Goyish Supermarket

Once a week, on Saturdays, we went to a supermarket. I say we because my mother didn't drive, so my father had to go, and they couldn't leave us kids home alone, so we all went.

The supermarket, King Kullen, was a mile away in distance; miles away otherwise. It wasn't fancy. But it had chicken in packaging, not on hooks. It had bread on Passover. It had a parking lot.

They spoke English there, presumably, although no one ever talked to you. At any rate, they didn't speak Yiddish.

You couldn't tell who owned it. They had a symbol of a cartoon character King Kullen who looked like Mr. Monopoly with a crown, but he didn't seem to represent anyone in the place.

We liked this weekly trip because it was a regular thing we could do all together. Our parents didn't particularly want us there in the first place and they did not seem to consider this all that much fun, so we could run around. No one working there knew you, so you could misbehave.

It was also an opportunity to refine your pestering skills. You needed practice against our mother, who was full of surprise in battle.

"Ma, can we get this?": Hershey's syrup.

"No."

"Why not?"

"It makes you drink too much milk." Tough, you see.