At Meijer, the 11th is free.

At approximately 10 p.m. each Sunday, I am greeted by a thick glasses and a mustached grin. I am directed to the carts, from which I choose the two-leveled mini. I stop at the restroom. While I wash my hands, I listen to children losing their gumballs and couples fighting over the self-check screen’s buttons. The self-check screen fights back, screaming for assistance.

I push my cart to the produce, searching for the yellow signs. I will buy then times for one dollar. The eleventh one will be free. Avocados and blueberries. If I’m lucky, hothouse cucumbers and spinach; an entire loaf of bread; purple cauliflower. This week, I will buy an artichoke. I put it in the cart and consider what the two dollars it costs would mean in terms of peanut butter sandwiches. It is a lot of peanut butter. An entire jar of Krema all-natural. If bread is my eleventh item, then I'm getting a solid week of lunches for one artichoke.

I weave through the aisles of produce, touching and poking everything that I have never seen. I keep my lips closed, slightly pursed, as I place each back and try to look displeased. Maybe next week. They just don't seem ripe enough yet. Exiting through the mushroom section, I land in front of Morning Star and Boca: this is not a new dilemma. My French lit. class has been studying the rock-and-hard-place battles of Racine: I already know this decision is out of my control due to fatalism. Why am I thinking about French in the freezer section? Why does the prof tuck his shirt into his underwear? Why can't I have six dollars instead of three? I want the "bacon" aaand the spicy "chicken." Again, when weighed against my jar of Krema...

This logic drops when I reach the dairy section. I am a yogurt snob. Here, I am going to take a moment to step out of any literary-anything that was happening to plug Stonyfields' Chocolate Underground yogurt. I've read Skinny Bitch's argument for being vegan. I've done the research. I've talked to organic dairy farmers. I empathize with dairy allergies. But I can never give this up.

The organic yogurt keeps its sharp tang, but the dark chocolate layer at the bottom turns the cup an espresso brown after a few turns. The yogurt doesn't quite make it to the fridge. I set the cup on the counter only long enough to grab a handful of frozen berries. While I skate my spoon around the cup's rim, the berries freeze bits of yogurt, transforming the plastic cup into a ramikin of mousse.

And then it is Monday.