The Stenographer

Last Monday, I participated in a paid focus group at the public library. A few days earlier, I had been approached in the co-op by a slight Spanish woman who asked if I would answer a few questions about spices. "Sure," I thought. "Why not! I'm feeling generous." But because the survey dragged on, and I was lugging a heavy basket, and the slight Spanish woman looked so earnest, I just started answering "yes" to every question. "Yes, I frequently cook with caraway and marjoram" or "Yes, I would name my first child sorrel." In short, my sweet cinnamon deceit earned me a spot at Monday's round table.

I wasn't sure what to expect. Our discussion was lead by a politely skeevy Brazilian man with a ponytail, who kept repeating "but of course, this is my first time ever doing something like this" and "you won't even know the camera is there." There were 8 other participants, including a teenage cook who estimated everything with exactitude (he cooked with spices "approximately 13 times a week") and an aged German woman who talked a lot about "the war," or maybe "basil," I couldn't really understand her. One 40- something father rambled on about sustainability. I sat across from a woman whose name tag mistakenly read "Christ" instead of Chris.



My back was to the camera, so after I stopped obsessing over how fat my hair must look to the U-Iowa grad students observing us and taking notes in the next room, I was able to relax and enjoy free Milano cookies. The Brazilian and his team of researchers had hired a stenographer. "You must speak one at a time," our organizer advised, "so that you can be transcribed." Christ raised her hand and asked if we needed to sign a waiver. "Yes, yes, waiver, let me distribute, thank you Christ."

I started to visualize my spice insights in printed reports, the perforated kind, the kind that come in folders. I strove to be as creative and articulate as possible. I used the word "scuttlebutt." When we were asked to visualize a Simply Organic cumin shaker as a person -- who would it be? why? what would their day consist of? -- I steered clear of grandmothers and Amish farmers and picked a politician. I was speaking directly to our bent, attentive, invisible stenographer. I could hear her clicking away in a partisan frenzy. "The bottle is clear, and the spice claims to be simple -- good for you, down-to-earth -- but the text is fallacious. It has an agenda. It's Sarah Palin. Sarah Cumin." I wonder if the stenographer typed nervous laughter in italics.

Where else, outside of a courtroom or a focus group, do a bunch of strangers care so much about meticulous diction? After a teaching term where I felt I went largely unheard, knowing that this stenographer was obligated to record my thoughts on parsley flakes was somehow important.