The great debacle.

Measure. I knew that at some time I would have learn my lesson.

Falafel taught me.

I was excited to use up some curly parsley (it has practically been banned from the refrigerator) using the falafel recipe R sent to me. Rare is it that we have all of the ingredients for falafel in the house.

Erik had just come home from a weekend in Napa as I was putting the thing together. We were chatting away and I forgot about measuring the baking soda. The oil was hot. The tahini was made. Life was good.

The first ball of falafel landed in the oil and floated like a champ. It looked up at me, smiled and floated apart.

Frantic, I put in two or three more falafel balls. They too bounced up from the hot oil, waved a grand hello and disintegrated.

DUCKS ON FIRE!

Well, maybe making them into falafel croutons would be cute. I pulled the pieces out and drained them.

I took a bite.

If a frown had a taste, over-baking sodaed falafel mix would be it.

Erik tasted the frown.

Sadness loomed.

Defeat leaned against the threshold of the door and cocked his head.

No!

To neutralize the baking soda I added vinegar. I made a new ball of falafel.

The oil scowled and smoked and popped.

The little lump crumpled immediately into a dark, unhappy ball of evil.

Defeat stepped lightly into the kitchen.

I grabbed the vinegar again. I went toward the refrigerator to retrieve an egg.

Adrianne, it’s over, Erik said, grabbing my arm and looking me in the eye.

I can revive it. I know I can.

Adrianne, it’s dead.

No!

Defeat walked past us.

I looked down at the stove and the near flaming oil.

No. No, please, they’re too young. They were too full of promise, please. I can help them.

Defeat turned off the stove top.

Life hasn’t been the same since.