(Disclaimer: We all have our passions, I suppose, and oftentimes others see them as those little peccadilloes that serve to define us, sometimes become us. As the sole arbiter of my world, however, I can, without further qualification, assure you that my little objects of fancy, these things that scratch these itches which so few of you seem to have, are all reasonable and justifiable. And yours are not. Unless, of course, they intersect with mine. Thereby making you cool. Like me.)

Wednesday I got it: that e-mail saying my peppercorns had been delivered. They were at home, waiting for me. And what a relief that was.

You see, the occasion upon which I discovered that two of my three pepper mills were completely empty and that my third one was two grinds away from following suit, well, it caused me great distress. After all, who can run a decent household without an array of peppercorns?

The local store from which I’d purchased my peppercorns is now no longer, so I was unable to calm my urge for the instant gratification of getting a good, strong whiff from an open bag of peppercorns. I was sure to die, I suspected.

In a desperate act of self-preservation, I darted about these internets at a feverish pace. I needed peppercorns. White Muntocks. A Tellicherry blend. And then, I needed the option of some others. Pink maybe. No, how about the green ones. Oooh, what about some Tellicherry, straight, no blend. You see, it’s obvious that I needed options and within a few minutes, I found THE site for me. There were pages, pages upon pages, of peppercorns. And with so many options, I crumbled under pressure. That’s right, I simply defaulted to what I knew I was after to begin with: the requisite white ones, a Tellicherry blend of four colors, and some pinks.

I was able to sleep that night but admittedly, I did have some difficulty. I mean, how could I slumber peacefully when there were peppercorns, my peppercorns, out there? I woke up the next morning and immediately and purposefully checked the tracking number I’d received on the shipment, hopeful that in spite of the fact that it was Sunday, somebody out there would understand. And they’d get me my peppercorns. But those cretins at UPS, they just don’t get it. My peppercorns were just sitting there. Somewhere.

I knew that the only way to settle my self would be to substitute somehow for them. I considered going across the river to that store where they’re proud of every damn thing they sell, up to and including the packs of gum for which they charge an additional $.20 just for the privilege of buying from their store. But this store stocks blocks of curry, the Japanese stuff that I ate as a kid, and they have that soy sauce that bites back, and the cooking oil aisle is replete with a hypnotic variety of olive oils. I could spend all of my day and all of my money there. So I had to consider it as an option during my days of being peppercornless.

This store, however, also stocks haughtiness. You can’t buy it—they just pump it in like oxygen at a Vegas casino. The last time I was there, I’d gone in the middle of the day. I’d wandered through the maze of temptations and arrived at what I consider the most unjustifiably glorified aisle in any store, the one that is so burgeoning with inexplicable faddiness that I feel queasy thinking about it: the water aisle.

I can’t reason my way through this phenomenon. Perhaps it is simply because I did so well in third grade. And then again in fourth. And even on into the fifth. Had I floundered in my scholarly pursuits back then, I could possibly understand why there are so many different brands, such a huge display. Of water.

But in elementary school, it was drilled into my head that water is tasteless. And odorless. And that it becomes otherwise only by impurities. And I’ve walked around for over thirty years, armed with this admittedly rather rudimentary bit of knowledge, wandering through the rapidly erupting and expanding grocery store aisles filled with nothing but water, wondering if there’s some sort of cosmic practical joke being played. And I’m not sure if I’m in on it. Or if it’s you.

But it was on the water aisle at the Proud-of-Our-Shit Grocery Store that I found her, the woman in her clean, crisp tennis whites who had staked her claim to the world through her watersnobbery. She sighed heavily as I approached and then looked at me, which is when I noticed that, beneath her cropped blonde bangs, one of her small brown eyes was larger than the other. Or maybe it was simply misapplied, overpriced cosmetics. Or maybe a bead of sweat from her tennis game had been so rudely adherent to the rules of gravity that it so crudely fell into her eyeliner, smudging it, giving this woman the appearance of a burgeoning Cyclops species. But women who look like this, who carry themselves as this woman did, they don’t show up at the grocery store in their tennis clothes to proclaim that they’re health-conscious fitness freaks. No, they’re there to make the statement that their husbands have decent jobs that provide enough income to allow them to fritter away the days while the kids are off doing whatever, the husband doing whatever. So sweat? In her eye? No fucking way. She probably sneezed or something when she was putting on her make-up. And then dared the rest of the world to notice her bugeye.

“I have such a hard time finding my brand. It seems as though they move it every single time I come in here,” she said, looking towards me for sympathy. Yet it was and is hard for me to truly understand the depths of her troubles and woes because for me, while I do have trouble finding my brand of water, it’s very likely because of a vastly different reason. You see, my difficulty comes from the fact that my brand, the label changes, the shape of the bottle changes, the name of the product changes, all on a seemingly weekly basis. And it’s always in a different place. So perhaps I’ve just grown accustomed to having to scrutinize the bottles for that bright orange, popped-balloon-shaped label that heralds “ON SALE”—now THAT’S my brand.

I affected some pleasantry in her direction then offered to help her look for her brand when a teenager in a Proud-of-Our-Shit Grocery Store uniform came ambling down the aisle. One of her well-manicured fingers shot in the air to beacon him her way. “Young man, I need your help finding water.”

“It’s right there in front of you, ma’am,” he said, and he swung his hand demonstrating the aisle-long display of water. I could tell that he hadn’t worked at the store for very long, hadn’t sucked in enough of that piped-in haughtiness.

“I mean MY brand,” she shot back, obviously annoyed that this riffraff hadn’t yet kneeled before her, kissed the ring, or somehow otherwise duly noted her pre-eminence over the water aisle.

“We may not have it—I’m on my break so I’ll send someone to help,” he said as he tried to sidle off.

“But I need my water,” she exclaimed, assuming the air of an oversized yet worldly petulant brat. “I can’t just stand here all day waiting for someone to help.”

“Ma’am, there is a lot of water right there. If you’re in such a hurry, just grab a case of that—I can load it in your buggy for you.”

“That? You want me to drink that? My, you don’t know much about water do you?”

He shook his head and said, “No, I suspect I don’t. I just use it to flush my toilet.”

He walked off, heading towards the back of the store and I walked off, heading towards the front, laughing, and when I glanced back, she stood there, silent and furious, likely wondering how she’d survive, living in a world surrounded by dullards so unsophisticated that they don’t even know a decent bottle of water.

This incident stayed with me and has slowed me from going back to that store, even for the oh-so-tempting curry. So in spite of my desire for food with some force, I didn’t go across the river last week. Instead I waited. And waited. And waited. For my peppercorns.

And on Wednesday when they came in, I walked straight into the house, straight towards the kitchen, and had the box opened and the bags of peppercorns rippling through my fingers before I spoke to my son. Or even had occasion to remember that he was alive, that we share the same household, that he is my motivation for nearly everything I do.  He startled me from my trance with the predictable: “What’s for supper?”

“Huh? Oh, hey, D!” I quickly hid the peppercorns behind my back like contraband. “What did you say?”

“I was just asking what’s for dinner…”

I could barely contain my excitement: “Swordfish! And salad! With fresh peppercorns—on both!!” And with that, I slowly presented from behind my back, so elegantly and gloriously displayed in my open hands, those three bags of peppercorns. And I think even a light from above shone down, spotlighting the blacks, the whites, the pinks, jostling around in their unopened bags, eager to find their way into my pepper mills.

“Whatever. Just let me know when it’s ready.” And with that, he walked back towards the deafening sound of the tv. And I stood there, silent and furious, wondering how I’d survive, living in a world surrounded by dullards so unsophisticated that they don’t even know decent peppercorns.