Introduction:
I know I haven't told many of you my adventures on the East Coast, but for anyone who has heard anything, you probably know that I LOVE IT out here. This place has everything I've ever wanted! There are several wonderful places within a close distance that make it optimal. To list a few: The Library of Congress, The Shakespeare Library, The most amazing little bookstores you've ever seen, and the friggin' Declaration of Independence (a lot about books, wow). ALSO, cherry blossoms, a decent public transportation system that doesn't shut down at like 11:00 on a weekend (I'm looking at you, TRAX), and my favorite thing of all: people from all walks of life.
Just geographically, about everyone I meet is from a different city or state or country and they're all here because they want the world to be better. AND people almost always look you in the eye and say "good morning" wherever you are. Best. Place. Ever.
Now, you're probably wondering why I've gathered you all here together today from various parts of the interwebs. The answer is not to rub my awesome life adventures in your face (as if I could compare with all the amazing things you do, I'm serious!), but rather to admit something...
I do miss it.
I miss Utah and the West Coast. I never thought I would say this, but I miss my mountain-clad, hymn-singing, home of cricket-eating seagulls. At least a little. It doesn't taint my wonderful city-life here, but it opens my heart a little the place and people I left back out there. So much love for everyone!!!
Maybe I've been teaching English too long (haha. 5 months.) but imma boutta blow your mind with my off-the-cuff Shakespeare:
"My only love sprung from my only hate."
BOOM.
Yes, it's true. My realization of love for the Beehive State comes from a place of hate. And here is that woeful tale.
The Woeful Tale:
It all began on a night just like tonight. I was in desparate need of food and the only thing I'd thought to buy last time I went grocery shopping was cilantro (how does this happen like every week???). I had no food.
In order to stave off the pangs and throes of a quiet death from starvation (and because I'm so lazy I can't even make a grocery list), I found myself turning into the parking lot of a nearby grocery store (at this time, I had no car, so it took a while and my expectations were getting higher with each *click-click* of the stupid fancy shoes I wore to work, so by the time I got there I was craving something extravagent. Like maybe with fruit even, Idk).
I sidled up to a rickety cart and began my quest, pulling slightly to the left and requiring all the strength of one arm in particular just to move forward, and that's when I saw it. The oil. Olive oil. It could have been a sign from heaven, the way the bottle glistened in the light of flickering fluorescent glare, or it could have been my ADHD, but it was beautiful.
I thought to myself "Self, This. This is what you've been waiting for that whole walk accross the parking lot. And it will be the center of all future purchases." It wasn't. I made many more shopping mistakes that day. I blame it on the tragedy to come.
My natural next thought was "Self, you must now purchase something to dip into the glory pressed from olives and angel wings." And then I had it.
Sourdough bread.
I was a genius. My whole life, I'd grown up with sourdough sandwiches, sourdough toast, and the best thing ever was sourdough with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and I LOVE a good sourdough.
Filled with hope and anticipation, I scooted, pulled, and yoinked my steel steed to the baker's section and searched in a frantic joy. To no avail. French, french, Naan, challah. No sourdough. In haste, I abandoned my cart. I ran to the sandwich aisle, fearing the worst. *click-click* *click-click* -sliiiide-
I searched through every loaf. I looked up and down and side to side in such a tizzy, the man in the red Safeway vest who had been stocking behind me, decided I was a distraction and swiftly turned around, looked me up and down, and said with a sigh, "Can I help you? Ma'am?"
My words breathless in reply: "Sourdough? Any... have.. any... Sourdough?"
"Right here, Ma'am."
I watched as his finger pointed to something. Something odd. I had never seen anything like it. I reached out to touch it and thought it would reach back, but alas, as I touched the thing, it recoiled. What ho? Soft! I grabbed the whole "loaf" in confusion. Accross the bag printed the words "Peppridge Farm Sourdough" and encased in it's crystal prison was something akin to potato bread. Long, white, and looking just like wonderbread. My body rigid and my hands shaking, it fell to the floor.
"Is that what you're looking for?" A voice prodded from behind. "Ma'am?"
I turned and stared at this man who must be mad. Eyes wide and heart pumping, I backed away, turned around and bolted. (Okay, I didn't actually do that. I said thanks, put it in my cart and left it somewhere for an employee to find like a decent human being. But, still.)
I left the store that day in the glistening sunlight with new, sad eyes. I looked around at the people going about their daily lives and the masquerade of beauty in this town shattered as I saw them all for what they are: an entire race of people unenlightened. Ignorant of the truth. A facet of life missing. They have everything they think they need and no sourdough bread.
Every few months, I see less frightening loaves of sourdough in the store and I buy them. Some bakery sections have them, Trader Joe's sells something like it. But it's not the same. All soft on the outside and tough on the inside. I sometimes think languishingly "Doesn't anyone here understand?" And let it pass because the truth is they don't.
And so, I pass on my woeful tale to those of you still in the promised land. Don't let a day pass you by without knowing what you have. Never think for a second that you don't hold the treasure in your hands. And never, I mean NEVER buy the sourdough bread on the East Coast it's seriously awful.
