Butter flies

I went to a nearby town to do groceries. It's Sunday today. Tomorrow is Monday, but it's also a holiday; don't ask me what is being celebrated. All I know is that it's some bank holiday; I was not curious enough to find out the details; I just know that I have an additional day off tomorrow. Good! But the problem is that most supermarkets here are closed during the holidays. It wouldn't be a problem if not for another problem: my fridge was almost completely empty. I could have done groceries yesterday—and that's what I usually do: Saturdays are Shoppingdays—but last specific yesterday, I was busy drinking wine.

Well, it's more appropriate to use the term degustating. Wine festivals here are a thing, I can tell you. You go from village to village, wading through vine jungles. Uphill, then downhill, then again uphill. Above you—the blue roof of heaven, below you—a view of Lake Geneva. There's a wine glass in your hand, and it regularly travels to your mouth and gets drained and then again gets refilled. A pilgrimage with the benefit of fermented grapes juice.

So, I was busy yesterday. And today, I opened my empty fridge and grunted discontentedly. There are two types of supermarkets in Switzerland: the ones that are yikes expensive and the ones that are expensive within reasonable bounds. Of course, I prefer the latter. The only supermarkets that are open during the holidays are the ones located near main transport hubs—train stations and airports. Now imagine going every weekend to the airport to do groceries. Well, I think, normally, people don't do that. We satisfy our demands by going to the train stations. That's where and when you catch yourself at the thought that the population of Switzerland is much larger than it is supposed to be.

That's why rationally thinking people prefer not to do groceries on Sundays. Me included. But today was an exception. So, I took a bus and went to the nearby town to Lidl, a reasonably expensive supermarket. 10 km away. 30 min ride. Long story short, I bought some stuff for the coming week. Doing weekly groceries is more than just some compulsory dull chore, it's a whole ritual, wouldn't you agree with me? You choose between a premade pineapple pizza and a premade lasagna, decide how many bread loaves and milk cartons you need for this week, buy some extra snacks you were not planning to buy... and at the very end when you have already paid for all the goods and left the supermarket, you suddenly realize that you forgot to buy something. Today wasn't an exception. I was already standing at a bus stop, waiting for the vehicle to come, when a sudden thought pierced my brain: butter! I forgot to buy butter. I haven't been buying butter for ages because... well, I don't know why, just because I could do perfectly well without it. But this time is different. I need this butter as I have a plan for tomorrow: I'm going to bake cupcakes. I bought baking powder, eggs, nuts, and dried apricots. I bought salmon—screw it, it's the end of the month, and I've got some unspent funds—a good enough reason to celebrate—wait, salmon has nothing to do with my cupcakes—but I forgot to buy BUTTER.

I started thinking of butterflies. Butterflies flutter by. Why are they called so? I opened a browser and asked my question. Many opinions, many theories. Whatever. My imagination shifted to another dimension, and I started seeing things. High in the sky, winged, unctuous, taunting blocks of butter soaring above my head. Picture Sponge Bob, only without pants and without holes in his body. And with wings!

Now, remind me, why am I talking about flying butter blocks? Are you still with me? Because I'm not.

I need some butter for my cupcakes. But I'm already sitting on the bus and returning back home. Should I use vegetable oil instead? I can hear people on the bus talking in French. I'm learning French. Sooner or later, I gonna understand what you all are talking about. I'll find out all your secrets, hehe! But not today; you can freely enjoy your conversations. I'm as good as deaf. Then I spot with my ears a young couple talking in some Slavic language. Not Ukrainian, not Polish. Could it be Czech? Bulgarian? My floating, levitant, buttery archangel interrupts my train of thought. "Don't you dare to replace me with vegetable oil, you perv!"

Oh, finally, it's my stop. I get out of the bus. On the bus station wall, I notice a cute small graffiti drawing. Vandalism or art?

Apparently, tomorrow I'll have to visit the supermarket once again.