Turns out my cancerversary will be long past by the time I see Dr. Blood and her fantastic team again. I have been given the summer off my patienting job so I can busy myself with other things, like deciding what to bake for my next celebratory Cancer Centre visit.
Barring counselling the odd client (by “odd” I mean “occasional” and not “unusual”), I will have a fair amount of free time this summer. Lukewarm coffee, anyone? I’m available days. As always, I will keep the home fires burning while J. is off earning our keep. Jelly and I will walk ’til we drop, I will keep us in groceries, and I will cook tempting meals and bake delectable wares.
Why just the other day I went to the mega-grocery store, list in hand, only to have an energy vampire sidle up to me at the red potato bin. This well-dressed older woman had nothing better to do than suck all the energy out of unsuspecting shoppers. You know the type, ready to pick a fight over the produce.
As I was choosing my red potatoes, the EV sidled over and said: “Those potatoes don’t look very red.” I nodded and smiled but did not engage her because I feared what might come next. (When anyone tries to engage me in a negative conversation, I put up my magic shield and deflect all incoming messages. Alternatively, say something nice or engaging or interesting and my shield magically vanishes.) Because she had not garnered the outrage she was hoping, she repeated herself: “Those potatoes aren’t very red.” Then she added: “They must be genetically modified.” That’s quite the judgement on those poor potatoes, isn’t it?
If I were an agronomist, perhaps I could have determined whether the potatoes were genetically modified. But, sadly, I’m an ignoramus. EV was implying through her tone of voice that genetically modified potatoes are evil. I don’t know enough about genetically modified food to care. I may nurture my gut bacteria with daily kefir, yet I wonder whether some genetic modifications are not so bad. If you can make my tomato last longer or pack a more nutritious punch, I’m in. That’s why I bought those pink potatoes despite EV’s protests. For all I know, they’re better for me.
After I laughed (just a bit), I said: “I certainly can’t tell by looking at them.” Then I left to check out the genetically ambiguous lettuce. Were I not wearing my ill-fitting socially appropriate hat that day, my inside voice would have said: “Why the heck are you shopping at the cheap mega-grocery if you have disdain for genetically modified produce? The farmer’s market beckons! There you will find God’s bounty. But don’t complain about the ugliness of the produce or the short shelf life.”
Perhaps my strong reaction stemmed from the fact that I too am genetically modified, albeit by God and not by science. Imagine my life without my genetic anomalies, i.e., my Philadelphia chromosome (a.k.a., CML) and my JAK-2 mutation (polycythemia). I’d kill for a scientist to manipulate my genes. Who knows? Maybe it could extend my shelf life.