Tomato dumpling soup. It was all supposed to be about Kramarczuk's tomato dumpling soup. Located one block from my work, they make it one day a week, Saturday, when I'm not conveniently at work to get some. There's usually a tureen leftover, enough for them to sell it on Mondays. My feelings for this soup are unequivocal and unwavering. I am a soup maniac and this is one of my top five in the world. Some Mondays I go and get that soup and the rest of the week goes by fast and light, airy and dreamlike. I've tasted that soup and been healed of ailments, carried into a good mood, kissed by angels. I'd step on my own mother's neck for a cup. Monday January 14 I was starving, I'd missed the normal lunch time owing to a couple client phone calls, I had some more work to do in the afternoon after I ate. It was about 7 degrees (-13C) and breezy. That is prime dumpling soup eating weather (the only thing shy of perfection was the absence of clouds or precipitation). I figured I would have a lark and try to task on the way to getting some soup, maybe apply some loosey-goosey readings of the task instructions and go around the block right instead to go left that sort of thing. I got much more than I bargained for. Turning left (instead of right) out of my office, I headed up (instead of down) the stairs. What happened next took me in loops and lines persistently away from my needed lunch.