2021-11-21 - Box mix? Nah bro. Granny cooks from scratch.

There are three kinds of baskets. The big ones for families with multiple kids or beer runs, the push carts about half that size, and the baskets. Gail opts for the second one and pushes her way busily through the store. "Hummm, yes," she murmers to herself as she pushes, "I remember now why shopping in California was so dull. Everything always stayed in the same place." Her smile broadens as if the store is a CHALLENGE she can't wait to take on.

Gail's list comes out of her purse and the purse itself is settled into the basket. Forward, with PURPOSE she goes. First thing on the list, flour!

The Safeway isn't too busy, fortunately, at this hour. There's a gaggle of teenagers loitering out front, smoking, and a homeless guy begging for spare change just inside the door. Inside, no more than a smattering of customers doing their shopping for the week. Including some solidly built guy in a battered leather jacket, faded black jeans and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He's got a regular old basket looped over his elbow, and is squinting at the label on a can of stewed tomatoes.

The older woman with her garish purse gets a brief glance, like he's trying to place her.

Glancing at Gail is dangerous because Gail NOTICES and look there, she just found the flour, and since this is Gray Harbor, it isn't down at a nice reasonable mid- or foot height. It's allllll the way up there at the top. Right where Gail doesn't have the slightest chance of reaching it. She was just looking around for an associate when Ruiz is caught glancing.

"Young man," yes, she calls everyone that, even if they are in they are closer to fifty than forty, "could you help me please?" She points at the flour.

Some kind of terrible soft rock is playing tonight. The kind that old people make out to on road trips, and Javier does a little double-take when he's referred to as young man. Because is she fucking with him, or what?

"Uh." He's still not sure about the stewed tomatoes. But he drops it into his basket anyway, and ambles on over. "Sure. I don't know why they fucking put it up there, where nobody can reach it." He tries to smile at her, but it looks more like he's baring his teeth at his potential dinner. Then his basket's set down, and he snags one of the bags with the tips of his fingers, and hefts it into his arms. He isn't tall for a man, but he's near enough to six feet to make no never mind. "Here you go," he grunts, before going to deposit it into the trolley.

Hey - he's got inches on Gail, so it's a win-win for her. "Because this is Gray Harbor sweetie," she beams as she says it, seemingly perfectly happy to deal with minor inconveniences like the flour being out of reach. She reaches over to pat his arm lightly as a thank you. "My thanks. But," see, now he's looking at that can of stewed tomato, "You'd be much better off with the Hunts brand - they are just a little less salty." Was Ruiz expecting to get cooking tips tonight? Because he is.

"They're not for me." The tomatoes, he probably means. "They're for my, uh." He gives the brim of his hat a tug, and hitches his chin in the vague direction of the parking lot. Or maybe his truck. Or.. who the hell knows. "Boyfriend." An awkward beat follows. "I'm just picking up a few things. For him. You need a hand with anything else?" Lacking a name, he's not sure what to call her. And lacking much in the way of social graces, he's clearly not thought to offer his own name.

"Oh that is just the sweetest." Any bigotry Ruiz might have been expecting just doesn't happen. Instead she beans up at him. "Tell me about him! There are so many new people in town." If he doesn't try to stop her she's just going to go to link her arm in his while adding on, "That's so nice of you. Yes, could you? I have a theory this store is rearranged just to inconvenience people on a personal level. I have a long standing tradition of simply not letting it do so."

She's still got a lot of pep in her.

Well, whatever Javier was expecting, it probably wasn't that. No sooner has he retrieved his basket, than he finds himself with some lady's arm looped in his. And she's asking him to dish on his guy; and he doesn't have the balls to explain that he's actually got two of them.

"He's tall. Blond. Used to be in the Navy," mumbles the Mexican with a wobbly smile that suggests he's a hell of a lot more fond of the guy than he's letting on. "You, uh. You got a name? Feel like I've seen you around." He'll let her lead him on, about as docile as any mangy old wolf can manage to look.

Yes, that sounds that Gail makes is an elongated 'awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww'. She is so far past romance herself, but there's just something about the love of younger-than-her that just gives her all the joy. Plus, mention of the navy allows her to interject, "My Ronny," clearly, a deceased husband, "was in the army. We kept the romance alive while he served in Vietnam. I suppose it is easier for you kids these days, with the email and cell phones."

To be clear, Granny looks like she's never even held a cell phone, let alone used one to call a loved on.

"Gail Leigh, " she interjects with her name, "but you can just call me Granny Gail, or Gail. What is your gentleman cooking? Perhaps I can help you suprise him with some special ingredients."

"Didn't have cell phones when I served in Afghanistan," Javier mumbles, veering away to fetch a carton of milk. "Vietnam, though." He ticks his eyes over. "Lo siento. Did he die there?" As for what his gentleman is cooking, "Fried tomatoes, uh, cornbread and.." He grumbles and digs in his jeans pocket for the list.

Gail seems to approve of the milk choice because she doesn't tell him to put it back. She takes a gallon for herself - can a woman her size really drink that much before it goes bad?! Maybe she's expecting visitors? "It is a strong relationship that can span the distance." She gives his arm a squeeze.

"Oh no no. He came home better than some, and we had two lovely daughters. " And poor Ruiz, now he gets a list of alllllll of Gail's grandchildren when he digs for the recipe. Everyone has to know this information. When she does see that recipe she skims through it and gives a tiny nod. "It says vegetable oil, but you want Crisco - trust me. The fry will come out much more even. You'll pay a pretty penny, but the taste will be worth it - trust me." That last sounds more like an order than a suggestion.

He isn't mentioning, of course, in what capacity he served. Better to leave things vague. Better to let her keep on thinking the relationship was legitimate, and sanctioned, rather than illegal as all hell.

There's a sidelong look given to the milk, but he doesn't say a word about it. Just hefts up his own basket, which is starting to get a little heavy. But he's a strapping lad, he'll be fine. "You sure about that?" The crisco, he probably means. The recipe's squinted at, then Gail. And, "Got a son, myself," after a tense moment where it looks like he might not say anything at all about it.

What are little things left unsaid between people? It's good for one's mental health.

Gail steers them down another isle and clucks abruptly when they come to the spices stuck right between the charcoal bags and the cat liter. Because that makes sense. Ruiz' arm gets dropped momentarily so she can peer at the tiny labels on the spices. "Forgot my spectacles at home," she mutters to herself, squinting hard enough to bring her wrinkles into sharp relief. A few spices get put into her bag and then two picked out. "This," she shakes a red and white tin of pepper, "is some of the easiest to use, kindest, but if your gentlemen likes the challenge and you have a proper grinder, you'll get quite nice results with this one." Hey! She's giving Ruiz a choice this time.

Ruiz seems to know better than to argue about the spices. He mutters something about how of course we have a proper grinder, and dumps a tin of the good stuff into his basket, before helpfully going back to read off the names of the ones she picked out. Because he's helpful like that.

It also finally occurs to him to offer up his name: "Javier." And a rough, callused hand tattooed heavily in what looks suspiciously like gang ink. He's either some sort of ex-lifer, or a serious tryhard. "Nice to, uh, meet you. Gail."

"Oh bother," Gail says, shuffling herself to take the hand. She's got strength in her grip - but it's mostly just utter self assurance. Her actual hand is frail enough it looks like it would snap if Ruiz squeezed too hard. "My daughters were always telling me that I just run off at the mouth without doing proper introductions. It is nice to meet you Mr. Javier," yes, she does mangle the Mexican 'j' sound, but she's very sincere in her effort to mimic it. "You have been so kind - but I have kept you long enough haven't I? That young man of yours, what did you say his name was, is probably waiting."

He doesn't bother correcting her pronunciation; he's probably heard far worse manglings of his name than that in his nearly fifty years. "He probably is," concedes the cop with a rusty chuckle, giving her hand a solid squeeze before releasing it. "Thanks for the help." A step backwards, and a little tip of his ballcap's brim. "Que tenga una buena noche, seņora." Then with a sly little wink that's just a hair flirtatious, he turns and ambles off toward the checkout line with his haul.

Gail shakes her head, "Cheeky young thing." That's what she says aloud as she gives a dusty laugh and begins pushing her cart again. "That poor gentleman of his." It occurs to her as she turns the corner that she never did get his gentleman's name. Well.

SOMEONE in Gray Harbor is sure to know. She'll find out.

Then deliver some cookies as a thank-you.