I was reading the Sunday paper, or more accurately scanning, glancing at, glimpsing the NYTimes and agonizing over the most important decision of the day: What to make for dinner? None of the smidgeon of foodstuffs in the fridge appealed. Ditto the wares on offer from the 1001 online menus whose pizza, sushi, saag paneer and Caesar salad could be had for delivery to my very front door.

Still prone on the couch, thoughts turn to the cabinets. I run my memory bank through them, picturing a whole lot of nothin’ (unless you can make an entire meal out of cumin, cornstarch and smoked paprika) until I spy , back and on the right, the cornerstone of my sudden happiness. And what I’m seeing is an unopened jar of sun dried tomatoes packed in oil. In oil!!!! Plus. I have spaghetti! And a pot and a pan! Forgive the surfeit of exclamation points, but I believe that arriving at a plan that will alter your mood from dejection to glee ought to be celebrated.

And now, dinner. And here’s the icing on the cake or, more accurately, the anchovies on the pasta because yes, I’ve unearthed a tin of the fish, so tiny and briny, which will take whatever else I cook to new heights.

Life is like that sometimes. It seems the day is irredeemable, a washout. But then, something as seemingly insignificant as a small denizen of the ocean changes, well maybe not everything, but enough to alter your mood for the better.

If anchovies or your favorite condiment don’t automatically appear in your pantry, hunt down your version of an unexpected delight. Call that friend who’s usually good for a laugh. Rewatch a favorite comedy (for the millionth time I’ll recommend Derry Girls, who should pay me royalties for their increase in viewership thanks to yours truly), eat a square of chocolate.

And here’s another small thing that gets me going. It’s “Reels,” you know, those little clips of TV shows that appear just as you’re pondering the meaning of life. Okay, that’s a total lie, you’re deciding what to have for dinner (see above.) Anyhow, since life’s meaning continues to elude me, I take solace in an old Seinfeld, the one where Kramer goes to “work” for a company that never hired him. After a few (dozen) of these, up pops Moira from Schitt’s Creek, and, as everyone knows, it matters not a jot what she says. I could listen all day to her sing-song accent of the M’clundo (just made that up) language. Some day in the future scholars will be listening to Moira’s unusual intonation in a vain attempt to ascertain its origins.

Meanwhile, it’s now bedtime and I have spent (wasted?) the entire evening enlivening or, some might say, rotting my brain. But you know what? My brain is already sort of rotted with Parkinson’s so who cares? Not me, or Moira or Jerry. Does it matter if these are real friends or “Reels” friends?

Take your fun where you find it is what I say.

And enjoy a lovely, happy ( or even just contented) New Year.

Parky Conversations, a podcast about Parkinson’s