The Gloriousness of Trader Joe's.

I am one of the healthiest teenagers I know, which is both sad and eye-opening. I respect food too much. I forced my mother to read a four-page-long French menu at the Farmer's Market one morning while she visited from Texas. Even though we weren't going to eat there ($13 appetizers), I saw her scan it and then look away. "Read!" I snapped. This wasn't a McDonald's or science-lab chain restaurant. It was a one-of-a-kind cafe with chefs pickier than the Project Runway judges. This was grilled cheese with ham with an extra layer of cheese on top so you had to use a knife and fork to eat it, along with a garnish of thyme. Tiny strawberries that were so red inside they stained your clothes and tasted like cherries. Glass-bottled Evian from the heavenly French Alps. It's the same emotions tied to having a boy crush. That's right: I crush on food.

The first time I bought shrimp stir fry at Trader Joe's, my face lit up at the sight of a packaged sauce that actually froze when you put it in the freezer. Oh, happy days! It was better than I expected: juicy baby shrimp, crunchy veggies, aldente egg noodles. Perfect. Why can't everyone have the same expectations from their food? I demand to know!