I did start the month by saying “Rabbit, rabbit,” first thing, which, according to someone/thing/algorithm on the internet—and why would anyone doubt that?—brings good luck.

But my day did not start out well. I couldn’t get any of the Connections connections, not even one category. My Wordle curdled. 

I tried to brighten up the day, remembering I had leftover graham crackers from the s’mores no one wanted when we invited people to come hang out around the fire pit last fall. And we always have lime juice in the fridge, for emergency mojitos. I knew there was a can of sweetened condensed milk somewhere, from when my husband bought a lesser-known brand and I refused to use it because of its additives, so it was just lurking in the basement. 

I’d make a key lime pie.

 I checked the expiration on the can of milk; the date had passed two years ago. But we all know those dates are just for legal purposes. (Don’t tell my offspring just how much “expired” food they ate growing up.)

I went ahead anyway. The milk looked a bit thin and a rather unappealing beige when I poured it into a bowl; I figured it was old but tolerable. It would thicken up in the oven with the lime juice and the egg yolks. 

I got some broken yolk into the egg white before I tried to whip it into a meringue. It didn’t fully fluff up. Oh, it pretended to, first foaming up nicely under the whisk, but when the whisking stopped, the bubbles just sank down like the Creature from the Black Lagoon returning to his swamp. Instead of shining peaks, the pie just acquired a rather messy-looking glaze. 

 None of the imperfections really mattered; it would still taste good enough. So it’s a little older, a tad stale and, without a delicately caramelized meringue gracing its top, not that pretty.  Well, um, we, personally, ought not to complain about that.  

While I was taking it out of the oven, my hand glanced along the hot rack inside, blistering my third finger with a second-degree burn.

The completed piece of slop was totally inedible, as sour and as curdled as my Wordle. Because while I had carefully checked and then ignored the expiration date, I had completely not noticed the can was not actually the sweetened condensed milk I had assumed, but evaporated milk. 

And the crust was too full of butter to mulch. Mustn’t clog the local wildlife’s arteries. The only emptiness the pie would fill was the garbage can’s.

While I was dumping out the stuff, I spilled some sour curdles on my pants and realized I was wearing them inside out. 

I’m going to begin August by saying “Tibbar, tibbar.”