The day we were to leave New Orleans, after our extended weekend visit, to return to Houston, where my family and I would spend what little remained of the semester, I caught myself saying, repeatedly, to friends and neighbors, "We're going home today," after which I would hastily add, "I mean, to Houston." In fact, Houston had, in a sense, become my "home" over the past two months since Hurricane Katrina had forced our evacuation. But what, exactly, made it so? I was only just beginning to get to know the city; its vast girth and cultural complexity. Moreover, I had no friends there and the apartment my family and I were subletting for the semester was, in most respects, unaesthetic and inadequate to our needs. In New Orleans, I had a varied and interesting set of friends, as did my husband and, increasingly, my toddler son. In New Orleans, I enjoyed a newly renovated Victorian home, historic neighborhood, and vibrant community. So, what exactly was "home-like" about my new environment? I wondered to myself after each paradoxical slip of the tongue.

I could probably cite many luxuries to which my family and I have access in Houston, and which I will not in the new New Orleans, at least not for awhile. There are the many museums, the zoo, the parks, the cafes and restaurants of every ethnic stripe. Added to all this is the good host mentality of Texans themselves; though sometimes mildly smug about their own generosity, they have been typically magnanimous, nevertheless. Upon reflection, however, it is none of the above that defines the essence of this new and temporary "home" for me. Rather, what really stands out—soothes my soul and reassures me that there is order in the midst of so much flux—is the pleasure and exhilaration I derive from shopping at Whole Foods. They, my feelings, aren't as odd or bourgeois as they might, initially, sound. Trips to Whole Foods with my son Dylan represent for me the equivalent of meatloaf and mashed potatoes for other people. Ever since he was able to sit up in a shopping cart, Dylan has accompanied me on weekly journeys to the big Whole Foods in uptown New Orleans, a sprawling buffet of the fresh, colorful, organic, and safe. Dylan, too, loved these trips. Perched in his seat facing me as we tooled around the store, he would revel in samples of exotic cheese or freshly cut fruit, squeal delightedly at the spectre of live lobster, rehearse his ever-expanding vocabulary of food, proudly assist me in choosing his snacks. In a word, Whole Foods symbolized health, itself; the physical health of my family as well as an opportunity to bond with my son.

Grocery shopping has always provided me with solace, always comprised an important family ritual. My own mother hauled me along with her on weekly trips to the grocery store throughout my childhood. I recall trailing behind her, open box of animal crackers in hand, unfailingly engaged by the colors, variety and promise of treats. But before the Whole Foods Company showed up in New Orleans, the selection of grocery stores was sparse. If you wanted to eat really fresh produce or savor fine cuts of meat, you went out. Restaurants in New Orleans have historically procured the city's best stock. After Whole Foods arrived, initially with one modest neighborhood store in Mid-City, and later opening two mega stores, the community's culinary landscape dramatically shifted. There was reason to shop, incentive to cook, resources with which to throw dinner parties. As a new mother, I was pleased, simply, to discover organic baby food, multi-grain bunny crackers and vanilla soy, in addition to an array of gourmet snacks for adults. For me, the company's growth and prominence in the city was nothing short of civilization.

So, naturally, in Houston, I was ecstatic to find the Whole Foods in our neighborhood, a store comparable, though not superior, to the one that Dylan and I used to frequent. And in our first week back from New Orleans, where the Whole Foods had not yet reopened, Dylan and I made a feverish pilgrimage to our store on a Saturday afternoon. The place was packed and Dylan insisted on "driving" one of the store's cart/car combos, a behemoth shopping cart seemingly designed to disrupt the flow of grocery store traffic. Navigating our weighty vehicle precariously through the aisles, as Dylan spun the wheel furiously, like a budding NASCAR racer, I bulldozed into several other carts, narrowly avoided blindsiding a toddler or two, and nearly sent a wine rack crashing to the floor. It was a harried trip, and I was relieved to make it to the check out counter and back out into the parking lot, where I hurried, with five bulging bags of groceries, and Dylan still in the driver's seat, to our car. None of this, however, mattered to me much in retrospect. Back in our dingy apartment, Chris grilled fresh salmon, and I prepared a salad of mixed greens, black olives and feta, while Dylan sipped his soy milk and munched organic animal crackers contentedly. Suddenly the squalor was less, the importance of good food manifest, my sense of home restored.