On grandeur of thoughts; on a saucepan

Before I bid farewell to today and pull down the curtains...

My gentle readers, at a subtle time between a dusk and a dawn the other night I woke up with a start only to understand with a relief that life is, indeed, all about pleasure and - wait for it - fun. And to knock a misconception (this is really the last thing ever I want between you and me) on its dull head, I shall hurriedly resume that by ‘pleasure and fun’ I don’t mean a feeling of a continuous elation and satisfaction (though always wanted, of course).

I humbly interprete pleasure as a way to live my life with an open heart: to greet sad times with as much dignity as I do the moments that lace my days with smiles, to explore both ups and downs that are on my way, rather than pretending I’m on a plain path, to be grateful for the experience instead of chastising myself for mistakes.

Above is a grandeur of this post. Such thoughts do not visit me on a regular basis, really. Relevent is it to say I’m a way too happy I’ve documented this touch of wisdom here, and moreover, shared it with you!

Below is an excerpt from my ’silly moments collection’ (in which I am operating far more frequently than in thoughts of that impressive grandeur).

Locale: a second-hand vintage shop with a few kitchenware items on display.

Play’s characters: a shop-assistant, she might as well be an owner (whichever, there was no evidence to prove), and me, on the lookout for a cast-iron saucepan .

Lingua franca: english

Me: Excuse me, blah blah blah. I’m looking for a saucepan with a heavy bottom. Preferebly, a cast-iron one.

She: saucepan? Cast-iron?

Me: Yes.

She: I don’t know what you mean.

Me: ???

She: What do you do with it?

Me: ??? (Shame me, but it took me a few long seconds to get hold of my composure again, cause, honestly, I was taken a trifle too aback). Oh, I cook with it, don’t you?

She: I don’t understand why you speak English. I am Spanish, I speak Dutch.

Me: Girl, whichever language you speak, you’ll better know your saucepans. That was my smart but, alas, imaginative answer. In reality, I smiled mildly stupidly and hastened to flee the place. Because ,you know, I feel particularly intimidated when cultures clash, national/racial issues are brought up and people don’t know what you do with a cast-iron saucepan. And the latter is really, really, really spooky-ingly scary...