Where the hell is my ticker-tape parade?

Last night was kind of a big deal for me: I finished the last of a medium size container of fat-free sour cream. Huzzahs all around. Not all in one sitting, though I suppose that would have made me even more impressed with myself. No, the celebration here is that I powered through a single kind of food before it got moldy.

That’s the bad thing about grocery shopping for one: You have to commit to eating enough of one kind of food before it goes bad. Am I in the mood for a dozen eggs? Can I commit to a container of milk? The economical size yogurt tub? A bag of apples might work out to be cheaper per apple than picking up just a few. But it’s not wise. Or healthy.

Sour cream and I didn’t get off on the best foot, what with it having that “sour” misnomer. (It’s like the Greenland of food!) I gazed at it warily on many a taco night at Casa de Little Kate. But I’ve become a convert in recent years. Eating dry baked potatoes is no way to live your life.

I’ve yet to beat the mold spore clock with a loaf of bread. I’m ok until about two-thirds into the loaf, and I hit the wall. I don’t want toast, French toast, a sandwich of any form or egg in a hole. And I refuse to buy the short-bus loaves that they pawn off to shopper-for-ones. Hell no. I’ll go feed bread to ducks before that happens.