The pusher in the lobby

I just discovered that the snack bar downstairs from my office sells rice crispy treats made of Crack-o-Crispies. This is something that really should not have come to my attention.

And I was feeling so proud of myself for skipping the piroshki stand for lunch. I'm hooked on the piroshkis down at the market. One day I ordered a cabbage-and-onion and then a honey poppyseed pastry for dessert. The girl behind the counter beamed at me. "The two items you ordered are the most authentic Russian recipes out of everything we sell!" she said.

I gave her a look back that must have said, well, duh, because she looked even more pleased and asked if I was of Russian descent.

"No, but close enough, " I answered. My people are from a little further west, and their pieroghis are drop-boiled and fried rather than baked, and they're smaller. But it's the same concept. A concept that'll turn me into a plump little baba before my time if I don't apply some restraint.

And now there's the crack in the lobby to contend with too. The world is fraught with peril.