My wife was not happy.
“I was looking forward to a hot cross bun!” she sighed Thursday night as we left Sobeys. “They had all kinds at the Superstore earlier this week.”
Then she sighed again.
I don’t think the second sigh was for the singular absence of hot cross buns at the Sobeys Penhorn Mall supermarket one week before Good Friday. Like me, she couldn’t get her head around the reasons we had been given for it. And the fact that I had bothered to try a follow-up had left us even more puzzled. Actually, “puzzled” is perhaps not the right word. Appalled, perplexed, and stunned, along with feeling very, very old, all would likely fit better. In the end, there had also been a very small dose of hope.
When she sent me to the bakery display to get some sugar-cross buns, I hadn’t expected any difficulty. In fact, Superstore had stacks of them when I’d ducked in earlier that day. But Sobeys had none. I stood at the bakery counter until the girl at the back decided to stop pretending she didn’t notice me and came over. She looked in her late teens, perhaps a year older. It’s hard for me to tell. All females between 15 and 30 fall into the general category of “young” to me now.
“Do you have any hot cross buns?” I asked, “I can’t find any on display.”
“Probably not,” she replied. “It’s not the season for them.”
Maybe I should have left it there, but I didn’t.
“Not the season? It’s the week before Easter,” I replied.
“Yes, exactly,” she came back. “Hot cross buns are for Christmas. Why would we have them now?”
Again, I should have known it was no use continuing, but I couldn’t leave it there.
“No, hot cross buns are for Easter,” I tried to explain. “What do you think the cross on them means?”
She shrugged and walked away.
“Leave it alone. Forget it…right now!” said my wife, noticing the look on my face. “Let’s get some tea biscuits and just go.”
The checkout girl was even younger. High school age, I thought.
“How are you today?” came the traditional Sobeys greeting. “Did you find everything you were looking for?
My wife scowled a warning at me. I pretended not to see it.
“Not really,” I replied. “Perhaps you can help me. What’s the correct season of the year to have hot cross buns for sale?”
She looked confused.
“I guess Christmas,” she said. “But we sell them here all year.”
“But what does the cross on them stand for?” I asked. My wife was edging away from me.
“It’s a decoration,” she said, picking up on my spouse’s cue. “It’s just a decoration somebody puts on them. It doesn’t mean anything, as far as I know.”
By this time she had backed out of the check-out stall. An older male employee, appearing to sense something was wrong, stepped into the booth to replace her.
“Do you know the proper time of year for hot cross buns?” I asked. “And what the cross on them stands for?”
He was determined to get rid of me.
“How would I know?” he replied. “That’s a bakery matter. You should ask them!”
As he began to serve the next customer, the girl bolted for the employee lounge. I could imagine the conversation when she got there.
My wife had me by the elbow and was trying to get me out of the store. Another young female staffer was about to follow the panicked checkout girl into the staff lounge. I slipped my wife’s grip.
“Do you have a manager on tonight?” I asked her.
“No,” she responded with a big smile. “Do you need one?”
“Not really. I just can’t believe everyone in this store thinks hot cross buns are for Christmas”, I sighed.
A strange look came over her face. I say strange because it was a look of intelligence, something we hadn’t seen since I first tried to get those buns with the icing sugar crosses on them.
“Someone said that? They’re for Easter, not Christmas!” she said, almost as if she didn’t believe me.
Hope! This was a sign of hope! Perhaps, just perhaps.....
“And do you know why they have a cross on them?” I pleaded.
She gave me a withering look. Obviously I was some sort of a nut, perhaps dangerous.
“It’s the cross of Jesus,” she said, sure of herself but not of me.
She probably wondered why I smiled, and why I let out a prolonged sigh of relief. No, we didn’t get the buns we came for, but at least my sudden doubt for today's society and the traditions I had held important all my life had been partially resolved.
There was, thank you, at least one other person left who knew.
“I was looking forward to a hot cross bun!” she sighed Thursday night as we left Sobeys. “They had all kinds at the Superstore earlier this week.”
Then she sighed again.
I don’t think the second sigh was for the singular absence of hot cross buns at the Sobeys Penhorn Mall supermarket one week before Good Friday. Like me, she couldn’t get her head around the reasons we had been given for it. And the fact that I had bothered to try a follow-up had left us even more puzzled. Actually, “puzzled” is perhaps not the right word. Appalled, perplexed, and stunned, along with feeling very, very old, all would likely fit better. In the end, there had also been a very small dose of hope.
When she sent me to the bakery display to get some sugar-cross buns, I hadn’t expected any difficulty. In fact, Superstore had stacks of them when I’d ducked in earlier that day. But Sobeys had none. I stood at the bakery counter until the girl at the back decided to stop pretending she didn’t notice me and came over. She looked in her late teens, perhaps a year older. It’s hard for me to tell. All females between 15 and 30 fall into the general category of “young” to me now.
“Do you have any hot cross buns?” I asked, “I can’t find any on display.”
“Probably not,” she replied. “It’s not the season for them.”
Maybe I should have left it there, but I didn’t.
“Not the season? It’s the week before Easter,” I replied.
“Yes, exactly,” she came back. “Hot cross buns are for Christmas. Why would we have them now?”
Again, I should have known it was no use continuing, but I couldn’t leave it there.
“No, hot cross buns are for Easter,” I tried to explain. “What do you think the cross on them means?”
She shrugged and walked away.
“Leave it alone. Forget it…right now!” said my wife, noticing the look on my face. “Let’s get some tea biscuits and just go.”
The checkout girl was even younger. High school age, I thought.
“How are you today?” came the traditional Sobeys greeting. “Did you find everything you were looking for?
My wife scowled a warning at me. I pretended not to see it.
“Not really,” I replied. “Perhaps you can help me. What’s the correct season of the year to have hot cross buns for sale?”
She looked confused.
“I guess Christmas,” she said. “But we sell them here all year.”
“But what does the cross on them stand for?” I asked. My wife was edging away from me.
“It’s a decoration,” she said, picking up on my spouse’s cue. “It’s just a decoration somebody puts on them. It doesn’t mean anything, as far as I know.”
By this time she had backed out of the check-out stall. An older male employee, appearing to sense something was wrong, stepped into the booth to replace her.
“Do you know the proper time of year for hot cross buns?” I asked. “And what the cross on them stands for?”
He was determined to get rid of me.
“How would I know?” he replied. “That’s a bakery matter. You should ask them!”
As he began to serve the next customer, the girl bolted for the employee lounge. I could imagine the conversation when she got there.
My wife had me by the elbow and was trying to get me out of the store. Another young female staffer was about to follow the panicked checkout girl into the staff lounge. I slipped my wife’s grip.
“Do you have a manager on tonight?” I asked her.
“No,” she responded with a big smile. “Do you need one?”
“Not really. I just can’t believe everyone in this store thinks hot cross buns are for Christmas”, I sighed.
A strange look came over her face. I say strange because it was a look of intelligence, something we hadn’t seen since I first tried to get those buns with the icing sugar crosses on them.
“Someone said that? They’re for Easter, not Christmas!” she said, almost as if she didn’t believe me.
Hope! This was a sign of hope! Perhaps, just perhaps.....
“And do you know why they have a cross on them?” I pleaded.
She gave me a withering look. Obviously I was some sort of a nut, perhaps dangerous.
“It’s the cross of Jesus,” she said, sure of herself but not of me.
She probably wondered why I smiled, and why I let out a prolonged sigh of relief. No, we didn’t get the buns we came for, but at least my sudden doubt for today's society and the traditions I had held important all my life had been partially resolved.
There was, thank you, at least one other person left who knew.