When there are no time clocks left to dictate our existence, a Saturday morning bleeds into the rest of the week with comfortable predictability. The weekend ceases to be an escape from work and simply becomes another day to manage the household. Naturally, this meant a requisite morning trip to the Superstore to secure our groceries.
The mundane routine quickly gave way to international sports drama. We did not actually watch the FIFA match, but we kept checking the updates as Canada lost to Morocco down in Houston. There is a specific, ironic interest in seeing our home country eliminated from the tournament by the very nation we just spent the entirety of June exploring. My souvenir bucket hat has officially transitioned from a fond travel memento into a slightly conflicted piece of apparel.
Fortunately, the evening was thoroughly salvaged in the kitchen. Jay took a rather basic flatbread acquired on our morning grocery run and elevated it entirely. He augmented it with his own ingredients to transform a simple carb into a pizza-like triumph. The apartment still smells absolutely incredible.
In the end, a Saturday that started with a routine grocery run evolved into a day of theoretical sports grief and very real culinary success. Granted, calling it "grief" is a stretch; we had zero financial stake in the outcome, our patriotism is not tethered to a scoreboard, and our overall interest in soccer peaked at around the moment of the hat's purchase ten days ago.