Just the fact that avocados have fairly doubled in price recently is trouble enough.  We as Americans have become quite addicted to this healthy but fatty food.  When I first came to South Carolina in the early 80s at my local grocery store, they would go on sale when finally soft enough to use.  Somebody was confused or on such a diet that the avocado never entered the picture.  This was back in the days when the only bagel you could buy was a frozen one, in stores that even thought to order such a thing.  Hell, not six years ago, inquiring at the local Piggly Wiggly about refrigerated quiche mixture, the stock man (and he was old) had me repeat the word three times.  Never heard of such a thing.


But I have personal problems with avocados.  I cannot see them.  I lose them.  And with their prices these days, it does not pay to lose.  The Piggly Wiggly tricked me.  The sign said, “4 for $5” and I read it “5 for $4”.  Not bad, I thought.  Less than a dollar apiece.  Took two.  When we got to the checkout, the girl rang up @2.50.  Then I realized mistakes had been made.  By me.

the pig

When we got home, only one avocado made it to the refrigerator.  I shuffled things around in there for a while, and figured the problem would fix itself.  Windshield wipers will do that once in a while.  Making salad last night, we revisited the issue.  Reorganized the fridge, nothing.  Glenn went out to the car and there it was under the driver’s seat.  For two days, the temperature over 100 outside each day. Who knows how hot it was in the car?

You see avocados simply do not like to be contained.  Unlike my Painted Japanese Fern, which loves to clutch onto the side of a pot for dear life, avocados are made of different stuff.  They are travelers.  You never know what their agenda is.

Usually we go to Aldi, and of course there, you have to pack your own groceries.  This is where the avocados see their chance.  Our mesh grocery bags are dark.  We pack the groceries under the hatchback of the car, also dark.  We get them in the bags, but they hide and we do not get them out on the other side of the trip.  This has happened more times than I would like to admit.  Same thing happens if I put one in a cooler bag.  Little devils.




We will have ice today.  Glenn went to The Pig to participate in the bread and milk ritual just to experience a true southern impulse.

1-the pig

He came away from it just as “other” as ever.  There was a knot of people around the bread section, which shares a wall with the restaurant, with the entry just beside.


There was a gaping hole in the bread inventory.  No white.  People were milling around, checking, rechecking, making sure.  Not sure what to do about this discovery, they hovered.  A cook came through the door of the restaurant to get more white bread for the customers.  She went back to the kitchen with nothing.

Glenn plucked a loaf of Martian bread, commenting to the crowd that it was healthier anyway, and left the group still trying to make a dollar out of 99 cents.



This is the center of our community, if you do not count the solid waste collection site.  In both places, you will run into neighbors and exchange information.  Outsiders stick out like a sore thumb, and that’s why I love to take friends to the Pig after the Saturday morning flea market.  City people have no idea there are even places like this anymore.

1-the pig

Having been here so long, they are used to me;  they call me the “art lady”.  One Saturday the old retired guy who runs the solid waste site pulled out a framed print to show me.  It was a small version of a Van Gogh painting, printed on evenly textured board.  “Look at this”, he said.  Turned it over, and in pencil was written “Van Gogh”.  In pencil, that was the big fact for him.  “I have been offered 5,000 dollars for this”.  “Take it”, I said.  “And run”.

I could not make him believe that it was not real.  My reputation as an “art lady” fell several notches in his valuation.  “But ‘Van Gogh’ is written in PENCIL!”

Now when I see him, if not at the solid waste site, at the flea market, he is polite, but doesn’t speak.  Would like to know the end of that story.

The Pig houses the only restaurant for miles around here.  That is if you don’t count the Chinese carry-out, whose motto is: “Chicken is chicken but the wing is the thing!”  I don’t count it because you cannot sit down there.

1-restaurant one

This morning the restaurant in the Pig was jumping.  We had to wait a long time for our food, so did everybody, but no one minded.  It was cold outside, down to 33 degrees.  All the local hunters were there talking about the one shot they got at a deer this morning.  And all those other shots in the past which killed nothing.


The waitresses have traded in their “I’m big on the Pig” t-shirts for new ones with pink ribbons that say “I dig the Pig”.  Big change.


Remember these hand painted advertisements from the your childhood?  They are still here, done with grace and competence.  On newsprint.  I wonder where in the world they get these done.

Only found two other examples from the web, and they are old considering the prices they advertise.  Look at the different styles.

another hand painted grocery sign

third handpainted grocery sign

This one is not from around here, for sure!  Organic?  Snow?