I am standing in my kitchen trying to figure out why I bought shallots. I haven't cooked with them in years. Since I stood in a large kitchen with a black and white checkerboard floor and a marble fireplace. There, I used them more then regular onions. Maybe because Whole Foods charged more for them and so they seemed more valuable. But they were always in my kitchen. At the ready for dishes of roasted vegetables. For steak marinated. For quiches and side dishes. For a person I know longer knew.
And so it must have been instinct or habit that led me to put them in my cart. I didn't even realize I had purchased them until I got the groceries home and unloaded. There in my kitchen with laminate wood floors and a large breakfast bar, amidst the whines from my toddlers for lunch, I found them. Tucked away with the string beans. I hold them tight in my hand for a moment. I roll them over remembering the feeling of them. Of then.
Before I drop them into the trash.