I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a fairly emotional person. My heart bleeds for everything and everyone, and I’ve never been to a wedding that didn’t make me blubber (even as a plus one who didn’t know either party to be wed). So, the threat of pregnancy mood swings put some pretty active fear of God in me–if I’m already vulnerable to fits of tears because the sunset is just so fucking beautiful, what was I in for?
I’ve had a few hormonal meltdowns, but this one takes the cake: Sunday night before a Monday off of school. We have plans to go to a haunted house with some teacher friends, but I’m feeling sick and crappy and am equivocating heavily about going or not.
And then it strikes: I need toum. Right now.
Toum is a Levantine condiment made out of crushed garlic, oil, lemon, and often an extra secret ingredient like a bit of boiled potato depending on the maker to create a fluffy, almost mousse-like texture when it’s done right. Like any good girl who grew up on the wonders of Arabic cuisine, my soul bleeds toum. But I don’t live back home in Detroit anymore, where you can buy tubs of perfect toum next to the Mountain Dew at the gas station. There’s one restaurant here in town that has an authentic version.
And its closed on Sunday nights.
My husband comes out of the shower to find me on the couch sobbing. Full-on, ugly cry, snot bubbles flying sobbing. Because I can’t get real toum. And because I’m cancelling plans with friends, which induces a panic attack to the tune of “Am I boring now?! Am I this person who’d doesn’t do things anymore?!”
What resolution can there be for this? I can’t get my toum, I’m boring, I’m hyperventilating from crying so hard.
Long story short, we went out for garlic bread and toum the next night, but that was an unparalleled emotional experience if I ever had one. Bring on the emotional weight of labor–I’m ready.