“My dad put me in charge of the playlist for the wedding,” she says, once I’ve retrieved my phone and said hello. “I need ideas.”
“Can’t go wrong with the chicken dance.”
Dead silence.
“Yes, you can,” she finally says. “I don’t think they’re looking for a chicken-dance vibe.”
“Just put it on the playlist toward the end, when everyone’s drunk.”
“I already regret this phone call.”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” I say, staring at some celery. It’s like I’ve never heard of a song in my entire life. “Are you going for romantic or a party vibe or…?”
“A romantic party?” she says. “I guess that’s what a wedding is, isn’t it? I’ve got some suggestions from my dad and Paloma, but I could use more because they’re…”
“You’re telling me those two aren’t coming up withparty vibesongs?”
“I had to tell my dad that under absolutely no circumstances can their first dance be to that Dave Matthews song ‘Crash Into Me.’”
I try to remember which one that is. I feel like I heard it a lot in grocery stores as a kid.
“Is it that bad?”
Madeline sighs. “It’s about kinky bondage sex,” she says. “I cannot watch our parents slow dance to a song about kinky bondage sex.”
I make a mental note to revisit the Dave Matthews Band’s oeuvre sometime.
“My mom got pretty intoHamiltonwhen it was first out. Is that anything?”
I must circle the produce section for thirty minutes while we talk. It’s about the playlist for a little bit—I try to remember what music my mom liked while I was growing up; Madeline shares that she had to limit her dad to two Weird Al songs—but after a while we wander off topic.
“Have you ever had a turnip?” I find myself asking. Mostly because I’m looking at them.
“Maybe?” she says after a moment. “I think kids in England carve them for Halloween? Or maybe that’s New England. And maybe parsnips.”
“Are parsnips and turnips different?”
“Yes?” she answers. “I think so. They have different names.”
“So do eggplants and aubergines, but they’re the same thing.”
“That’swhat an aubergine is?” Madeline starts laughing. “I thought it was some kind of flower.”
“So you thought that when British people made aubergine Parmesan, they were eating flowers,” I tease. Do British people make aubergine Parmesan? We watched a lot of cooking shows in rehab, but my memory’s notthatgood.
“I never thought about it that much, to be honest,” she says. “It was mostly in books, and they also eat meat pies and spotted dick?—”
“Can’t be healthy,” I mutter, and she snorts.
“It’scake. I think.”
“Sure.”
“Well, it’s some kind of—holy shit, it is really eight thirty?”
“I’m not the right person to ask about time.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you for that long,” she says. “Are you still at the grocery store?”
