Last week, I went to yoga and was lying peacefully in shavasana and I started thinking about the home that I grew up in and that my parents still live in. And I started thinking about all the things I love about it. Like this peppercorn grinder my mom has that is wood covered with chipped porcelain from having been dropped a thousand times too many and then glued back together by my very handy father. I love that pepper grinder. I want that pepper grinder. I wondered if I'd have to fight my brothers for it when my parents die. Then I had a paranoid thought that my parents are getting old. And then suddenly, my mind went into the dark dark place where parents die and pepper grinders go to those who don't appreciate them. And lordy, I was crying. IN YOGA. A low point.
Whew, ok. Puppies are cute. Puppies are my happy place.
I recovered from my little tear fest, wiped my eyes, namasted and came home to watch tv on the couch before going to bed and starting a new day that didn't involve the dark place.
Fast forward to today. Today, I went grocery shopping with Inspector Climate and I was mostly buying food for this very special meal that I was planning for Wednesday night. The Very Special Meal that I've been looking forward to since like February called for corn tortillas. No dramas right? Wrong. Australia hates me. I wish there was another logical conclusion from this tale that is obviously wrought with intrigue and story telling prowess, but alas no. Nary another conclusion can be found. This nation that I call home HATES ME for there was not a single corn tortilla to be found in not one, not two, not even three, nor four, NOT FIVE grocery stores had corn tortillas. So, a normal human being would think, "make them yourself" Thank you normal human being, I would, HONESTLY I WOULD. Except...Australia wouldn't think to carry the proper corn flour to make tortillas, don't be silly.
To say I was distraught would be an understatement.
All because of a seriously kick butt albeit beaten up pepper grinder.