Page 21 of Holly's Christmas Countdown
I knew it had more to do with him trying to hide his identity and I had to admit it did quite a good job on that front. As for rendering him inconspicuous, that was debatable. Rather than rocking the Hollywood heart-throb image, he appeared more shoplifter chic. Not the best look considering where we were heading in to.
I grabbed one of the giant trolleys before going inside – a trolley I fully intended on filling. Like Dad had said, I only had myself to think about; and my stomach planned on taking full advantage.
Fin took charge of the trolley, at the same time smiling the way I had only seconds prior.
“What?” I asked. Not only was I doing a Christmas shop and picking up all the goodies that entailed, I had to get enough supplies to see me through the whole of my staycation and no way was I risking running out of anything.
Making our way down the first aisle, I took in the assortment of colour that greeted us. Packed full of fruit and vegetables, it was a feast for the eyes as much as it was the mouth. To the right, boxes of dark red cherries, crates of huge dimpled oranges, and a mountain of deep purple figs were just some of the wares on offer. While to the left, carrots sat next to parsnips, red cabbages, green Brussels sprouts, and goodness knew how many varieties of potato, all of which I could imagine roasted or glazed alongside everything else on my Christmas lunch plate.
Fin dove in, picking up and putting down fruit and veg after fruit and veg, all the while prodding and squeezing.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Other people have to buy those.”
He dismissed my concerns. “When it comes to food, you look with your hands as well as your eyes.”
I pulled out my list so we could share shopping duties and between us we began searching the displays for limes, plantains, sweet potatoes, and fresh herbs. Just some of the ingredients I needed for my first foray into Caribbean cooking, I couldn’t wait to challenge my culinary talents. “I hope you’re going to give me some tips before you leave,” I said. “These dishes not only have to taste good, they have to look authentic for the camera too.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Fin said.
I watched him pick up a huge golden pineapple. “Go on then,” I said to him. “Show me how it’s done.”
He smiled. “Ripe pineapples typically have a sweet smell near the base.” He put it to his nose and sniffed. “See?” He held it my way, inviting me to do the same. “If it doesn’t have any odour, it’s probably not completely ripe.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, unable to smell anything at all.
As we moved on, meandering up and down the aisles, Christmas shopping in the early hours was a relaxed affair. Unlike during the daytime throng, there was no jostling for position to get to the shelves or negotiating the dodgy-wheeled trolleys that seemed to freeze mid-aisle for no apparent reason. There were no stressed-out conversations as people struggled to find the last box of sage and onion stuffing, or screaming children wanting to taste every sweet treat in sight.
We sang along to the Christmas classics that played in the background without being judged and staff chatted amiably amongst each other as they restocked supplies. The supermarket was like chill-out heaven and as the very few fellow customers smiled at me and me at them, Fin turned his face away pretending to focus on the shelves as he walked. We strolled from one aisle to the next, perusing and choosing from the festive fare at will.
As the trolley got fuller, my stomach felt increasingly neglected and scanning the rows of goodies for sustenance I reached for a tin of chocolates. I tore off the packaging, opened the lid and took one out.
“And you had the cheek to ask me what I thought I was doing,” Fin said.
I knew from experience I could eat as I went; as long as I handed over for scanning what would, no doubt, be a container of wrappers by the time I got to the till. Balancing the chocolates in the trolley child seat for convenience, I eyed the Christmas puddings and tossed one in with the rest of my shopping. “That’ll do nicely,” I said.
I took a moment to glance at my list again, to make sure Fin had picked up as many essentials as I had treats. “I’ll read them out,” I said, “you tell me if we’ve got them.”
“Go for it,” Fin replied.
“Basmati rice?”
“Check.”
“Coconut milk?”
“Check.”
“Honey?”
“Check.”
“Nutmeg, cinnamon, and allspice?”
“Check.”
As we went through the list,I looked forward to putting together dishes like sticky jerk salmon, rice and peas, and sweet potato and black bean curry and scanning down the ingredients, the trolley seemed to hold most of what was needed for an authentic Caribbean diet.
“It looks like we’re about there,” I said. As Fin grabbed the trolley handlebar ready to continue, I just had to hope any snapshots of my efforts were enough to fool Mum and Dad.
