Presenting: my grocery list for yesterday's trip to Whole Foods.
What. Is going. On.
I mean, kale? Almond milk? HEMP SEEDS? Who is this person, and what has she done with the cheese-puff-loving me I have come to know and tolerate? (Nothing, actually; I just eat organic Trader Joe's cheese puffs now. And I eat them for breakfast, so there.)
Discovery: I really, really like caviar. But I do not like very much of it, because as delicious as it is, it's also fish eggs, and my psyche can only handle eating so many unhatched fish babies. So when we opened our little tin of caviar on New Year's Eve, despite the fact that there were only maybe two big tablespoons' worth of eggs in it, we only ended up eating about half.
I figured that was fine; we'd just eat the rest later, but then Francesca and I were talking about caviar on the phone while I was driving around running errands (we don't usually talk about things like caviar, I promise; I'm not quite sure how this happened) and she googled "how long does caviar last" for me, and it turns out it's fine when it's all sealed away in a jar, but once you open it you better get on it.
So I went home and got on it.
Trader Joe's is such a joy in my life. Putting aside the wine selection for a moment (but omg the wine selection), can we please talk about those samples? They are literally what give me the ability to wander through the aisles unaccompanied by the sounds of budding sibling rivalry in the form of simultaneous desire for the exact. same. banana.
The unfortunate thing about the fact that the samples must immediately be dispensed into tiny hands if we are to maintain any semblance of peace is that I rarely get a chance to try them. I guess I could pick up a third little sample plate for myself, but I become so excited by the fact that my children are paralyzed by the sight of herb-scented quinoa mounds placed atop teeny little crackers that I just start rocketing around the store in search of the aged gouda that is my other joy in life.
But the other day I went to Trader Joe's and made my customary stop at the counter to pick up samples for Indy and Goldie, and Goldie decided that she didn't like hers (and said decision, in toddler-speak, translates to I Will Throw This Dramatically Onto The Floor If You Do Not Remove It From My Hands RIGHT NOW). So, in the grand tradition of mothers everywhere, I ate my child's partially-masticated leftovers. (If you think this is the grossest thing I did all week, you would be very, very wrong.)
