"I'll bet that knocks you back a pretty penny," said the woman behind me in line at Harris Teeter, an older African-American woman, "that Pepperidge Farms Cinnamon Raisin bread. I'd just put some cinnamon on my toast, myself." "My wife really likes it, and there are raisins in there," I pointed out.
But the essential point about the vastly different places we lived in, just a mile or so apart, was brought home. For her, Pepperidge Farms was a premium brand, a luxury item. It of course had been that for me back in the 70s, when the Steins had it in their house and Leslie and I -- hailing from a family of Wonder Bread and perhaps even Roman Meal eaters -- marveled at the density of it, which spoke of the sparkling cosmopolitanism of the north and the great cities there. Now Pepperidge Farms feels rather downmarket to me, compared to the breads I can get at Whole Foods, Weaver Street, farmers markets, Loaf, Guglhupf, etc.
Different worlds. A client of mine, a Jewish woman from the Midwest, was recently telling me about how she has been accepted with open arms into an African-American church on Rosemary Street, one that she just happened past one Sunday and where she had struck up conversation with some well-dressed parishioners hanging out in the yard. When their pianist is sick, she has filled in, and she sings in a choir that performs every third Sunday. I assured her that she had enough money to give a thousand bucks or so to them annually.
So it is good to know there remain bridges between worlds and that more are sprouting, here and there.
No comments:
Post a Comment