Life, liberty and the pursuit of Arctic pops

My daughter Savannah and I are quite passionate about food and take our grocery shopping activities very seriously. Our mantra is "Only losers use lists" and we free-style our way, up and down aisles, in the hope that we eventually emerge from the store with enough ingredients to comprise at least one or two meals for the week. Yeah, we realize that it's a reckless way to live. I almost lost Savannah today when she dove into a chest freezer for the buy two/get three free Arctic pops. It was eerily similar to the ending scene in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade" where Indy, just barely gaining a grip on his scheming girlfriend as she dangled inches from a religious relic over a deep crevasse, begs her to "let it go" before he inadvertently lets her go. I grabbed Savannah's flailing feet and pulled, her muffled voice insisting that she almost had it. "Savannah," I said softly, Sean Connery-style, "just let it go," before releasing her feet to dodge five boxes of Arctic pops as they flew from the freezer followed by my victorious daughter with only a smidge of frost burn for her trouble. "The cold never bothered me anyway," Savannah said shivering.

Leaning our shoulders against the now over-loaded grocery cart, we heaved and ho-ed our way toward check-out, passing our friend, Kathy from work. One of my guilty indulgences is peeking into other people's carts. The giant bag of brown rice, laying lonely in Kathy's cart, baffled me. What does one do with brown rice, I wondered, gripping my box of Hostess Cupcakes for comfort. Misinterpreting my reaction, Kathy reassured me that she has recently begun a purchasing pilgrimage of only buying American-made products. I scowled, realizing that my only criteria for grocery grabbing is based on my internal yummy-meter. Bad enough that I'm not reading labels to determine sodium levels, fat content and calories. Now it turns out that I'm not even a patriotic purchaser. Savannah said a pleasant farewell to Kathy and led me off, muttering to myself.

"She's unconscionable," I raged, slamming my Raisinettes on the conveyor belt behind my salt and vinegar potato chips. "Actually, she sounds overly conscientious," Savannah corrected, lining her boxes of Arctic pops up like dominoes behind her frozen popcorn chicken and corn dogs. "Did I tell you that she petitioned to change out our faculty room snack machine out for a HEALTH food vending machine," I fumed, adding fruit-flavored gummies and chocolate pudding to the line. I paused, lost in the nightmare memory. My friend Bryan and I sitting, in stunned silence as the brochures were explained to us. "This...is...NOT...happening," he'd muttered in monotone as I gripped his wrist in terror, inadvertently twisting his arm hair as I thought about the possible future fate of my peanut M & Ms.  Of one mind, we rose, the spirit of Norma Rae goading us to action. "Hell no! Our vending machine won't go!" we bellowed, fist pumping the air. Chairs emptied, tables were over-turned and Kathy's potentially life-altering flyers were turned into profane origami sculptures. It had been close, but in the end, my Snickers bars were safe.

I glanced over at Savannah as she reached into the cart for the choco-tacos and vowed then, as difficult as it was, to keep up the fight for snacking freedom. For my daughter. For snackers...everywhere. As long as there is life in my body and my blood glucose levels hover between 80 and 140 and my cholesterol rating comes in under 162 mg, I will battle for a person's inalienable right to consume a can of chocolate frosting with a spoon. It is, after all, the American way.