Saturday, June 16, 2007

Bête Noire

There was an accident. Basically the cilantro salsa came crashing down and destroyed a bowl and an adjacent glass, smashing them to tiny shards, turning the bottom part of the glass into a jagged spire not unlike the tower of Mordor, and the bowl into a pile of ceramic dust coating everything in a four foot radius. Tamalehawk knew the unrelenting nature of granite, but it never ceases to astound with its impenetrability. Fortune smiled on the cilantro salsa, who was returned to the shelf rattled but intact.

Something clearly has to be done about the shelf organization. Why is the Hungarian paprika front and center on the most accessible shelf? Why must the long pastas be laid horizontally across the canned goods? Nothing worth eating is visible or easily acquired. Heavy jars teeter on the brink of calamity. Various boxed teas comprise an entire shelf of prime real estate. Order and sense has given way to confusion. Tamalehawk has resigned himself to getting brained by a suicidal can of chick peas.

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