When our lunch plans went a-rye (because we don't take American money IN America)

 My girls took me out to lunch. An easy enough affair. You'd think. We'd perused the on-line menu the night before to streamline the anxiety-fraught experience of ordering for me and I immediately fixated on the hazelnut raisin bread offered. "I blame myself," Brad sighed later, over 3,000 miles away, "Soup. I told them to get you soup. You don't eat sandwiches." The first bump in the road was determining the spread topping. "Wait. You don't have Nutella?" I asked, stupefied. What sort of place serves hazelnut raisin bread but doesn't carry Nutella? The counter-person detailed the inadequate alternatives of butter, preserves, or cream cheese. "She'll take preserves," Savannah said quietly as my mind reeled. "Strawberry, cherry, or raspberry?" the woman asked. I snapped furiously back to attention. "Cherry? With raisins? What sort of place is this?"

Savannah and Sydney completed their orders without incident. "That'll be a ridiculous sum of money for bread, please," the grain gestapo announced. I waved away Savannah's card and handed her my money. "I'm sorry. We don't take large bills here," she told me. I blinked. Confused. This is EXACTLY why I don't eat bread. "You mean American currency?" I said slowly. I glanced out the window at my United States flag flying and momentarily felt reassured. I may be a small-town girl living in a carb-filled world but even my little hometown Stuff-mart had that magic pen to detect fraudulent bills. Seasoned employees even acquired the skill of holding bills up to the light like they were checking emeralds for clarity. Savannah brushed me out of the way before I could begin making a scene. "You mean continue making a scene," Savannah clarified later. Sydney gently led me away as I descended into a patriotic-despondency.  "There's a table by some windows," Sydney pointed out as I plopped into a corner booth, deprived of light and life and laughter. "Why aren't we eating outside?" Savannah asked, having paid in plastic and electronic information--serving up a side-helping of her soul to buy a sandwich. "Mom loves to eat outside." "I believe she's mentally self-flagellating," Sydney told her sister. Between the two of them, they unearthed me from the darkness and wrestled me out the door. "Ma'am," a nice man called, "You dropped your money." "Leave it!" I cried, "It's no good here!"

Sydney retrieved the bill and then attempted to create a false illusion of happiness by taking our picture. "What are you doing?" I snapped at my beloved child, "There's not even any food here!"  She glanced at the image of tranquility that she'd captured. "This will be a good before-and-after shot," she declared. My order arrived. "I've slept on mattresses thinner than this," I whispered, intimidated. I unhappily slathered raspberry preserves on the half-a-foot thick slice of hazelnut raisin bread. "They make Nutella in single-serve packages," I told Sydney. "I know," she nodded, "They were in my Christmas stocking."

I was quiet as I tackled this slice...segment...wedge...loaf...log of bread. This, of course, immediately alerted my daughters that I was battling some sort of inner demon. In this particular case, it was a wall of impenetrable crust, designed to shred gums and lacerate lips. "Mom...no!" they cried, deftly unraveling this bruising barrier to my bread. "I am NOT a child," I pouted before plunging my fingers into the middle of my meal and plucked out a whole hazelnut, not unlike that Little Jacky Horner with the plum. I happily extracted eight hazelnuts hidden among the gritty grains of  whole-wheat flour.

"Did she eat ANY of the bread?" Brad asked in exasperation later, quizzing his daughters. "No," Sydney admitted, "but she ate every single hazelnut." "Soup," he stressed, "You can almost never go wrong with soup." "You're the one who gave her a hundred dollar bill," his daughters countered. They were all silent for a moment. "Okay," Brad said, bringing the meeting to a close, "Small bills and soup. And let's add single-serve Nutella packages to the list of items necessary to ward off possible public melt-downs. All agreed...say aye." 

"Aye."

"Opposed?...Ayes have it."

Before hanging up, Brad asked, "What are you guys doing tomorrow?'' "I thought I'd take Mom shopping for a new outfit," Sydney announced. After a pronounced silence, Savannah spoke. "Should we reconvene at 1900 hours tomorrow?' "Affirmative." Everyone checked their time-keeping devices. "Good luck, Sydney."