Let’s say that you go to the dump, and then on the way back you suddenly have a mild panic attack because you realize you hard boiled all the eggs for egg salad sandwiches, meaning there are no eggs, and you were thinking of making brownies. Because you get no sleep and chocolate is your only form of caffeine intake. So your husband says, “Let’s just stop at Amato’s” because you were driving by, and Amato’s is the last business establishment before you get home that might sell eggs.
So you go inside and don’t see any eggs, and you ask someone behind the counter if they have eggs. He says, “We don’t, but I can sell you some,” seeing the brownie panic that is causing worry lines to crease your forehead into canyons. So he goes into the back and returns with the eggs in a little metal tin, like they’d give you take-out lasagna in or something.
And then you are cracking up all the way back to the car and you get in and your husband says, “Can I get sauce with those eggs?”
And then you don’t actually end up making brownies. But you could have.