Earlier today, I’m doing my weekly grocery shopping. I’m in the organic foods section about to stock up on some Amy’s frozen goodness when my cart gets blocked by a middle-aged white woman. She’s loading her cart up with piles of the same item – frozen eggplant parmigiana. She’s short, so she’s having to stand on her tippy toes to get ALL of the eggplant parmigiana. Every last one. What’s the deal with the eggplant parmigiana? Must be some good shit. When she has exhausted the supply of eggplant parmigiana (she thinks), I get a chance to do my thing. I see that there’s one lonely little eggplant parmigiana left behind – I’m taller than she is, so I have a better vantage point. As I’m reaching in for it, I wonder if perhaps she was clearing the shelves of the eggplant parmigiana because something is wrong with them. Maybe she has a crazy son who went to the store and injected bird flu into a random eggplant parmigiana and, not wanting to contact the police, his thoughtful mummy is buying them all up. Except for the one she missed. The one that is now in my freezer. It will either be delicious or the death of me. Or neither. Maybe the woman has bad taste and OCD.