A Nice Topping of Guilt

I rolled my cart over and waited. The elderly gentleman was blocking a shelf. He stood there, deep in contemplation. I hated to interrupt. He seemed sorta serene. "Excuse me, can I squeeze in there?" He glanced at the shelf in question, then gave me such a look, and said nothing. "I'm trying to get to the salad toppings." Another look, harsher this time. "I didn't think anybody bought that crap." It felt like a harsh judgment, given the locale. Gelson's is my personal homeland, my friendly, Zen-like grocery shrine of happiness. The first thought bubbling up in my keppy: "How dare you?" But I didn't go there. My parents raised me to emote, heavily, and verbosely, but only in the confines of their home, my home, your home, his home or her home. It's a home-based exhibition of feelings. Yell, scream, get it all out, but not, God forbid, in Gelson's. Not there!

Still,  if this guy wanted to condemn the gourmet tortilla strips, the crunchy garlic croutons, the crispy fried onions (lightly salted), the vegan baco bits, I figured, have at it, mister. I'm not a regular consumer of packaged salad toppings, so I didn't take too much offense. But he was just getting started. "Have you ever looked at the ingredients?" "Um," I said. "It'll kill you," he huffed, shaming me as he went on his way. Great. Leave me with a moral dilemma. Do I buy salad toppings that might kill my loved ones and myself? It might not be an instant death, just gradual, but do I need to feel responsible for that, too? Will a coroner one day declare, "Death by Salad Topping"? Well, I can't live with that sentence. So I spared my people. But in case I relapse, if you ever see me about to purchase croutons or some equally sinister salad fixin', please knock it out of my hand. Slam it to the ground. Stop me before I do further damage to my loved ones. Or myself. Thank you.