After my father’s burial, I went straight to the grocery store. Beforehand, I made a to-do list on my phone and made myself sure I wouldn’t forget. Milk, bread, iced-tea concentrate. I had become tired of drinking water every night.

I didn’t know whether to get 2% or 3% milk. The former has the obvious benefits of being less fatty, yet the latter has a thicker and more filling taste. I settled on 2%, as it was a few cents cheaper, and it meant I could eat a few more spoonfuls of cereal in the morning.

Iced-tea concentrate is a bit of a bitter sweet thing. Not the substance itself, but the idea. I love tea, but I don’t like making it. So I usually settle somewhere in the middle. Yet, it’s not really tea. It’s water with sugar powder mixed in. It’s flavor dust. Revolting. Cheap. Mildly satisfying. Concentrate powder.

Dinner became easier, I only had to make half a pot of minute rice, and cook a quarter as much vegetables, a quarter as much meat. The iced tea tasted good, though, I wish it was real tea.