Eating Christmas: How a little white lie led Tuesday Mahrle to an unexpected gift

Here’s the latest essay in this year’s Eating Christmas series.

TUESDAY MAHRLE: Growing up shopping with my mother, I learned our family’s store loyalty stretches about as far as a good coupon. But, certain stores were meant for certain things — Target: paper products, cleaning supplies, back-to-school items and clothes. Fry’s Food: your go-to staples, microwavable meals, breads, cereals, chips. AJ’s Fine Foods is exclusively for meats and fish, usually picked up by my father on the way home. And we stayed in our lane — a little too fancy for Walmart; a little too cheap for Whole Foods.

Over the years, I added to that list with Sprouts. Good ol’ Sprouts. It became my reliable grab-and-go, quick meal choice, and working in a newsroom means a lot of grab-and-go.

And this is where Sprout's Better Beet Salad enters the picture. I know people have opinions about beets, but I love them. According to the label, the Sprouts Better Beet Salad contains “sweet roasted beets, paired with smooth goat cheese, red onions, honey-toasted pecans and a drizzle of balsamic vinaigrette, creating the perfect balance of savory, sweet and earthy flavors.”

A perfect meal, except for the onions.

Now, something important you should know about me is, I’m not someone who ever wants to rock the boat. I would rather hand-pick the onions off my burger than send a dish back to the kitchen. Similarly, at least twice a week, I meticulously pick the 15 to 20, 1-centimeter squares of raw onion out of my Better Beet Salad.

One particular weekday morning, standing in the aisle at Sprouts, dreading the thought of claw-machining the onions out of my salad during my lunch time in the newsroom, I decided to chock up the courage to ask for what I wanted.

I assured myself that I had earned at least a minute inkling of brand loyalty with my neighborhood Sprouts by now and I stepped up to the sandwich bar brandishing my trusty pre-packaged salad.

“Excuse me; quick question,” I said.

A sweet woman, 60s or 70s, with a bright name tag labeled Dory, turned around.

“What can I do for you, sugar?” she said.

“So, I absolutely love this salad, but …” I froze, panicked. “But I’m deathly allergic to onions.”

Thinking to myself, "Oh my God, what am I saying? I’ve never been allergic to anything in my life. Why am I lying to this sweet woman?"

“So, is it possible to get this salad without onions?”

In a voice a bit more chipper than I would have been for a Thursday morning, she stated: “We take allergies very seriously here, I’d love to make you a fresh one.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I said. Great, a little white lie. Nothing to worry about. As she handed me a freshly made salad, she glanced at my other items.

“Oh, hun, you can’t get this or this in that case.”

Dory knew where all the onions were! Of course she did! She snatched up my sandwich wrap and one of their signature soups from my basket.

“Uh, thanks, thank you. You saved me there! Ha," I fake-laughed.

This sweet woman must be wondering how I lived my first 37 years without her. And now, I basically have a big label on my forehead, “allergic to onions.” But what’s to worry about, how often can Dory possibly work?

The answer: all the time. Dory works every conceivable hour I would ever plan to pass the threshold of that Sprout’s.

Mornings? She’s there. After I get off work, she waves from several aisles over. 15 minutes before the store is set to close, there is Dory, ready to inspect my basket for contraband that would surely leave me dead on my apartment floor just inches away from my Epipen if it wasn’t for her.

In all honesty, Dory’s relentless guarding of my “allergy” has turned into an oddly comforting ritual — one I never planned, but now secretly cherish. As Hanukkah gets closer, her dedication is a kind of unexpected gift.

Sure, it’s absurd, but there’s something comforting in how seriously she takes it, like she’s personally responsible for keeping me alive. But I’ll take it — eight nights of light, plus one very persistent Sprout’s lady who refuses to let me die.