You get up early on Sunday morning and put on a pair of linen pants and a dark blue t-shirt.
You hop in the car and head to the local Schwankola Organic Grocery, where there are dozens of things you've never heard of and some things you're a bit scared of.
You load up the cart with magenta peaches larger than your two fists, monster fruit, apples from New Zealand, raspberries, sesame sticks, coffee, little miniature baguettes, stinky cheeses from the four corners of the earth, some Danish butter you love, and a flaxseed cereal that looks like sawdust but tastes like Heaven.
Then you head past the small island where olives and capers and pickled goods of every sort are kept. You pause briefly, admiring the colors of the vegetables.
A man with a heavy Italian accent and the unlikely name of Henry spots you. He offers you various olives to taste, and a debate starts about the relative merits of dry-salt and brined curing. You walk away with a half-pound of tiny, wrinkled, intensely-flavored black olives and a mouthful of pits from your samples.
What do you do with the pits???
If you are you? You spit the pits into your hand, go back to Henry, say winningly "Where can I throw the pits?", and let it be his problem. He will not be able to resist, because you are looking to him as your savior; he will even hold out his hand and take them from you and offer you his shirt-tail to wipe your palm on.
ReplyDeleteIf you are me? You put the pits into the pocket of your linen pants and then go buy a new pair of linen pants. Which you would have had to do anyway because you would have knelt to tie your shoe at some point and put your knee down on a raspberry.
If you were me? Spit them, like watermelon seeds, at the nearest amusing target.
ReplyDeleteThis would explain why I'm not allowed out in public very often.