseller, resonating not just in Quebec but across Canada. Readers from all walks of life connected with her experiences, leading to conversations about race, motherhood, and resilience. Maria was invited to panels and discussions, her voice becoming a beacon for those seeking to address the inequities that existed in society. Through her newfound platform, Maria dedicated herself to advocating for other women of color. She started mentoring young girls in her community, empowering them to share their own stories and helping them navigate the oppressive spaces they encountered. In her heart, Maria knew that the road ahead would still have its challenges, but she had transformed her pain into purpose. Her journey showed that darkness could give birth to light, that voices mattered.

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