Maybe we should’ve just stayed in Vermont.

Coming back from a let’s-go-in-March-to-save-money ski trip, my boyfriend and I were blissfully unaware of the corona-panic shopping happening in New Jersey when we got home Wednesday night to our empty fridge.

There are still only two cases of coronavirus in Vermont, with no apparent freaking out — except how the warm weather had made for crummy skiing.

“That’s what you get in the spring!” someone would grumble over the breakfast buffet, and another person would shake his head.

That was the worst offense the world had wreaked up there. It was a lovely isolation bubble of locally brewed beer and hats with moose antlers and cheese fondue.

By Thursday morning, back in New Jersey, we may as well have been in a different world — my office was a ghost town, schools were closing and, crap, we really don’t have anything to eat.

Also nearly out of food? My 76-year-old father, who suffers from serious lung disease, who is just recovering after being hospitalized with the flu, and for whom I am the sole caretaker.

“We’re screwed,” I said. Except I didn’t say “screwed.”

Not a paper towel to be found at the Clark Acme on Friday afternoon. (Photo sent by my Instacart shopper)

Trying all the grocery apps in a sweaty panic

I was an early adopter of online grocery shopping. I’ve been using Peapod at my local Stop & Shop for years. Proud to avoid the stress of the supermarket, I’ve become evangelical about it.

“And then you don’t impulse buy!” I’d tell my sister. “And think of the time you save!”

So when I brought up the Peapod app and it said “site maintenance,” I freaked a little. I kept refreshing in disbelief. It’s always been there for me, but now, nothing.

Sure, we could go to the store, but the lines and the people — should we really chance either of us getting exposed and giving the virus to my hits-every-category-of-most-vulnerable father?

I’ve never used Whole Foods delivery, but I figured I’d give it a shot — it’s free for Prime members. I spent over an hour adding to my cart, until my order totaled an ungodly number and my boyfriend started telling me I was nuts.

“I’m going to be the reason you survive!” I barked back. “Besides, it’s FOOD. We’ll eat it eventually.”

When I felt I had prepared the full Armageddon shopping list I tried to check out. No delivery for the next three days – or, it seemed, the foreseeable future. Shit.

Besides Peapod, I’ve used Instacart a few times to be a hero friend, like when I surprise-sent Pedialyte and snacks to my college roommate while she was home with a bunch of sick kids. (It costs $99 a year if you forget to cancel the free trial, like I did.)

Instacart hires shoppers to visit the store of your choosing and pays them a percentage based on how many orders they complete and the total bill.

I chose the Clark Acme, remade my list and the total grew even higher, but when it appeared to let me complete the order — with pickup the following day, delivery wasn’t available — I breathed a sigh of relief.

Still, though, who knew what my shopper would encounter when he or she actually set foot inside. As my pickup time approached, I braced for a text telling me my order was canceled, but instead, it notified me that my shopper, we’ll call her Shania (I’ve changed her name to protect her privacy), was now shopping.

I sent her a message right away: “Thank you!!! I’m sure it’s crazy out there!”

She replied, “It’s extremely crazy. I’m trying my best for your order right now. Please just bear with me…thank you,” and a smiley emoji.

The milk aisle at the Clark Acme on Friday afternoon, photo sent by my Instacart shopper.

Three freaking hours of shopping

Instacart shoppers text you to notify you if items are unavailable, and this is how it went for the next three hours as Shania patiently tried to tick off the 90 items on my list.

“The store does not have the requested product, Honeydew Melon. Would you like a replacement?”

“Cantaloupe would be good if they have it,” I wrote back.

“Got it,” Shania replied.

I felt guilty, home, trying to work, while Shania was braving the elements, each time making sure I was okay with the replacements she chose, sending me photos of options she held in blue-gloved hands.

To keep her going, I encouraged her via text, and she’d send an emoji back. I was afraid she might just quit at some point, but she forged on.

“Shania is saving us,” I told my boyfriend. “This woman is a saint.”

For the most part, Shania was able to find a different version of nearly everything I requested — till she got to milk and paper towels.

The milk choices had narrowed to Lactaid or Skim Plus. She sent a photo of the nearly empty shelves. When she refunded my paper towel order, she sent a shot of that aisle, too, totally empty.

“Wow,” I wrote back.

No toilet paper or ground turkey either, but besides those, she managed to complete almost every item to my total amazement.

At 3:37 p.m., I received a message that her shopping was done, and I sent her this:

“You are my angel, Shania! (Hands praying emoji.) Thank you so much.”

She replied: “Thank you, my love.”

In my panic, I somehow ordered my father six large cans of pineapple chunks, slices and puree.

I think we’re ready now...

Around 4:30 p.m., the app notified me I could pick up my order and where to park in the parking lot. (My original pickup time was supposed to be 1:15 p.m.) When we got to the Acme, which, by the way, was calmer and less crowded than I had imagined, the app told me I needed to go inside.

I bristled at the thought of going in, which I had hoped to avoid altogether, but when I gave the customer service rep my name, he knew right away which groceries were mine and had us on our way.

“Jess? 30 bags? Yeah, these are all yours,” he said, pointing to an entire shelving rack of bags with stickers bearing “JESS” in big letters.

Our cart overfloweth.

At home, I sorted the groceries into piles for us and piles for my father, and realized I must have been in an altered state (panic) when I ordered. Somehow I had six cans of pineapple chunks and more than a dozen of vegetables and soups. I lined them up on the counter and laughed at myself, while also feeling secure knowing we could probably survive on just the green bean collection I had amassed.

I started sending photos to our family group text. My mother and stepfather had boxes of what appeared to be every single shape of pasta.

“I see your pineapple chunks and raise you these. Plus 15 boxes of frozen ravioli and 16 jars of sauce. This is Charlie’s survival plan,” my mother wrote, referring to my stepfather, who is Irish, by the way. She followed it with, “Who’s the Italian here?”

My sister sent back a photo of an Amazon box with 14 bars of Dove soap and the text: “Every day, I’m surprised by another box of something I impulsively ordered online.”

“Wow. You can wash your butt forever,” I replied. “Forget toilet paper!”

Panicking? Who's panicking? It's totally normal to order 14 bars of Dove soap on Amazon, right? (Photo by my sister)

Later, I found Shania on Facebook and was tempted to friend her and send her a gift card or something. (For whatever reason, Instacart allows you to tip on delivery orders but not pickup orders, and Shania was gone by the time my order was available for pickup.) But I decided I didn’t want to seem creepy. Still, the emojis I sent could never adequately express how grateful I am.

On our drive home from Acme, we passed the Clark Fire Department building on Raritan Road, and its sign had been changed. The letters, which usually spell out upcoming blood drives, instead bore a simple message:

“We will beat the coronavirus.”

Jessica Remo may be reached at jremo@njadvancemedia.com. Follow her on Twitter@JessicaRemoNJ. Find NJ.com on Facebook. Get the latest updates right in your inbox. Subscribe to NJ.com’s newsletters.