Misadventure: An allegory in the first person

I woke up this morning beaming with pride. I had done it. Last night inspired by Goddess Clotilde, I had made THE pastry crust that will force all my previous attempts into depressive comas. A divined crust so malleable, so agreeable that it rolled without sticking, baked without shrinking, and maintained a chicly sculpted edge without benefit of those gaudy Emile Henry Artisan Ruffled Pie Dishes that I can’t afford.

It’s okay. Be jealous. I know I would be.

At 8:37am, well on my way to egocentricity, I finally decided to get ready for work. Wrapped in Olive Oil Crust bliss nothing could go wrong. Yet standing naked in the shower, something seemed to be missing—THE SOAP! Policy dictates that in situations such as this, frustration and blame be directed towards someone other than the victim (namely me).

Ring ring
Greg: Good morning darling.
Adam: Where the fuck is the soap?
Greg: There isn’t any left?
Adam: uh, NO.
Greg: Oh, I guess we must be out.
Adam: You think?
Greg: You could use the shampoo?
Adam hangs up

I cursed Greg. I cursed myself for allowing my success in the kitchen to cloud my common sense. My search for scraps of Dial hiding behind the facial cleanser was futile.

Then I discovered my salvation sitting on the ledge of the sink, the Holy Grail: SoftSoap Elements Antibacterial Hand Soap, liquid in a fish decorated pump bottle. The cacophony of homosexual angels may rejoice—in falsetto: AHH!

Dispensing the clear liquid into my hand and onto my body, things didn’t seem so bad—a minor wrench in the day. And lets not forget, I made one amazing crust last night. Daydreaming about its flakey texture, hints of thyme, the way it will elevate the quiche, nothing could go wrong. I turned off the water and reached for the towel….

FUCK! No towel.

Morals of the story
1) No matter how fabulous you are, something will go wrong.
2) Unless you want to run around the house naked, don’t start a project until you check that you have all the ingredients.

Musing: Is life really a bowl of cherries?

So I was sitting in Memorial Church listening to the Dali Lama drop a few fuck its when I started to smell cherries—now, this alarmed me a little because a) I was not close enough smell the Dali Lama, b) I am not 100% sure he emits fruity odors, and c) don’t people think they smell funny things like burnt toast before they have a heart attack? After reassuring myself that there was no danger, the smell created a cherry craving—the kind that women get when they are pregnant and want to eat soil. Only not as dirty.

Cherries are one of the few items you have to wait for. One can get raspberries and pineapples and oranges and spinach to satisfy desires any Monday evening of the year at your local Whole Foods (for a price, of course). But cherries—warm, ripe, devastating cherries only appear in June and take you by surprise.

This presents a problem since I am not one of those very patient people who can handle surprises. While studying Tibetan Buddhism for a semester in college, I could not sit still long enough to meditate. I was so frustrated with my progress that I asked for some advice: you don’t have to guess which virtue my teacher suggested.

So I’m sitting in front of the epitome of patience yet unable to curb my hunger for cherries. What’s a gal to do in this existential crisis? I prayed for the Dali Lama to send me a telepathic message…

For cherries—as enlightenment—one must wait.

Fuck it.