My sister-in-law lovingly assisted as I packed the kitchen for our move, although I declined her offer to box the items in spice cabinet, citing the need to use them as I cooked for our last two weeks in the house.
As with all relocations, the day of the move was chaotic, with friends and family loading and unloading trucks, cleaning drawers and cupboards, trying to order the disarray. As the last load left, Mike and I shared tears to leave the home that had been perfect for us for almost 20 years. The home where C-boy had grown up, where my mother had spent her last years, from where the girls fully launched, and where we cemented solid friendships.
The next few days were busy with unpacking, rearranging, repacking, more rearranging. At some point it became apparent that something was missing: the spices. Although Mike maintained that every cupboard and closet was checked before we left, even in my imagination I could not recall packing the assorted containers and sugar bowl. And they were nowhere to be found.
A few people who assisted with the move are infamous for disorganization, replacing tools two or more times when unable to find the original. Calls were put out: R**, do you remember that box? R***, does your truck smell like cinnamon? T***, would you check under your seat? S****, did you put them with the Tupperware? J****, any ideas?
The lost spices provided fodder for conversation for several months, normal greetings often followed by, “Have you found your spices?”
As it turned out, ED moved in bringing four times the amount of spices in my cabinet. The mystery was greater than the loss, though. Whenever I recalled the several bottles of sealed, expensive mixtures, I prayed that whoever came across them rejoiced in their find and was enjoying delicious dinners with loved ones.