I know what's really important in life. Most of the time.
I mean, I do have my priorities straight. Usually. It's just
that I love sun dried tomatoes. I'll order anything on the menu
that even claims to contain them.
Because my friend, Julie, who also happens to be my step-daughter,
knows this she called me immediately when she discovered a new
salad dressing. "It's fabulous. I just adore it. It's
sun dried tomatoes in vinaigrette. Just fabulous."
I knew I had to have some of that dressing.
Julie lives in Clinton, about ninety miles from where I live
in Iowa City. Clinton is a nice city, a Missippi River town, noted
for industry(once), a riverboat(still), and beautiful old houses
-- but not exotic food. Iowa City is a small, sophisticated college
town. It has numerous specialty stores and a population of folks
from all over the world. Surely here it would be a snap, I thought,
to find the salad dressing. As I thought about those ripe, sun
filled tomatoes sloshing around in tart, spicy vinaigrette dressing
I dashed to one of the local super markets, then another, and
another. No luck. Next I tried the natural foods stores and specialty
shops. Nothing.
I work in Cedar Rapids, an industrial city much larger than
Iowa City, but with its own yuppy-supported shops. Perhaps I
would find the dressing there. Nope.
I was frantic. I was obsessed. I called Julie. She offered
to go to her store and buy every available bottle. Later that
day she called. She had done it. "I cleaned them out. Seven
for you, eight for me. Come on over next weekend and pick them
up." The next weekend it snowed. A lot. My obsession had
cooled to mere desire by then so I didn't want to chance really
treacherous roads. Besides, Julie was planning to come to Iowa
City the next weekend for a workshop. That would be after the
surgery she was having on her wrist on Thursday. She was confident
she would be fine by Saturday. Of course, as it turned out she
was not in any shape to drive by then, let alone sit in a room
for a day and a half and concentrate. What next?
"My neighbor, Lee, is going to be in Iowa City at the
Unitarian Church for a different workshop," Julie telephoned
to say. "I'll send the salad dressing with her. You can
pick it up at the church." Hooray!
I checked my answering machine on Saturday.
"Mary, this is Lee. I have your salad dressing. It's
in a plastic bag and we put it in the church office. Just come
on down and pick it up."
I dashed out of the house and drove to the church. There
was a meeting in progress so I tiptoed down the hall to the office.
Locked! I went back again to where the group was gathered. They
had closed the door to the big meeting room so I tried to peek
through a small hole in the door. Fourteen men and women were
sitting quietly in a circle on the floor. I thought about barging
in and telling them about my salad dressing but I discarded the
idea. Too dramatic. At least for the moment. I wrote Lee a note
in big, bold letters telling her the problem and left the note
on a table by the door.
Answering machine, Saturday night: "Mary, this is Lee.
I got your note. They just started locking the office, I guess.
Come on down tomorrow between two and six."
That was fine except that my own workshop, located far from
the church, was scheduled to last until six. I thought about
asking my husband, Nick, to get it for me, but decided that my
sun dried tomato obsession didn't need to include someone who
was getting over the flu. besides, he didn't seem to share my
passion for sun dried tomatoes, at least not enough to drag himself
out of a sick bed.
My workshop was over at 4:00 p.m. on Sunday, two hours early.
I could have dashed home to check on Nick, but he wasn't expecting
me anyway, so I stopped by the market for the really fresh leaf
lettuce featured on Sundays, and then on to the church and my
salad dressing.
I nearly knocked Lee over as I rushed into the room. They
were just finishing. She looked apologetic. "What's wrong?"
I croaked.
She explained that the office was still locked. I had, by
that time, lost track of the fact that we were just talking about
salad dressing for God's sake, not a cure for cancer or world
hunger. I turned and shouted into the small crowd. "Does
anybody here have a key to the office." Nobody did.
One person, obviously concerned, walked over and introduced
himself. Joe. I explained about my dressing. I wanted it, but
it was locked up in the office and had been for two days. His
manner was that of a person who had experience dealing with nearly
hysterical people. He calmly explained that the administrator
would be in the office from ten to six on Monday and I could pick
up my salad dressing then.
"No, I can't do that. I work in Cedar Rapids and I
won't be here during office hours and I don't think Nick will
be well enough to do it."
Joe gave me his card, asked me to write my telephone number
on it and said he would pick up the dressing himself. It turned
out that he worked in Cedar Rapids, too, and had business in Iowa
City on Monday. He offered to take the dressing to Cedar Rapids
on Tuesday and call me to pick it up at his office. Tuesday!
I would have to wait two more days! Not only would I have to
wait, I couldn't bear the idea of the dressing going even more
miles in some strange car.
"Couldn't you just take it home with you and I'll pick
it up tomorrow at your house?"
"Better, yet," Joe said, "I'll drop it by
your house tomorrow." Wonderful.
I hurried home on Monday. No dressing on the porch. No,
Nick hadn't seen Joe. I checked my answering machine.
"Mary, this is Lee. Did you get the salad dressing?"
"Mary, this is Joe. We couldn't find the bottle of
salad dressing. Sorry. I'll look again and let you know."
Bottle! Oh, my God. I hadn't told him to look for a bag
with seven bottles in it. I went to the refrigerator to look at
the slowly wilting lettuce.
I had to do something. I dialed the church and listened
to the answering machine message. After the tone I explained
that the dressing was in a grey plastic bag and would the administrator
please just put it outside the door so I could pick it up. I
would absolve her of any responsibility if it was stolen.
Julie called. She suggested I call the minister and demand
that she drive down and unlock the church. I couldn't quite do
that, but I could call.
"Hello, I'm Mary Vasey. I'm a member of your church,
but I never come and I'm sorry about that. I'm really calling
about my salad dressing. It's locked in the office and I can't
seem to get it out." Silence. She explained the church hours.
I gave her the routine about working in Cedar Rapids and my husband
being sick. She was silent again. Somehow I expected more. She
suggested I call and leave a message on the church machine. When
I told her I had, there was another awkward silence.
Later, I mentioned to Nick that she seemed a bit cold. We
talked it over and decided she might have just had a call from
a person with a problem a little more serious than mine, and that
she might have been totally at a loss as to how to respond to
a salad dressing deprivation.
On Tuesday, I woke up feeling awful. I called in sick and
settled down to wait for ten o'clock. I was determined to get
to the church no matter how rotten I felt.
The church administrator was talking to someone when I got
there, but I saw it immediately. A bag, bulging with glass bottles.
I grabbed it and cleared my throat. She turned and smiled.
I dashed out with the bag and drove home.
The color of the dressing was rich and red. There were
wonderful little reddish brown pieces of sun dried tomatoes floating
around in it. But by now I could only look at it. The flu I
caught from Nick was stomach flu. Karma.