by Isabel Navarrete
Dill weed, dill weed, dill weed echoes in my head as I scan the wall of seasonings that are packaged the same. Transparent plastic jars with green lids cover the shelf; the only thing differentiating them all is the name printed in fine font. As I keep searching, my eyes begin to blur, my arms sink closer to the ground, tired from carrying all the other ingredients I plan to cook for the both of us. It was getting embarrassing from how long I was waiting in that same aisle, constantly hearing the metal carts rattle through the store with purpose. I feel like the only person here who doesn’t know where she’s going, desperately waiting to finally see where it was sitting. Dill weed. I must have looked ridiculous being alone at this age, carrying flaky green and yellow onions, ground turkey, a weak elastic bag stretching from the weight of two cucumbers, canned corn, and panko bread crumbs all clutched to my chest. The funny thing is, I have never even heard of dill weed until I was entirely influenced to make this turkey meatball recipe on the internet. Before that, I was fine not knowing what dill weed was, perhaps even a little bit happier. Without dill weed, my legs wouldn’t be trembling, my shoulders wouldn’t sigh, and my eyes wouldn’t feel this heavy from looking for the right one.
“Hi sweetie! Is there something I can help you look for?” an older woman with ivory hair cut above her shoulders kindly offers with a name tag that says Marie.
“Oh yes, I am looking for dill weed,” I said, slightly embarrassed that she could see my arms regretting not grabbing a basket.
She frowned and squinted her eyes to scan the shelf, her head slowly scanning the shelf starting from the top left. I could tell that the labels were too small for her to read.
“Hmmm, perhaps we don’t have it in stock, but this one looks awfully similar. I bet no one will ever know the difference,” she chuckled as she held up a jar of dried and curly parsley.
I shared a laugh with her and said, “Thank you.”
I looked a little longer after she left, but then I forced myself to see that maybe all this waiting was useless. Her words made me realize that maybe mama was right. After standing below those bright fluorescent lights until my shut eyelids never saw the dark and through the steady hum of the store’s air conditioning, my mom’s once youthful voice penetrates the crispness of the cold air.
“You won’t always have all the ingredients at home. Sometimes you just have to use what you have and it will be okay,” she used to say, cutting fresh parsley when the recipe required cilantro. “Won’t it taste different?” I asked, curiously.
“Yes. It will taste a bit different,” she’d admit as she continued to cut into the parsley,
“But it’ll fill you. That’s what matters.”
She’d toss the substitutes in the pot and keep stirring. Dinner always came out fine. We ate, and we were full.
I never thought of this as a child, but now, at twenty-seven, I stand frozen in the grocery store, wondering if she ever longed for that missing ingredient she didn’t have at home. While we all sat down at dinner, did she ever sit at that same table and quietly wish the taste had been tangier, happier, different? I wonder if she had regretted the choice to not look for cilantro a little longer, and now she had to stomach having dinner with her three parsley kids.
Was I going to be fine with this taste? Did I want my life to just be okay? Didn’t my mom want something greater than parsley? Back then, I didn’t realize the tiredness in her voice was her mourning the things she’d given up. Here I am, hopelessly trying to shop as anybody other than my mother. I want to want more. I want dill weed. I wonder if she would look at me, crouched and alone with my arms struggling to hold everything, and see a little bit of herself before she settled down. Given her experience and age, she’d probably say,
“Just pick something else. It doesn’t have to be dill weed.”
But that’s the problem, if not for dill weed, then what else would I use to fill this empty space? For a quick second, I began to wonder if I have dill weed hidden in the back of my kitchen cabinets, but then again it wasn’t familiar. I couldn’t possibly have dill weed at home; all I have is a man sprawled out on the couch, wondering what it is that is taking me so long at the market. I can already see it; he’ll look up from his phone, smile at me when I walk through the door with two grocery bags. He’ll abandon the couch, kiss me on the cheek, and take one of the bags out of my hands to help unload. He’ll tease me about how many herbs I buy and tell me that we have so many of the same ones. I know he is playfully teasing, but they are not the same; they are not the right one. I knew I couldn’t wait forever. Maybe that’s why I said yes to him when he asked me to move in–because I was tired of being hungry for more.
I don’t think my feelings for him were as right as they should be. Maybe it’s because he is my first boyfriend, so I have nothing else to compare this feeling to. I mean it could be ok to stay here without ever trying anything that could potentially taste right. I don’t know the taste of somebody else, but his company is warm and familiar. Trying to convince myself to reach for the familiar jar, I remind myself that I know parsley, it’s simple and safer than wanting more.
I think it’s time to go home, I have enough on my hands. I mean, I could ask another worker just to make sure that there is clearly none, but I am far too scared. The names on the jars were starting to blur together and the buzz of the fluorescent lights were growing harsher. Each step I took was heavy, I couldn’t possibly explore some more. What if the lovely old lady comes back and is hurt that I didn’t take her word that there wasn’t any left? I would probably regret not taking the parsley, when I don’t ever find dill weed along the way to check out. What if she regretted offering help just for a random customer to brush her off? It would just be easier to abandon the thought of dill weed because when I am at home, I know he will ask me easy questions on the days when talking feels like a chore. As I stir the sauce, he will gently reminisceabout how he felt when he first saw me. He’ll ask what I thought of him during our first interactions, and we will sit at the table across from each other. He’ll thank me for dinner, and we will have routine, mundane chatter to keep the silence away from the apartment walls.
The thought drifts away as the sharp pain in my arms reminds me that I am still standing, lost in an aisle of endless seasonings. Right now, there is no table, no sauce stirring, no him–only me anxiously waiting to make a choice. The floor feels harder with every passing minute, with no energy to stand, I wonder if I should just call it a night and pick up that dated jar of parsley, or explore some more to discover a jar I have never seen before.
There comes a time when the store must close, and I can’t spend the whole night looking for the right feeling. My feet were throbbing inside my shoes, and my shoes were rooted into the floor tiles. I was tired of waiting, so I grabbed dried parsley, not dill, but close enough to trick the eye.
As soon as my palm felt the plastic container, something inside me had changed. The hum of the lights softened and my shoulders instantly sank, feeling the relief of having chosen something, and it felt much better than being alone. Once everything I held was rolled on the conveyor belt, a stubborn thought circles back. Would dill weed have left a better taste? And will the thought consume me in his embrace? Because I couldn’t wait?
I don’t think I’ll ever know, but for now, this plastic jar of parsley will be enough.
Isabel Navarrete is a debut author, actively navigating the connection between feelings and ideas. Currently working on earning her English degree and plans on experimenting with exciting ideas.
January House Literary Journal 
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