MY WIFE is what you might call a producephile. Entering the produce section of a market, her eyes glaze over. It is as if she were a child molester walking into a sixth grade classroom. Her right eye develops a tic and her palms sweat. Although normally she rushes through her shopping list like a reality show contestant, her pace slows measurably when she is surrounded by watermelons, apples, and kiwi fruit. Her pupils dilate and she abandons her shopping cart, wandering amidst the fruits and vegetables like an extra in “The Walking Dead.”

Meanwhile, I go off in search of pastries. By the time I return, perhaps clutching a box of cake donuts to my chest like a treasure, she has filled the cart with non-caloric color. Melons, greens and berries predominate. Once, while living in Tallahassee, we drove to a nearby town called Monticello which bills itself as “The Watermelon Capitol of the World.” This may be somewhat hyperbolic, but in those days the big green melons cost 50 cents apiece. On the way back, we stopped at one of those pick-your-own fruit orchards, where I ate so many peaches my gastrointestinal tract nearly exploded.

Anyway, by the time we get in line at the cashier, a glance at our cart would make one think that our two primary shopping goals are cat food and produce. Petioles of celery protrude from between bright red tomatoes and yellow squash, all upon a heavy foundation of cans of Friskies and Fancy Feast.

Driven by guilt and shame, I have since returned the box of donuts to the shelf. I wait until the cashier is about 3/4s done scanning our groceries. “I’m going to the men’s room,” I tell my wife. She knows I have timed it to coincide with the completion of the ringing up of our order. I do not wish to be within earshot when the cashier announces the total cost. My spouse may be a producephile, but I am decidedly an inflationphobe.