Today I made an atypical and impetuous decision. I bought a Snickers bar. I do not do this. The last time I had one was two or three years ago, it was bite-sized, and I picked it up from a pumpkin-shaped bucket at a bank. And, if I remember rightly, it was stale.
What happened was this. My little family are all sick today, even Alex, who Never Gets Sick. We needed herbal tea and chicken and such things. Being in the Mondayish situation of having no food in the house, I had to walk to town for groceries. And was again confronted with shelves of unfamiliar and oddly packaged food items. What do you mean? you may be thinking.
These are flavors of potato chips. Seriously. I could not make this stuff up. My local shops do have a fair number of foods that are American. Sort of. (I think they sprinkle the chocolate chips on top of the cookies. In their defense, they probably don’t realize that this is cheating.)
Food selection is still a matter for concentration. The mind reels with thoughts: what are those called here, how much do I need in metric, what the heck is that, etc. And then, as I tiredly waited “in queue” for the checkout, a familiar sight met my eyes. It looked exactly like it has always looked (if you could ignore the “58g” instead of ounces in the fine print, which I did). I had a flash of homesickness, and dropped it in my basket. It’s sitting proudly in my cupboard now, beaming with American fatty goodness every time I open the door. Snickers, I think. The world is smaller than it seems.