The fiercesome beast of the grocery was a multi-segmented creature.  Its head and tail is a thing called ‘parking,’ and that was a nightmare of small children and multiple large machines with little patience.  While we were taking the bus, the fangs and breath of parking still meant we had to run the gauntlet of impatient monster trucks (okay, just the ubiquitous black SUVs) and aforementioned small children who seemed to have no survival instinct whatsoever, or at least not one evolved for asphalt roving engines.

Rayya and I made it long enough for me to flash my membership card (I always do it just like Old Ben in his ‘droids’ line, even if it’s totally legit) as we went into the big warehouse.  “Do we need a cart or a flat?” I asked. I realized I was making it kind of challenging in tone. I don’t know why I was so aggressive, but maybe I was still off-kilter from my home being rearranged.  I don’t know.  I liked it, but at the same time, there was a violation of the norm and my brain needed a little adjustment time.

On the other hand, Rayya took it in stride, as if either was entirely acceptable. “We do not have the facilities to sate the appetite of all invited guests,” she said. She also said it simply, which made me dream up otherwise unimaginable horrors, like pickled human toes (apparently a garnish in some small city in the Yukon, according to an article or two I read once while researching Wendigo) and the occasional nutria.  Hey, your unimaginable horrors are probably far less tame than mine. I have plenty of imaginable horrors that’ll pickle your toes.  Or something like that. “However, we should do well to provide options and alternatives.  Hospitality requires some effort,” she said as if chiding me.

I pulled out the flat, and did a quick check on my bank allowance. I don’t recommend shopping without a list and a budget, but this was the party mood and I had a number it couldn’t go over and no expectations.  This was a luxury, indeed, and I thanked the guilt of the sorcerers once more. After all, being nearly eaten by a Dragon had to be worth something besides bad press and other Dragon grudges. I was going to have to find a job eventually, but I was constantly surprised at the modest lifestyle I was living, despite being seemingly eaten out of house and home if by house and home you meant sugary breakfast cereals.

“Where first?” I asked.  Left to my own devices, I meandered. I was the worst of the frugal sorts; I bought on impulse if I could justify it with it being, “On sale,” or “useful to have around even in this bulk capacity,” but then, most of my meals were still of the frozen variety except when the sibs insisted on something with less salt.  It sounded healthier to me, and they were fairly good cooks, not that I’ve been to an actual doctor in years.  I mean, I did date Rohana, and that should have counted for at least an office visit, right?

The long neck of the grocery beast are the aisles of treats. According to Rayya, dried fruit was a different beast than fresh fruit, but still had much of the same properties, only with added concentration.  At the airport was a kiosk that included dried hibiscus, goji and golden berries, mulberries, green and yellow pomelo, and yes, every time I start listing fruit, there’s this urge to shout, “Come buy! Come buy!”  I can’t be the only one, right?

The belly of the grocery beast is in the frozen sections, beckoning quiescent confections and delicious things you never even knew you wanted.  Okay, as treyf as it gets, I really like scallops wrapped with prosciutto, and then barbecued with a sweet bourbon sauce.  I guess I could drink a jug of wine and eat it with a bacon cheeseburger and really fail many of the world’s major religions, but I’m not the kind of person who snubs their nose at such rules. It was odd, though, because when I went grocery shopping with Maggie, she’d talk money, and value per ounce, and Rayya, when she spoke or indicated an item mostly talked about its potency on a magical level.

“What happened to a kernel of corn making a feast?” I asked. After all, I thought they clothed themselves based on that premise.

“There’s a price to pay that you’d be better off withholding,” she replied. “Although,” she looked for the third or fourth time at the flowers.  I rarely went to the refrigerated plant areas, seeing as I thought dead things generally not a pleasant gift, but maybe if I had two dead teckla…

I moved the cart over there. “There’s something you keep looking at,” I said. “What do you want?”

I expected some kind of mystic bouquet, a combination of the simple wealth of daisies, maybe a rose or two for abundance, but she went to the baby’s breath.  At least, I thought that’s what it was, those funny little filler flowers of white.  “Pure heart,” she said. She laughed.  “I like the common name: baby’s breath.  Stolen by a cat, no doubt.”

“Did you want them?” I asked.

She was caught by her nature, I supposed.  I couldn’t read her expression.  I picked them from her hands and laid them in the cart.  “There. Solved.  Now, they don’t sell the ambrosia of the gods, but I do believe they have cola.”  I turned the flat towards the soda aisle.

“They sell Balm of Gilead-scented car sachets in bundles,” she said.

“Really?” I asked.

“Or at least fir and cotton scents,” she demurred, but she had a smile on her face.  I liked that.

We came in well under budget, but I hoped people (and this time I used the term “people” broadly again) were hungry.  At least we never got anything one of us wasn’t willing to eat, so I’d call it a win.