COSTCO LOVE LESSONS OF THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

Costco love is more a love/hate relationship: hate the hassle, love to unpack at home.

Hassle? Costco hassle? Like driving loops around a huge parking lot looking for a space and dreading what that means.

It’s got to be packed inside, right? But it wasn’t. Instead, I found a deal on Costco love.

Costco is a hard stop to avoid when you live in the same town people travel to for the great deals. I’m less than five miles away.

That Costco is near a WinCo and a Walmart makes the decision on where to find food easier. The wife and I are a Costco couple and we argue about who makes the run on grocery day.

Since we’re in a pandemic, which I remind her with, “We’re in a pandemic,” for the win.

That’s it, that’s the argument for going solo into the beast. The covid argument works.

Instead of the guy following his wife around while she commands the cart, I’m the Lewis and Clark of Costco, the starship Enterprise going where no man has gone before.

Except I’ve gone to Costco alone before and I’ll go again. I live on the edge, you can tell.

Costco Love On The Oyster Aisle

Confession: I’ve never bought a jar of oysters from any store anywhere in my life. Why would I after growing up in North Bend, which for the uninformed is near the ocean.

I grew up watching my dad crack Qualman Oyster Farm oysters with a screwdriver. Sometimes the oyster won and the old man stabbed himself in the hand.

Living near Portland, so close that I have a Portland address based on zip code, I could make a run to Astoria, hop over the bridge to Washington, and buy a sack of oysters in Oysterville, Washington.

No one can offer clams or oysters that are fresher than those sold at Willabay’s retail location in Oysterville, Washington. Willabay at Oysterville Sea Farms exploits its bayside location to offer clams and oysters that are harvested that same day. 

I reminded myself of that while I stood in front of the jars of oysters and pickled herring deciding which way to go. I always grab the herring, but this time a woman snagged a plastic jar of oysters in front of me.

So I had to ask, “What do you do with a jar of three dozen little oysters?”

“I make oyster jambalaya,” she said. “My husband is from New Orleans and we have the best recipe for his favorite dish.”

Oyster jambalaya? She ran down the recipe right there, with an emphasis on a secret jambalaya sauce. She mentioned the secret sauce a few times without telling me what’s in it, or where to find it.

And just like that the dots connected. Left over rice, sausages, and an open invitation to, “Pick something up at Costco for dinner.”

Sure honey, I’ll pick something up. Oysters.

I loaded the cart, carefully packing it to avoid crushing something soft, and was ready to checkout after the last aisle cruise.

A food demonstrator was on the last aisle. I can’t ignore them like they’re not there, the same as I seldom buy what they’re hawking.

I said her food looked good

It was just idle chit-chat to show I recognized my fellow human before I moved on.

“It’s my husband’s favorite. It was until he passed away eight years ago,” she said.

“Did he cook it himself, or you?” I asked.

“He tried, but I’m a better cook, so most of the time it was me. I think about him every day,” she said.

“Sounds familiar,” I said. “My wife is a better cook, but I’m a better mixer. I learned to whisk in a Paris cooking class. The teacher was very impressed.”

“You must be very proud of your whisking skills,” she said.

We went back and forth in a nice way. I asked if she’d ever made oyster jambalaya. Nope.

“Me neither, but that’s changing today,” I said.

“Does your wife like oysters?” she asked.

“I’m not sure, but we’ll find out.”

“She must love you very much,” she said.

“She said I looked like Gerard Butler once,” I said.

“Lucky her,” she said.

“Lucky me. She wears glasses,” I said.

We saw each other during the conversation like those moments in movies where everything stops. In her eyes I saw loss and the effort of carry one; in my eyes she saw jackassy men are still prowling around making wives married miserable.

We shared a knowing smile. Before I moved on I explained how I once shared a mortality moment with my wife.

“I told her I had a worry that one day I’d come home and find her dead. And she said, ‘don’t worry, it will only happen once.'”

“Yes, well good luck with dinner,” she said.

“I’ll tell you how it went next time I’m in,” I said.

“You won’t find me here. We move around,” she said.

“We’re all moving around for a Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Gerard.”

Mask. Hands. Distance.