Shopping is an Art

Shopping is an art.

It is a casual art for amateurs, or a serious art for professionals.

Kathleen Bock, my mother, was a professional--but with a twist. She was always looking for something unusual.

She was a list maker and had them for everything. If a family member was going somewhere new, she always had a list for them."Here," she would send us off, "look for this."

Late in life she turned her talents to cooking. Her ultimate goal was to publish a cookbook, but she didn't tell anyone that. We just knew that she was always cooking something new, especially on Sunday evenings when family and friends gathered around her table.

We were quizzed about the salad, the entrée, or the desert. This went on for years. Finally one of our weekly guests asked her, "Why do you always question us about how we liked the meal? I can understand you would not again serve us something we didn't like, but you never serve us the things we do like again."

She didn't provide an answer and just went on serving new things and asking questions. It turns out we were just the guinea pigs.One year we traveled to Kansas City to enjoy Thanksgiving with my brother's family. She brought a list."I want to go to a spice store," she told my brother.

The Friday after Thanksgiving we drove down to the River Quay in the downtown area to a renowned spice store.

I had never been in a store that only sold spices. It was quite a sight. The store was narrow with a very high tin ceiling. On both sides, the entire length of the building, were spice boxes with glass fronts stacked from floor to ceiling. Each was about the size of a large post office box. There must have been over a thousand different spices; they produced an array of color that fell upon the eye like a Van Gogh painting.

A salesman, in this case the owner, greeted her.

"I'm looking for a couple of spices," she told him.His eyes brightened, a broad smile stretched across his face, and he launched into his sales pitch. Swinging his arm back in a broad motion that swept from the floor upward, "Madam, we have every spice in the world." His words seemed to drip with an exotic flavor. He continued, "We search the world for even the rarest of spices, from all the continents and remote islands of the Pacific and Indian Oceans. We are experts in the spice trade. What can I help you find?"

She dug out her list and read off the name of the first spice.He summoned a clerk, gave him the name of the spice and the general direction where it might be found.

Off went the clerk.

In a few minutes the clerk returned empty handed and conferred privately with the owner. Again the clerk left, only to again return without the spice. Another short conference, the owner turned to my mother. He was frowning.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am, we do not have that particular spice. Apparently we have every spice but that one. I am so sorry." He heaved a sigh.

"Well," she quickly replied, "here is the name of the other one I need." She read off the name.

"Fine," he said, quickly dispatching the clerk.

This time the clerk was gone for about five minutes. We could see him moving a ladder around to check in several boxes. Again, he returned empty handed and conferred with the owner.By now the owner's frown had drooped even lower. Even his eyebrows seemed to sag.With his saddened and slightly flushed face--really, he appeared to be at the point of shedding tears-- he turned to my mother and announced that he didn't have that spice either.

In a matter of just a few minutes, my mother had managed to turn the proud spice shop owner into a near weeping mess. Over one thousand spices lined his walls, and out of the blue she had managed to walk into his store and name not just one, mind you, but two spices he didn't have! I felt sorry for him.

This wasn't the first shop owner she had humiliated. She had a knack for walking into a shop, pulling out a wadded up list, unfolding it and asking for something they didn't have. They would run around the store in frenzy, yell at the clerks; look above and below counters before sheepishly confessing to my mother they didn't have the item. Even the lists she gave to her minions to shop for her produced the same tragic results.

My mother tucked her list back in her pocket and we left the spice store.

She had won. Her list had won. The bewildered spice shop owner was just the latest of her victims.

I'll bet he changed his spiel after she left. Every spice in the world, indeed.I wonder how long it took him to fully regain his composure--and pride.

Ah, the true art of shopping.