I broke a bowl yesterday. After dinner I was in the kitchen dressing the salad and chatting about something or other. Somewhere between walking back to the table and reaching out to put the bowl down, something happened and the bowl hit the floor. Glass, arugula, olive oil: everywhere! It was (apparently) the sort of glass bowl that shatters into a million pieces and they all spray around the place; not a clean break into a few big pieces in a concentrated area. Yikes.
So there we were. Ready to eat our salad (discussing who was going to grate some Romano cheese over theirs, who was going to pick out the arugula and only eat the vegetables, who wanted some bread on the side) and we had to stop in our tracks and clean up.
But the worst of it was not the fact that I broke the bowl. Nor the mess of salad and oil all over the floor, nor the (long) time it took to clean up while everyone was stranded at the table, not allowed to move amongst the glass and tomatoes. No, it was the loss of salad. It seemed too late to start again; there were no more pre-washed greens, I had used the last of the juicy cherry tomatoes and by then everybody felt ready to move on to ice cream and fruits.
We each enjoyed a small scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream and some local stone fruits. And tidied up the kitchen. And everything was fine, really. But I wish I’d had some salad at dinner last night.