My Nemesis...The Commissary.

I have a Love-Hate relationship with the commissary.  This is coming from a person who LOVES grocery stores and finds them quite interesting in what they reveal about the local population. I actually love to go in and browse in grocery stores the same way other women like to look at shoes or purses.  But the commissary?  Uh...no way.

When we moved to the Great White North, it was with great anticipation that I went into the commissary for the first time.  I had never been in one before, so I was actually quite excited about what I might find.  I remember forgiving the facade.  Never judge a book by its cover, right???  But my heart fell when I walked in.  To say that it wasn't welcoming is to put it lightly.  It wasn't simply utilitarian, it was run down.

With a heavy heart, I remember taking a rickety old shopping cart with a very noisy wheel and heading to the produce section. I would learn, through the years, to always buy my produce on the economy.  While it may, at times, be more expensive (except when overseas) on the economy, at least it wasn't on its last leg.

During our time at the Great White North, I would learn a few basic commissary rules.  The first one, and I am EXTREMELY careful about this one, is NEVER go to the commissary around payday.  Even if it means that my family eats beans and rice for a couple days, I do NOT go around payday.  That is the perfect way to ruin a good day...or make a bad one even worse.

The commissary around payday is a zoo.  For some reason, mothers choose to skip naps and take cranky kids to the grocery store.  Screaming kids, yelling moms, and empty shelves.  That is what I discovered I would get if I went to the commissary around payday.  Sadly, it took a little while to figure this out.  Yes, in regards to this unpleasant situation, I was a very slow learner.

The second rule of the commissary is to always be ready to modify your list.  Never before had I ever had to do this.  Before the military, we were always near very well stocked grocery stores.  I would create our week's menu, make a grocery list, and get what was needed.  After the first few months at our first duty station, I discovered that I needed to actually notate our menu on my shopping list so that I could improvise on the fly.  In the end, this turned out to be a blessing, for, upon moving overseas, I had to spend a lot of time modifying and rewriting recipes according to what was actually available.

The third rule is a kicker for me.  I quickly learned that if I needed something for holiday cooking, special order it so I could ACTUALLY have it when I needed it.  There is always that nut case who will go in and buy every single one because she thinks it will be sold out.  After our first Thanksgiving in the Great White North, I learned that I had to do this when it came to cranberries.  The produce manager and I quickly became friends when I asked him if it would be easier if I just requested my cranberries.  I remember how he responded, with a huge grin, "That would be WONDERFUL!"  I have done it ever since.

The only redeeming quality about the commissary is that I never know who I might see there. I remember so many days, especially during long periods of separations and deployments when I would pack up the kids and go to the commissary, with great hopes of running into people that I knew.  During those lonely times, I remember feeling like the commissary was really a scavenger hunt...who might be in the cereal aisle?  Like any small town grocery store, the commissary is the place to meet up with people and catch up a little in the midst of busy lives.

Even though I still HATE the commissary, I have learned to live with it.  I passionately avoid that place around payday.  My children are fed and rested when I go.  Flexibility and adaption are essential for culinary happiness.  I now accept the fact that the nut cases who buy everything on the shelves are EVERYWHERE, and I can work around them by special ordering whatever I might need for a gathering.  By coming to terms with the fact that the Commissary is seen as a place where I go in, get what I need, and leave, I have learned how to deal with the disappointment of its utilitarian and, typically, abused atmosphere.  Will I ever enjoy going there?  No.  Will I ever understand people who SWEAR by the commissary?  Absolutely not.  Do I keep that to myself?  Not any more.