My grocery store, smack-dab in the middle of Nowheresville, N.Y., is sparse, to say the least. It’s the kind of place where discovering a head of radicchio is akin to winning the vegetable lottery.
The condiment aisle can be equally maddening: A jar of harissa is there one week and gone the next. There are either three kinds of tahini or none at all. And finding pomegranate molasses? Forget it.
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