There are few things in life that get my goat more, than being denied food.
I’m fairly rigid with my eating routines, breakfast straight up, then lunch at lunch time, dinner at night time. Easy. For this I am teased mercilessly by my lovely husband and middle sister, who, incidentally, are the most mental OCD sandwich makers on the planet. “That’s the wrong order, lettuce goes last! The ham needs to go all the way to the edge! Salt, then pepper!” Etc etc.
Anywho, I love some food, and I hate some food (we’ve covered peas in a previous post, eeeeew), and some foods I only eat certain types of. It’s really not complicated. I love food.
Only a few weeks ago, after I’d gone for an MRI in Mackay on my own, (Dan was in Weipa), my lovely Mumma gave me a fresh cooked chook to bring home. Now, in the first few weeks of the Spincident, I was not eating a great deal. My sorrow, frustration and pain were more than I needed to fill my belly.
But this chook? I had a wing before I left Mums and it was fantastic! Delicious. I was mentally preparing to have this chook for tea the whole 200k drive home.
I stopped at middle sisters to pick up G1, 2 & 3 and Duke, then headed home. Upon arrival, Duke has eaten my chook. Seems no one else in the backseat noticed this happening.
I was so mad I shoo’d him from the car very over-dramatically and then threw my crutch at his retreating backside (In my defence I’m a rubbish shot, I’m at the shallow end of the hand eye coordination gene pool, and I was bloody hungry). I missed. But stewed on that chook for hours.
Only a few weeks before, on our way home from the hut, we stopped in at the famous Collinsville bakery (best bread in Australia I swear!), and I picked up a few things for the kids and a family pie to take home for tea! Easy and delicious dinner, that everyone likes. Win win win.
In the 20 seconds that Duke was put in the car after we ate our lunch at the park. He ate the god damn pie.
Luckily the bakery wasn’t far and had more, so problem solved. But yes, I was pissed off.
Also lucky that it’s very hard to stay mad at a sausage dog.
Since I hurt myself, 3 and a half bloody months ago, I have been blessedly relieved of grocery shopping.
Not that it’s that bad. When the kids were little it was an outing, one of very few, so I liked it! Now, it’s dearer, more time consuming and the triple handling does my head in.
I’m a pretty rigid shopper too, I know where everything is, and make my lists aisle by aisle. Therefor Dan and the kids have had it pretty easy in that they are well prepared once they get to the store.
It seems however, that since I’ve been injured, Coles has stopped stocking a lot of my favourite things.
Crazy. I know.
French onion soup? Stopped selling it. Cous cous in a packet? Stopped selling it. Oysters in a tin? Stopped selling it. Coffee poppers? Stopped selling it. Delicious natural yoghurt with fruit on top that I absolutely love and have been craving? (probably on a primal level as I need yogurt to heal my cracked bone). Stopped. Selling. It.
Now I don’t know about you, but I smell a rat. I smelt the rat after the first shop Dan and the kids did for me.
But what could I do?
Stopped selling it hey? And all this other stuff?
Wow. Maybe I should write a letter?
Well just this week, I had to go to Coles (G1 has inherited a new phone and I needed to get her a SIM card. No I don’t know what means either). So out of curiosity, I hopped into Coles.
And you wouldn’t believe it!!!
They, just yesterday, restocked all the missing items from my list!
Amazing. Just amazing.
It’s almost like they’d been there all along and people were just too lazy to look!
Upon retiring to bed I asked G1 to snap a pic of the items to use in a funny blog post I was thinking up.
She did, then sent it to me, then stayed up watching the Lion King for the squillionth time (school holidays), then went to bed.
I had an extra spring to my hop as I made my way to the kitchen this morning, almost tasting that yogurt on my lips!
And it’s still on the bench. My beloved yogurt. All night. All hot, Septembery night.
I threw my crutch at her.