Or her friends.
I really meant to stay loyal to the olive oil pump.
Less waste. Less propellant. Less to add to the grocery list.
But then there's Pam. Looking at me. Whispering "I'm so convenient. I work so well. Think of eggs. Think of cakes." And I find myself reaching for her. Or one of her friends that's on sale.
And the olive oil pump shuffles back to her spot in the back of the cupboard, waiting for another day, another chance to prove herself. "Later," I assure her. "When we're having sweet potato chips. You're really good at sweet potato chips."