As a child of the mid 20th. Century, I am quite possibly spoiled beyond redemption. When I consider the trajectory of my life, I realize that I have never once gone to bed hungry. I have never suffered unrelenting pain. I have never slept in the street or feared for my life. Well…there was that tumble into the swamp when I was six years old, but that’s about it. So when I looked for a new box of tapioca in the grocery store this week, it hit me hard. Where was my beloved tapioca? Tucked between the pudding and the Jello? Hiding behind the flour or the baking soda? The kind grocery clerk sadly informed me, “We can’t find it anywhere”. Was that a tear in his eye? Did COVID strike once again?
And why does it matter so much? It’s my love affair with tapioca. For me, it’s a universal panacea, the ultimate in comfort food. It slides down the throat so easily, its creamy goodness soothing all sorts of troubles. Add a scoop of vanilla ice cream trickling down through in glacial rivulets of goodness and it reaches new levels of delight. It brings back sweet childhood memories of my aproned mother stirring it patiently, cooling it with a bit of cream, and placing a dish before me.
“Here, Honey, try this.”
“Ooh, this is good!” I remember saying, as I spooned it down and asked for more.
So there it is. A minor loss, compared to so much else in the world. But I indulged myself and googled it. It appears that we can blame the shortage on widespread drought, or something called the cassava mosaic disease, or the production of gasohol E20. Who would have guessed? I must toughen up and count my blessings, but I still miss the stuff.
