We’re nuts about our customers.

Regular readers of this blog know I like to kid. I’m a hard-working guy who, like you, enjoys a little levity. Not so much for this one. The topic is serious, deadly so, although I come with hope. Food allergies. Any kind is bad, but a hypersensitivity to peanuts, or other nuts, can be particularly miserable, and dangerous.

I knew such allergies existed, of course, and our stores have long carried substitute products. But like a lot of things in life the subject was mostly abstract, until a friend related his experience. It seems his grandson recently boarded a plane and, merely by sitting where someone had eaten peanuts, went straight into shock.

He was rushed off the plane and thank goodness survived, but it was close.

So I was mulling that and the fact that I get lots of e-mails from people telling me their kids are allergic to nuts, both peanuts and tree nuts — pecans, walnuts, almonds and the like. So I decided that we need many more nut-free products in our stores. I’m working hard tracking them down, and educating myself, in turn. Talking to physicians, I’ve learned, for instance, that peanut exposure can occur in multiple ways, including through direct skin contact, which is likely what triggered the grandson’s reaction. I can’t do a lot about that one, except help keep your home allergen free. But I’ve also learned that inhalation of aerosols containing peanuts, like peanut flour and peanut oil cooking spray, can also cause reactions.

I’m committed to bringing you alternatives to this stuff.

Here’s the kind of peanut exposure that’s particularly fascinating to me: cross contact — unintended introduction of nuts into a product, usually the result of food being exposed to peanuts during processing or handling. That’s a tough one, because if I’m allergic and taking every precaution, and become ill anyway through no fault of my own, well that is especially egregious. So, I’m looking for suppliers and manufacturers who have facilities that are totally nut free. I’m that serious this problem.

Here’s a primer: peanut allergy occurs when your immune system mistakenly identifies peanut proteins as something pernicious. No one’s sure why. There is no known cure. And this: although peanuts are a ground nut and a peanut allergy is different from a tree nut allergy, there are parallels. In fact, one-half of adult peanut allergy sufferers, and most kids, also have tree nut allergies. Only about 20 percent of infants with a peanut allergy outgrow it.

Stay with me now: symptoms range from hives and eczema and digestional discomfort to anaphylaxis, a potentially fatal constriction of the airways and swelling of the throat. Peanut allergy is the most common cause of food-related death. So you can see how I’m no riot here, right?

And here’s the thing, the problem’s not getting any better. According to the Food Allergy & Anaphylaxis Network, allergic food reactions, particularly peanut allergies, are on the rise, causing roughly 15,000 emergency room visits annually and about 150 deaths.

But I want to help. Simply put, Hiller’s has a responsibility to offer products to people whose lifestyle limits what they can eat. (We’re already doing that for those with gluten issues, as you know). In the last month alone we’ve added more than 100 peanut-free items, like soy butters and various cereals, depending on where you are in the allergy spectrum. Perhaps you can’t do peanuts, but almonds are okay. I’m telling you, friends, we’re leading this effort. We’re in the vanguard of grocers. And as always it’s because we care.

So we’re planning things like nut-free fairs, where people can learn about allergies and what products are available. There will be tastings and in-store tours, and most importantly, opportunities to talk with you, learn from you, so that I can do my job better. I see this as another chance for me to connect with you, my family of customers. How difficult it must be for a family who has a relative who’s at risk!

I’ve set all this as our goal for this year. I think that underlying it all is a desire to help people who have food restrictions live a lifestyle that’s as close to conventional as possible. Children suffer if they can’t participate in life. I think what we’re doing is one of those things that can make life so much better.

So stay tuned. And spread the word:

Hiller’s is nuts about its customers.

As a born and raised Michigander, I like to support my fellow residents. I am also about providing the freshest produce around. What a wonderful thing that by doing business with local farmers, I can accomplish both.

Hiller’s has relationships with about 20 area farm families, some going back 30 years. They’re based all over, from Monroe to Imlay City. They’re part of Hiller’s family, and I value them a great deal.

Our Produce Managers call in produce orders early each morning . We, in turn, call our farmers, who have the orders ready by morning when we head out to Eastern Market or Detroit’s Produce Terminal. We like to pay our suppliers on the spot or within a day, unlike most store chains, by the way. And most big-box stores don’t go to Eastern Market or Produce Terminal every single day. They have farmers deliver to a warehouse, where produce goes to stores every 2-3 days. With us, they harvest it today and by tomorrow, it’s at our stores. We’re proud of that. We start in March with  flowers, and spices even, and now we have beautiful tomatoes.

Let’s hear directly from a couple of our cherished local suppliers. Robert Ruhlig, for one, gets us zucchini, cucumbers, sweet corn, green bells and specialty peppers, cantaloupe, eggplant and other items. “Whatever they can get local they always try to do that,” Ruhlig said of Hiller’s. “And they like the biggest and the best.”

Based in Carleton down there near Ohio, Ruhlig is a second-generation Hiller’s farmer. He’s done business with us for a decade; his dad close to 15 years. In fact, his folks, children of farmers themselves, are still involved in the 1,200-acre Ruhlig Farms and Greenhouses, established in 1970. A true family affair, Ruhlig’s brother handles production while his two sisters are in management and accounting.

Team Ruhlig makes the hour-long trek to Eastern Market at around midnight, finishing up around 7 a.m. (During the week the market is for wholesalers; Saturdays are for retail). Their season runs from spring to first frost, around Halloween. “Hiller’s is very committed to buying consistently whatever is local and available,” Ruhlig said. “When the season starts they’re the first ones around, and they stick with us until the end.”

And then there’s George Horkey of Horkey Brother Farms in Dundee. For Hiller’s, his 2,000 acres yield sweet corn, potatoes, bell and mixed peppers, cantaloupe and all manner of gourds. He’s been with us about 25 years. Just a solid, solid relationship.

Interesting, Horkey’s great-grandfather had been an onion farmer on McNichols in Detroit, eventually selling the land to make way for the University of Detroit. Horkey’s grandfather had a farm on 12 Mile Road and John R where Horkey’s dad toiled before graduating from U-D, getting a law degree and becoming Royal Oak Township supervisor. Horkey’s two sons farm as well, making for five wonderful generations.

“Hiller’s has really worked to promote Michigan, especially the last four or five years or so,” Horkey said. “I really enjoy our relationship with Hiller’s. It’s been good and it’s lasted a long time. They’re a class act.

“But they’re very strict buyers, you know. And that’s a good thing. It certainly keeps us on our toes.”

Well, here’s the thing: by supporting Hiller’s you also support your neighbors, your fellow Michiganders. And your food’s fresh, too.

Working together. That’s the Hiller’s way.

As everyone who reads these blogs knows, Lilly is my beloved Scottish Deerhound. She’s nine years old now, pretty geriatric for a Deerhound. So these days, well, I’m becoming a little sentimental… Waxing a tad wistful.

Not that she’s definably ill or anything, and I do expect to enjoy her for a while yet. But I can read the calendar, and she’s just, you know, slower. No longer does she accompany me on pre-dawn walks, bounding up hills, excited by the prospect of seeing deer, her flaccid little rose shaped ears becoming semi-erect. My Doberman, Al, is now my sole morning mate.

As recently as a year ago she was so enthusiastic, romping and playing all day. A true sight hound, she was always eager to give chase, a beauty, her long gray coat and mane flagging.  Now, my grand dame spends most of her time inside reposing on my bed, an elegant old lady.

I accept all sorts of people, mostly because people intrigue me. I’m intrinsically fond of diversity and to me individuals are like unusual flowers. But let me tell you, even by dog standards, my Lilly is unusual. In the morning she lies in bed and waits breakfast. Nothing particularly different about that; after all, she is of a certain age. But after that she holds forth, and will not be ignored. She prances into a room, takes a chair and when she wants you, get this, she’ll stick a dainty foot in the air, and just hold it there, like she’s summoning you. “She Who Must Be Obeyed” as H Ryder Haggard would say. Right away I’m there, rubbing her aging paw. It’s both a hoot and deadly serious. But utterly endearing.

When she wants something she wants it immediately, and I instantly succumb. She will snuggle next to me in bed, extending a leg across my chest. Then when she’s ready to start her day, she’ll poke, hit and bite until she gets her way, sticking her substantial snout in my face. She can be imperious. You think of a dog as a servant of man, but my Lilly’s just the opposite: she knows it’s my responsibility to attend to her every need, just as she knows she’s smarter. We’ve worked that out, too. But I embrace my servitude because it enhances me. I am a better man.

So complete, so constant is Lilly’s affection — giving my all is a given. That’s cliche but so be it … and if you’ve ever been owned you know the bond, the miasma of chemistry, gratitude and devotion, and a love that’s almost embarrassing, because it is actual love, not some bemused, inferior facsimile, a love that emanates even when we’re just sitting, tacit, unquestioned, and I’m drained from my day, having tried, once again, to do both well and good, and may have even failed at both. I can just be myself. And the thing is, she can too. Loving, yes, but also smart and controlling. That’s my Lilly. I refer to it as getting the relationship right.

Dogs have been my companions since I was a boy. I’ve had a few. They add a whole new dimension to life, and they’re always there, always reliable. I find they can bring peace to a turbulent soul. But I’ve always wanted a Scottish Deerhound, since I first read what Sir Walter Scott wrote about his Deerhound Maida. I found the breed’s looks fascinating; they resemble a rough-coated Greyhound, but are longer in size and bone, their tails nearly reaching the ground, their eyes big and gleaming. I liked the personality description: gentle, docile, friendly. Dignified bearing. About ten years ago I began looking in earnest, and found Lilly in Port Huron . She lived in a barn, was flea-bitten, had been ill, but you could still see her nobility. It was love at first sight.

Of course, as my Lilly gets older I cherish her more and more. I want as much time with her as she desires. She’s so funny. She still wants attention but when she’s done, she kinds of turns off emotionally. After she’s petted and rubbed she walks away. And you know, she never comes when I call her. But you can be sure she’ll show up when there is licorice around.  I’ll have in  hand some British candy called Bassetts Allsorts which contains a little piece of licorice that’s in the shape of a person called Mr Allsort. Lilly insists on getting that little piece, and would live on that alone if I’d let her, my Lilly who can be somewhat vain, standing perfectly still while I put her necklace on. Lilly, such a beautiful, elegant, feminine name. Suits her.

As author Gene Hill put it: “She is the part of me that can reach out into the sea. She has told me a thousand times over that I am her reason for being; by the way she rests against my leg; by the way she thumps her tail at my smallest smile; by the way she shows her hurt when I leave without taking her. Without her, I am only another man. With her, I am all powerful. She is loyalty herself. With her, I know a secret comfort and a private peace. She is protection against my darkest fears. And she is my dog.”

My darling Lilly.

I miss her already.

I’d like to tell you about my sister and how amazing she is.

It’s always been just the two of us, and in many ways, by dent of my being her big brother, she’s sort of lived in my shadow.

So I’m moved to tell the world that my little sister is a supremely competent professional and a peach, to boot. She’s an Associate Broker at Max Broock Realtors, working out of the Birmingham office, and really has distinguished herself. In fact, she’s the most prolific realtor in Franklin, a 2.7-square-mile village that’s more than its cider mill. It’s situated on ravines, and its 3,000 residents enjoy the vintage downtown and their estate-style homes.

I am very proud of her. Linda is well known throughout Michigan for her considerable skills and real estate acumen. In the business for about 17 years, she has this wonderful personality, plus a commitment to giving 100 percent of herself. She’s handled work for folks in my company, and for friends and family members. To a person, the e-mails about her are glowing. Everybody’s absolutely thrilled.

She’s just brimming with enthusiasm, from when she gets a listing to when she handles a closing. Linda’s rather tiny in stature — about five feet — but she’s like Godzilla when it comes to energy. And she works uncommonly hard.  Seventeen-hour days are not uncommon. Her workweeks often stretch to seven days.

If it sounds like I’m gushing, I am. And here’s more: she treats all her clients like family members. She sort of brings them into her orbit and takes good care of them. And what is truly remarkable is, the relationships continue after the sale. She and they become close friends. You know, when negotiations are involved, that’s just not a given. It’s very impressive. And when she doesn’t sell she tends to feel her clients’ angst. She becomes so involved, their wants and needs and desires become hers, too.

But then, Linda’s always was a people person. As a kid she was  social and surrounded by people.  She truly was friendly, clever and bright.  Dad expected that she would come into the business, not me. My interests were more in science.

But Linda’s found her calling; she’s cut out for real estate. She must have known it too, since she made a conscious decision to go into it.

Have I mentioned that she’s a great sister? She’s married, has a daughter, a University of Michigan medical school graduate who is now a resident at Washington University at St. Louis and a son who is Marketing and PR Manager for the Arkansas Naturals minor league baseball team. She even loves her dogs Tucker and Piper as much as I love my hounds. But, she always has time for me. She sort of took up where mom left off, looking after her brother.

She always has.

American writer Gail Sheehy said it: “Children come and eventually they go. Friends grow up and move away. But the one thing that’s never lost is our sister.”

Thank goodness. She’s someone to look up to. Even though she’s only 5 feet tall

John Roumanis is the owner of Mediterrano, my favorite Ann Arbor restaurant. John also produces my favorite olive oil.

Roumanis left the farms of his native Greece in 1970 with just $200, and a wealth of faith in the American Dream. It’s a belief we share.  We’re also devoted to this state and proud that our businesses are family owned and based here in Michigan.

And so we’re collaborating. John’s sublime olive oil, with its Mediterrano label, is newly available at my markets. Although I carry many varieties from around the world, this modestly priced, delicious oil is a perfect Hiller’s fit. I’m mad about the stuff. In fact, at Mediterrano, one of the first things I and most patrons do is reach for the glass cruet, drizzle up a saucer, and swab at the goodness with a knob of fresh bread. I could make a meal of that.

That’s why John’s venturing out. And deservedly so, since he’s long been in the vanguard of fresh, healthful fare, with dishes representing the south of France and Greece, and from Spain to north Africa. His was one of the first area restaurants to offer olive oil for bread instead of butter, which did raise some eyebrows. “We used to keep a little butter on hand though, for the few who demanded it,” he acknowledged with a chuckle. At length, customers begin to inquire about the peppery, fruity, fragrant oil with the rare, forest green color. “People from all over, especially those from Italy, Greece and Spain, would eat here then start looking for me,” he said. “They knew it was good, they knew what they were tasting, and they wanted to know where it came from.”

John’s oil is produced near Sparta, not far from his home village of Metamorphosis, where he once labored alongside his dad, growing olives, almonds, figs and wheat. Although olive oil from Spain and Italy are better known in this country, Greece devotes most of its cultivated land to olive growing, don’t you know, and offers more varieties of olives than any other country. Per capita, Greece consumes the most oil, too.

The moment at which olives are harvested influences the oil’s taste, as does the soil the trees grow on. For his “liquid gold,” as Homer called it, John mixes new-harvest ripe olives with some not fully ripe.  So, choosing a good olive oil can be similar to selecting a wine, really. John likens his full-bodied oil to a robust cabernet.

What’s more, authentic extra virgin olive oil must contain no more than 0.8 percent acidity, not that most labels on the market have that info. The fact that John’s olive oil registers 0.5 percent – and says so on the bottle – is a particular point of pride (the higher the acidity, the shorter the oil’s shelf life).

And, you can trust the purity of Mediterrano oil, typically used for dressings, marinades and dipping. The sad fact is that a lot of olive oil is adulterated; you never know if it’s mixed with vegetable oil, or what. John travels to Greece at least a couple of times a year, and sees the process first hand.

A few years ago he started selling the olive oil at Mediterrano. Some folks come in just for that. That or the red and white Greek wines he sells with the Mediterrano label, simply named after nymphs and goddesses.

No longer must John tout the health benefits of olive oil consumption. If you’re not a believer, talk to his dad, the former olive farmer who turns 100 this year, or his mom, a spirited 85. For the record, the oil is very rich in monounsaturated fats, most notably oleic acid, which reduces the risk of coronary heart disease, and thus heart attacks and strokes. It’s also good for cholesterol, blood sugar levels and blood pressure.

Like me, John Roumanis is focused and driven, a self-described Type A. Yet he has an easy smile and warm mien. He’s got three kids too…. “I’m really glad that my kids grew up in Michigan and Ann Arbor,” he said. We’re alike that way, too.

I’m proud to sell Meditterano olive oil at Hiller’s.

“We’re packed in like sardines.”

We’ve all said something like that and when we do, we’re usually not happy. Sardines as pejorative. And then there’s the subtly maligning, ”All he had in the house was a can of sardines,” as if the tasty little fish are lowly, peasant fare, associated with hard times and to be avoided.

Well, maybe the first-blush image isn’t that bad today. After all, Americans for decades have known how good for us these little guys are. You may have heard: they’re rock-star rich in Omega-3 fatty acids, which are great for heart health, and perhaps for cutting the risk of developing Alzheimer’s.  Sardines may also help lower blood sugar levels, and are a chock full of Vitamin D, calcium, B-12, niacin, essential amino acid tryptophan, and the strong antioxidant selenium. Plus, they’re a good source of phosphorus, a bone-strengthening mineral, and are amazingly rich in protein. Mercury’s not a worry.

They’re a kitchen staple and I eat them every day, just about, these saltwater, kin-to-herrings, named after the spectacular island Sardinia, off the coast of Italy, where they once dwelled in abundance. These days, sardines, also known as pilchards if they’re longer than six inches, are mostly found in the Atlantic, Pacific and Mediterranean; Spain, Portugal, France and Norway are the leading producers. I can remember eating these shimmering beauties in innumerable Japanese restaurants freshly cooked on a Hibachi grill. There’re called Shishamo. Fresh sardines are also pickled and smoked. Worldwide, more than 20 varieties of fish are sold as sardines. I have a passion for all of them. Usually, I buy them canned in water, adding a dab of mustard and perhaps a cracker. Best thing in the world. And they taste good; they’re not just fantastic for you. They also come already in mustard, of course, and in olive and soybean oils and hot sauce or other prepared sauces.

I like the more-common soft-bone-in variety, but you can get them boneless. We’ve got all kinds in our stores, where I often have a hard time keeping them. Seems like people, especially in these tough times, are increasingly hip to the value of sardines. Not only are they crazy healthful, but they’re portable, self-contained, and kind of fun and easy to stack. By the way, nearly all cans now have pull tabs, but remember back in the day when each tin had a key affixed to one side? The sensation of gently rolling that top back … marveling at the efficient, compact packing … and savoring the mildly briny, delicate, meaty taste of sea.

Sardines have been around. Although Morocco is the world’s sardine capital, the Balkans is where fishing for them began thousands of years ago. Under emperor Napoleon Bonaparte sardines became the first fish to be canned. It’s worth noting that, for whatever reason, the last sardine cannery in the United States folded this spring, after 135 years in operation. But most Americans know sardines to be affordable, delicious, and perhaps a lifesaver.

Sardines are cool.

And they don’t need a lot of fussing. You can simply sprinkle them with lemon juice and a lace of olive oil. Or you can combine them with onion (my dog Lilly likes them that way), or with olives or fennel, or top them with chopped tomatoes and basil, oregano or rosemary. Or topped with peanut butter if you’re so inclined.

Whatever, do yourself a favor and make sardines a regular part of your diet.

And now … a bit of Song of the Sardine by poet and writer Robert William Service:

A fat man sat in an orchestra stall and his cheeks were wet with tears,
As he gazed at the primadonna tall, whom he hadn’t seen in years.
“Oh, don’t you remember?” he murmured low, “that spring in Montparnasse,
When hand in hand we used to go to our nightly singing class.
Ah me, those days so gay and glad, so full of hope and cheer.
And that little supper that we had of tinned sardines and beer.
When you looked so like a little queen with your proud and haughty air,
That I took from the box the last sardine and twined it in your hair.”

No pejoratives there

At least when it comes to capers. The smallest ones, cultivated largely in Southern France, are the most prized. They have a subtler flavor and are more aromatic than their bouffant brethren.

But to each their own. My stores have them all, from the teeny non-pareils to the corn kernel-sized grusas. Whatever the millimeter, I am positively passionate about these dark olive-green gems, and always, always have a jar in the fridge, hardly ever in the cabinet, mind you, because that would connote storage, and who can sleep when there are untouched capers around? They’re meant to be used, these briny little balls, again and again, in all manner of foods, mostly Greek and Sicilian and Southern Italian, from salads and pizzas to meat and pasta dishes. Heck, I’ve even tossed them in eggs. They’re also used in a bunch of classic French and more-modern sauces and dressings, and go well with seafood, too.

I like them with chicken piccata: butterflied chicken breasts dredged through flour and dressed with melted butter, lemon juice, white wine, capers and a bit of chopped parsley. Delicious and elegant. They’re also just beautiful in salsa puttanesca, married with anchovies, basil, garlic, red pepper and tomatoes. That’ll curl your toes. And, they’re magnificent with lox and cream cheese, imparting delicate but formidable flavor. Little powerhouses, these jewels are.

If I’m particularly pushed for time I just toss them in pasta with olive oil, a speck of butter, lemon juice and diced, fresh tomatoes. Maybe a little scallion. Takes two seconds. Healthful and delicious. And really, the caper provides all the seasoning needed, save for a little ground pepper.

Try this to awaken your senses: order capers instead of olives in your next martini. Just a couple, since the flavor is intense. Drain the dregs then let the capers roll in, those verdant, saturated, imperfectly shaped rounds. Savor the particularly piquant marriage of grains, salt and mustard, the latter oil released during each bud’s growth. Enjoy the slightly chewy texture and peppery aroma. Caution, though: may never return to olives again.

At Hiller’s we carry nearly a dozen brands, plus several varieties, from the six sizes to chopped and wild to balsamic in salt. I love the look of the clinging, glistening grains of salt, which serve to absorb water on the outside and maintain moisture and freshness, but with no permeation (Still, you rinse the capers before eating). It has an organic simplicity about it, the ancient zeitgeist of far-flung lands. And that makes sense, since capers usually hail from Middle Eastern or other Mediterranean regions. Some grow in places like Spain, Morocco or Turkey. If it isn’t picked, by the way, the caper bud flowers and produces caperberry, fruit used for scrumptious Greek mezze, what we call hors d’oeuvres.

The caper is actually a perennial spring bush that bears roundish, fleshy leaves, fragrant flowers, and long, violet-colored stamen, and grows wild on walls or in rocky coastal areas.  Of course, the plant is best known for its edible buds, which are picked then pickled in salt or a salt and vinegar solution. Because a few go a long way, the nuggets are bottled in jars so quaint they tend to get lost. They are always worth the hunt, though.

Sensual satisfaction aside, they’re also a good source of iron and contain rutin, a powerful anti-oxident, and erucic acid, thought to be beneficial to cardiac health. They’re also said to contribute to healthy prostates, and reportedly contain more of the antioxident and anti-inflammatory quercetin per weight than any other plant.

As far back as  2000 B.C. caper bushes were said to have been used medicinally by the Sumerians, Greeks and Romans, mostly to aid digestion. In biblical times, the caperberry was apparently supposed to have aphrodisiac properties, the Hebrew word for it linked to the root for “desire.”

I’m not gonna argue.  What about you. Got Capers ?

I have a son I never knew.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m speaking metaphorically not literally.

What I mean is that I looked up one day … and didn’t know my own son.  Spencer the youngest who, at 22, is wiser and more poised than I ever knew . He’s way more solid than his old man was at that age.

What a shameful, delightful revelation. Shameful in that, where the hell have I been?  How could I not have known? Seen?

Some of you parents can relate.  If you have kids, you peg this one a certain way, another one that way. You feel like you have them figured out. You go through life, certain in your knowledge of how one would handle this, what another will do about that. Based on that “knowledge,” you, by turns, lose sleep and rejoice.

Until the day you do a double take, and suddenly, introductions are in order. But instead you just stare, forehead all a-wrinkled, and wonder when they changed.

Of course, they’ve not changed. Your eyes have just lost their scales.

I’ve always been proud of Spence, and naturally loved him dearly. He was a good kid; never caused any problems, never did anything wrong. But he’d been something of an enigma to me.  As a child he had fears. Like he would awaken afraid that the house was on fire, or that spiders were all over him. And he’d cry and cry. Reminds me of Wordsworth’s sonnet, “The World is Too Much With Us.” Spencer was my sensitive child, preoccupied, living inside his own head.

We always had a good relationship, but he was the youngest, third to eldest son Justin, who now is my business partner and keeper of the company legacy. It is a role for which Justin is superbly suited. And middle son Andy, the boy who was instantly the best at everything he did. Star athlete, top of his class. Spencer always seemed eclipsed by his shadow.

Andy’s a third-year medical student at the University of Michigan. He told me as a child that he wanted to be a doctor. By contrast, Spence, who will be a freshman at U-M medical school this fall, likely always knew, but never said so aloud. Different personalities.

Andy and I always had a unique bond. Tall and gregarious, yet studious, I think of him as my clone.  And although they are different, it was like he and Spencer, who are very close, shared the same brain, with Andy in the fore, mostly because he’s older. But I was wrong to fold Spencer into Andy. Spencer is completely his own man. He has all of my strong points with none of my deficits.

I never realized how extraordinary he is.

It hit me on a recent trip abroad. I was knocked out by how Spencer handled things, with incredible aplomb. Cool as a cucumber. We would be facing some snag or another and Spence would rise to it, already looking past it, fait accompli. Every single problem.. he just dealt with it. In fact, I thought, who’s the father here? What a damned impressive adult persona. He is bright and smooth and has gained a sense of intellectual and physical equanimity that’s unmatched in our family. I told him about it, too, about how impressed I was. He just quietly said “thanks”.

And that must have always been there, to some extent. It’s just taken me 22 years to appreciate and learn what an extraordinary man he is.

Now, he can be really difficult. He knows his own mind. He’s smart. On the trip, we were in some area that so moved me, I suggested that he return as part of his education. His instant response? “I’ll decide what I want to do.” Bam! Right in the mouth. He didn’t mean anything by it; he’s just his own man. A man with supreme self-confidence.

Most guys his age aren’t into reading as much as looking, if you get my drift. But in the airport I peek over, and his nose is in Primo Levi’s “Survival in Auschwitz,” the author’s account of his year as a concentration camp prisoner. Apparently, Spencer’s also reading a book by Ezekiel Emanuel, brother of President Obama’s chief of staff, on national health care. Not exactly kid’s stuff. I just shook my head.

Actually, I began looking at Spencer differently last year, when he worked at a high-profile U-M lab run by the venerable surgeon Dr. Robert Bartlett, a professor emeritus who has mentored generations of med students, and is best known for developing the extracorporeal membrane oxygenation machine, or ECMO, used globally for patients with heart or lung failure. Spencer’s basic job, during his time with Dr. Bartlett, was to mind sheep that’d had their kidneys replaced. He’d also been invited into many surgeries. This experience with Dr. Bartlett caused an absolute tidal change in him. He’d spent time before with doctors, but his time with this man sparked a fire in his belly. It changed him, this six-foot-two young man with the warm smile. He wants to be like him.

He’s on a road trip now with a buddy, before med school begins. But what I learned from our trip was that, sometimes with the youngest, it can take longer to understand their depth and completeness.

I came back almost in awe of him. I saw him in a completely different light, and for the first time, I saw the future. Here was a man who was going to be one helluva physican, one who will make big decisions, and make them well.

No longer is he the “baby,” to be stereotypically protected and nurtured. I now see him with different eyes, and it’s just one of those evolutions in relations between a father and his son.

As Shakespeare said, it is a wise father that knows his own child.

Indeed.

Better late than never.

“We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold. We had two bags of grass, 75 pellets of Mescalin, five sheets of acid, a salt shaker full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of uppers, screamers, laughers .. also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Bud, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls…not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked in a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.”

So went that famous passage from decades-old “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” by gonzo journalist Hunter Thompson. It came to mind recently as I ruminated, clear-eyed and clear-headed, about mushrooms. No… not the psilocybin variety that were a likely part of Thompson’s drug cache. But I am a man of a certain age, and mention of the fungi conjures more than one meaning.

Meaning, I say — not memories. I skipped those experiences in my youth, preferring instead to study stars through my telescope, not an altered consciousness.

It’s the other kind of mushrooms that I relish. I love everything about them, from their fleshy, creamy, smooth, luxuriant textures to the way they improve the flavor profile of most any dish. There’s something sensual about these spore-bearing fruiting bodies with their delicate stems and caps. Something organic, primordial even. Most of the 14,000 species are produced above ground, as they have been for eons, maturing from mere buttons. Some grow slowly while others, like the parasola, with their reedy stems and wide, flat caps, are more ephemeral: they appear overnight, and like accidental lovers, vanish by afternoon, chased by humidity and growing heat.

Fabrizio Casini, our Produce Director, is responsible for selecting the mushrooms Hiller’s sells. Early each morning he and his team arrive at Detroit’s Produce Terminal, where they skillfully examine the daily crop of mushrooms with great effort and care. The mushrooms are adeptly boxed by variety, separating portabella, baby bella,  enokie , shitaki, cremini and morels, then delivered to our stores and surgically placed on refrigerated shelves.

Most mushrooms sold in supermarkets have been commercially grown on farms, except for the most exotic ones like my favorite Matsutaki. Prized for their distinct spicy aroma and anecdotal magic health value, these pricey gems grow naturally under trees — in Japan, the Japanese Red Pine — hidden on the forest floor under fallen leaves. They’re also found in Europe, Asia, parts of California and the Pacific Northwest. We get ours from Oregon, plucked from under Sugar Pines and Douglas-Firs.

Kyoko Watanabe, director of our Japanese Food Department, orders these herself, delivered overnight nestled in small boxes.

When in season, just a couple of months each fall, the Matsutaki’s hot… particularly with our Japanese customers. Our 14 mile and Haggerty store also carries Shemeji, another mushroom with East Asia origin and legendary healthy attributes. Kyoko likes to sauté her Matsutaki, with their long, broad stems and darkish caps, in drops of soy sauce and citrus or in a little Ponzu. Sometimes, she’ll chop some into rice and add sake.

The Matsutaki is said to have a symbiotic relationship with its tree roots. That resonates, since my most memorable experiences with it are entwined with my youngest son Spencer. Before going off to college he and I had a ritual. Every Thursday night while the mushroom was in season we’d go to our favorite Japanese restaurant and order Matsutaki Dobin Mushi, a delectable soup dish in which dashi stock, soy sauce, sake and salt are added to a pan and brought to a boil. The mushroom, tofu, seaweed and a small piece of chicken or fish are divided into Japanese earthen teapots, into which the soup is poured and steamed for several minutes. It becomes an exquisite broth, which Spencer and I would gently savor before eating the balance.

Matsutaki Dobin Mushi became the centerpiece of our evening, just the two of us alone. It was one of those times when food became a metaphor between father and son, a vector for sharing and building an adult relationship. We never had our first beer together, instead, we’d go to the restaurant, share the meal and discuss the world through the eyes of a young man, while savoring something that few other Americans even knew of, let alone tasted. It was our secret and a spot-on catalyst for the development of trust between a father and his beloved son.

Often I think about relationships. I have three sons and that can be very difficult. Boys usually grow through asserting themselves, and fathers frequently resist. And learning is important for both sides. So the Matsutake meal, with all its mystical qualities, served as the perfect querencia for the two of us. All those layers and complexities … just like a relationship, begun by the pouring of broth into small china cups that quickly heat up, demanding patience until the broth cools.

And so it is between a father and his son.

I’ve written a lot of blogs in the past few years. Some have been provocative, others have been daring, a few like the one about Lilly my beloved Scottish Deerhound have been described as sensitive. One or two have even been viewed by some of my readers as romantic.  But the one you are about to read will never be described in any of those ways.

There’s nothing sexy, romantic, daring or provocative about scrip. I mean, the whole thing sounds like something from a ’40s wartime rationing program.

And yet it allows Hiller’s to provide the very lifeblood of more than 300 Detroit-area groups, schools and organizations, a program that lets you raise money for what’s done anyway: grocery shopping.

And I think of the program often. I really do. You see, I believe in this notion that doing good and doing well are not mutually exclusive.  I want to be a successful grocer, sure, but I also believe, with the very marrow of my being, that I am not truly successful, not worth a lick of salt, if I am not also helping, if I’m not contributing.

To whom much is given, much is required and while I’m not the world’s most religious guy, I truly believe that.

And I’ve been given. This morning, as every morning, before dawn’s forgiving break, I walked my cherished dogs. I have two: Lilly, my often storied Deerhound and Al, my Doberman. We rambled and rested and rambled and rested, under ice covered trees with owls hooting and deer staring with wary eyes ready to break and run for any or maybe no good reason. Those are the times of my life that belong to me alone and during which my thoughts are best fused with the yin and yang of my daily existence.. Sometimes I mull over my business and how it’s doing. But recently my thoughts have been more focused on how I want to help others and empower them to do the same..

And… I thought of our scrip program. I’m proud of it. It’s what Hiller’s is about. For 17 years we have partnered with hundreds of organizations to raise money just by their supporters doing their weekly grocery shopping. It works like this: schools, religious organizations and groups like ALS of Michigan and Make-A-Wish Foundation, give their participants Hiller’s scrip cards. Money is put on the cards using cash, credit cards or checks, and the customer uses the card, much as one would use a gift card, to pay for purchases.

And here’s the thing: after every activation and reload, from $5 to $1,000, the organization gets a monthly Hiller’s check for 5 percent of that amount. Say you spend $100 at one of our seven stores. The group you represent automatically gets $5. Multiply that by scores of shoppers weekly, and you’re talking serious fundraising. In 2009, Hiller’s charitable partners raised themselves more than $250,000 .

With school budgets slashed to zilch and non-profits reeling, I thought about how our scrip program is needed now more than ever. Take Dee Dworman, a school volunteer who started the program at West Bloomfield’s Pleasant Lake Elementary School nearly a decade ago. Scrip sales are close to $8,000 monthly, paying for things like the school’s literacy library, back-to-school barbecues and family fun nights. “We’ve been able to have so many things at our school that we wouldn’t be able to have without this program,” Dworman said. “That five percent is huge, and this is a year-round program so we’re making money even in the summer, when you still have to shop. It is free, easy and painless fundraising. We’re not selling anything.”

She particularly likes that in 2006 we switched from paper scrip to more-durable, bookkeeping-friendly plastic. Apparently other folk do too, since the program has really taken off. For the last two years, Katherine Murphy has been the coordinator at Our Lady of Victory school in Northville, which uses scrip to, among other things, fund its science program. Some of the revenue even goes toward tuition. ”Oh, gosh. It’s so important,” she said of the program. “It’s comes out to a huge percentage of help for our school.”

I guess its true…this blog about  scrip isn’t sexy, but it is damn satisfying to know that we are seeking to do good and to do well  at the same time.

For more information or to sign up for the Hiller’s Scrip Program, contact Cindy Perez at (248) 355-2122 or  cindy.perez@hillers.com.