Me vs Quiche

At this current moment I’m sitting in a coffee shop with a napkin on my bloody finger, a chip in my porcelain tooth, and coffee all over my jeans. Said events all occurred within the last ten minutes.

Why, you may ask? Did I get into a fight, perhaps? Or fall? Or maybe I just ran into a brick wall by accident? All would make more sense then what actually happened.

I chipped my tooth on a piece of quiche. QUICHE. The daintiest breakfast dish of all just kicked my ass and I’m so mad about it I may never eat quiche again. I don’t think anyone has ever been this mad at quiche before, ever ever.

But damn it, quiche is good so we both know that’s a lie. I will eat it again. And it will piss me off because for the rest of my life I will know that this stupid little egg pie cost me what is sure to be a very expensive dental bill in the near future.

The events that led to this terrible morning can probably be traced back to Friday morning when I was knocked off my feet with a very bad stomach bug (or perhaps the flu?) still not sure. Regardless, it hurt a lot, lasted more than 48 hours, and it left me very hungry today when I woke up.

I want quiche, I thought. That will make me feel better. Quiche makes everything better.

I gathered up all my work to do at a coffee shop down the street, a place that serves great quiche.

*at this point I’m trying to say “quiche” at least 97 times in this one post in an attempt to break the most-time-quiche-has-been-mentioned-in-a-post record, so please go on this journey with me!*

I found the coziest little table, had a fresh cup of hot coffee, old Parisian music was playing overhead and I thought to myself, well today doesn’t suck!

Not so fast, dumb dumb!

Enter the slice of quiche.

It was flaky and beautiful and steaming with warm cheesy goodness as the waiter set it in front of me. I grabbed my fork and took an aggressively large first bite. And in that single moment I managed to bite into the fork rather than the egg and I heard the familiar crack of a tooth. The crack one only knows if they’ve chipped a tooth or two in their lifetime.

I felt my tooth with my tongue before I pulled out my mirror to look at it. I knew it happened. I already assumed what it would look like. As I spit the little piece of porcelain out I realized it was in fact my dental implant, not my actual tooth, which I’m pretty sure is worse.

As I examined the porcelain it accidentally stuck into my thumb like a shard of glass and soon an unusual amount of blood was running down my hand. I quickly grabbed for my napkin, spilling my coffee all over my lap.

And then I gave up on today.

My quiche is cold, my coffee is colder, and my attitude is the coldest of all.

I glanced at my tooth and it doesn’t look great. I can’t bring myself to fully look at it in fear I may burst into tears in this stupid little quiche coffee shop.

I never eat quiche on weekdays. It’s usually a weekend treat for me. What was I thinking?

I have to go now. My birthday is 16 days away and I have to open an animal shelter, finish 5 books, and win an academy award before then. So I’ve got a lot to do.

But first I gotta finish this quiche. I mean yeah it’s cold and it totally just screwed over my Monday, but I’m not going to just leave it. No one just leaves behind a slice of quiche.

It’s quiche, after all.