I remember when I first became a true, active consumer. It was when I registered for wedding gifts. This was well before having kids, mind you, when I had the time and mental capacity to ponder such vital decisions as Calphalon vs. All-Clad and Wusthof vs. Henckles. Oh, how those things mattered to me in that moment! I even recall feeling strongly about being a Honda owner when it came time to buy our first car, even if it was a many-times-used beater with the loudest engine on the block.
Now here I am, nearly 20 years down the road (on which I drive a Toyota) and I couldn’t care less whether my wine glasses match or what brand of pans I scramble eggs in. (Though I will mention that the high-quality All-Clad set so generously given to us by our friends and family are still in pristine condition and doing a damn fine job! Take that, Calphalon!!) Becoming a mom totally zeroed out the luxury of consumerism and brand fetishes I enjoyed for that little blip of time.
But I realized something curious recently. Now that I live in the burbs and spend such an inordinate amount of time thinking about food (i.e., feeding those endlessly gaping little mouths at home, finding ingredients for a new recipe, preserving my sanity with a good square of sea salt caramel), I’m finding that my fellow mommy-shoppers dedicate themselves to supermarkets the way Carrie Bradshaw once adhered to her Manolos.


















