They're known as "Whole Paycheques" in the US . . . Anna Mundowjoins a queue of yoga mums in one of the self-help generation's glistening, organically correct supermarkets
The Saturday morning stampede to the largest Whole Foods Superstore in Massachusetts is an eerily muted spectacle. Starting around 9am, when the early round of yoga classes has emptied out, Toyota Prius after Toyota Prius glides on silent hybrid power into the car park. The first snow of the season has arrived, teaser snow sent to remind us what winter looks like. It barely crunches under the ergonomically shod feet of those heading for the sacred portal. Only the muffled screams of a boy-child resisting rendition from his warm car seat to a cold shopping trolley shatters the calm. "Take a deep breath, honey," the mother croons. "Remember?" (Louder screaming.) "Remember we agreed no screaming?" (Higher-pitched screaming.) "Take deep breaths. Deeeep breaths." (Roared "No" as kicking subject is gently wrestled into shopping trolley.) "Relax. This is going to be good."
And, behold, it is good: the warm, bright vestibule where a Whole Foods associate is drying the wet wheels of the previously-used trolleys with an immaculate white towel . . . the glowing pyramids of fruits and vegetables . . . the customer bathroom with its soothing baroque music and its dispensers of organic lavender cleansing gel.
Thanks to the fact that Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa and the first major storm of the winter are barrelling their way towards us, there are more early customers than usual this morning. Toned young mothers, a few weekend fathers talking a little too heartily to their sullen charges, one or two old people, no "people of colour". Shopping, that is. There are many "people of colour" replenishing the altars of produce, keeping the floor clean and gently bagging the food, wine, cosmetic and medicinal items for vigilant customers who oversee and instruct with a nod or, when necessary, a pointing finger as they talk on their mobile phones.
These are Whole Food immigrants, the rarified atmosphere of this store seems to suggest, immigrants who would rather sit around a ceremonial fire than a television screen. Their native countries - South and Central America, Asia - are well-represented on the Whole Foods shelves. Yet nobody asks these "first people" how they traditionally spend Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanza. I wonder why.
Then I realise that I am a "first person" too, in a way. I could tell the woman beside me at the organic banana display how we did it in Bray, about visiting Santa in Lee's department store, about walking up the Dargle Road to midnight Mass, about little girls pushing their toy prams along the prom on Christmas morning. But this woman would not like it, I can tell. She would prefer talk of an ancient Celtic holiday, of goddess rituals, runic chanting and gritty oatcakes.
Besides, this woman has enough to think about at this time of year. Whole Foods calls it "giving", which sounds so much more virtuous than "holiday shopping", but the pressure is the same. Or worse in a way because the subliminal question here appears to be, "What would Buddha eat/wear/ drink/use for his dry skin or his chronic fatigue syndrome?"
Let's start with ingestion. Eating flesh - bad. We all know that. Eating wild flesh, however - not so bad. At the fish counter, an older gentleman with an ill-advised ponytail contemplates the artfully arranged fillets of char, tuna, shark and the like. He then asks if the cod was "wild caught". A credit to his training, the salesman does not guffaw and say, "No, pal, it was raised on a cod farm." He nods solemnly and says, "Wild-caught, yes sir." It's another good story for him to take home tonight.
Red meat and poultry are trickier. Does "grass fed" mean "free range"? What if they lock them up and feed them grass? Does "free range" mean "wild"? Is "wild" good, when it comes to meat? Is it too close to "mad"? Does "wild" mean that the creatures have been shot? (This is deerhunting season, but the guys out in the woods who could answer these questions don't pop in here much.) Turkey, chicken, ostrich, emu, duck, goose, beef, bison, lamb, pork . . . their eaters want to be assured of a chemical-free meal while they imagine an idyllic life for that which they are about to eat.
The life of the average Whole Foods customer, by contrast, seems far from sunny, let alone wild, judging by the products offered for his/her enrichment on the medicinal/ nutrition shelves. Here, as in that old advertisement for Andrew's Liver Salts, the promise is "inner cleanliness", with emphasis on the colon. Even Whole Foods can't find a euphemism for that busy little unit. A dizzying assortment of pastel-coloured boxes and tins offers you Quick Cleanse, Ultimate Cleanse, Super Cleanse, Perfect Cleanse, Whole Body Cleanse, Rapid Cleanse (uh-oh), Cleanse Smart, Heavy Metal Cleanse alongside plain old Bowel/Colon Cleanse.
And after all that purging, how about a little sex? Not so fast. Not before the male in question has imbibed some Horny Goat Weed Natural Aphrodisiac, some Native Man supplements, Charged for Men tonic, Cobra Sexual Energy or some bluntly named Male Libido. Even then the earth may not move, at least not for the Whole Foods female, who emerges from a quick survey of the potions offered on nearby shelves as a sensitive individual plagued by migraines, headaches, insomnia, anxiety and joint pain. This particular morning, Silent Snore and Balanced Calm seemed to be the biggest sellers, a fact that augured ill, I thought, for the Horny Goat/Native Man side of the equation.
Oh, well, you can always send a card the next day. In the gifts/apparel/jewellery/outreach section, the sentiments on offer ranged from "Thank you for Being," "Scatter Joy," "Believe in Yourself and All That You Are" to the fortune-cookie sounding "Good Clothes Open All Doors." (This reminded me of George, a now-elderly actor friend in New York City who, when he briefly sold encyclopedias, was advised by his boss to "Dress British, think Yiddish.")
By 11am, word had gone out that the approaching snowstorm was a monster and the mood in the check-out queue was, my cashier confided, "getting a little intense". The woman behind me stared at the weather radar map on her mobile phone as she absent-mindedly massaged the cloth bone she had presumably bought for her dog. The label assured her that it was "saliva resistant" and manufactured with "organic dyes and fibres".
I leafed through Bark: A Magazine for Dogs and through Shift, a magazine with articles about death and near-death experiences. Then I was tempted to buy my first Christmas present, a monochrome calendar called Simplicity that portrays a starkly photogenic life - imagine Amish/Buddhist interiors with Ralph Lauren accents - a life in which calendars would be irrelevant. Come to think of it, so would Whole Foods.