My daughter made biscuits last night – beautiful “from scratch” biscuits like people’s grandmas used to make. I was kind of excited. I had a client so I was eating later than the family and I envisioned the biscuits with butter and some cinnamon applesauce.
Ok, not the kind of applesauce your grandmother used to make, but the kind that comes in a six-pack of little containers with foil on the top. But it was a name brand and I really like it, especially with thick slices of brown bread and butter or with biscuits.
So I got my favorite little plate out. It’s an appetizer size square plate that I bought at Kroger, and I really love it. I got two biscuits and sliced them each right down the middle, slathered on some soft butter and went to get the applesauce.
It was not on the top shelf of the frig. Or the middle shelf. Not in the door. No, not on the bottom shelf, and not in the vegetable bin. What was in the vegetable bin was 5 packages of sugar free applesauce that MP prefers. 5 packages, each with 6 of the little foil-covered containers, equaling 30 containers of applesauce. Not one of which was the kind I like.
I’m laughing about it now, but at the time, for just a moment, it felt like the worst kind of betrayal. And I fussed and bitched for a little bit. Long enough for MP to suggest I add cinnamon to the cherry applesauce or the Granny Smith applesauce. No, thank you very much.
Because by then, it was not about the applesauce at all, it was about all the possibilities I’ve been excited about that fell through. It was about the times I pushed my own wants aside to make sure someone else had what they needed. The times I didn’t complain about something because it “wasn’t really a big deal.”
And quite suddenly, unexpectedly, it was about everything, and I stood in the kitchen, by myself, and cried.