As I’m reaching for the Nutella to make a sandwich for Anna (don’t judge, people), my hand encounters nothing but air. After a day of lengthy questioning designed to trip up certain denizens of this household who have proven to be slippery when it comes to telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth, nobody cops to putting the Nutella up on a higher shelf next to the high-dollar olive oil (one of the few luxuries in our pantry). So, I’m forced to conclude that the Nutella, in a fit of disgust on being shoved next to ol’ Jif creamy, (because I have a texture problem with nuts in my peanut butter) huffily made its cumbersome way up to hang out with a more proper class of pantry inhabitants. What a haughty, loathsome pain in the ass, but the kids love it. And I do not exaggerate as they would consume Nutella at every meal.