Goood Sour Cream

Morning. Dairy store. A huge sign on it won't let anyone doubt the assortment.

(Here, we often bought sour cream, milk, kefir and other joys of lactose-free life forms. All of these products customers could place in their container, such as a jar.)

A woman stands on the stairs, tragically pressing her hands to her chest and looking at her feet. She's in shock and the powerless anger of Piglet, who fell on the balloon. On the steps lies a broken jar. The splinters mockingly float in the thick sour cream. Judging by the number of fragments, the jar had a volume of at least two litres. The method of the depressed donkey Eeyore won't work here. The jar beautifully died, and it took the sour cream with it. Nothing goes in or out anywhere anymore.

Grandma (great) Manya appears around the corner and heads towards the store. She goes for milk. Purposefully. Like every morning since the death of the dinosaurs. She's ancient but nimble. I think she dodged the meteorite.

Having reached the site of the crash of a jar of sour cream, Manya examines the consequences with interest. She leans over and slightly removes her huge, almost square-framed glasses from her nose to assess what's happening in as much detail as possible. Finally, straightening up without any senile grunting, she looks into the eyes of the injured party and, beautifully drawing out the "O" in some words, says: "Dear lady, where did you get such goood sour cream?"

History is silent about how fast skinny old ladies run and how fast plump women who have experienced the loss of a dairy product run. All we know is that great-grandmother reached her hundredth birthday without any problems.