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“Well, if you really want to know, I’ll tell you why we can’t drink at work. But only after you’ve finished your dinner because the story’s a bit…bloody.” Continue reading
I remembered reading something by MFK Fisher about her time living in Marseilles and how she was impressed by the efficiency of the local housewives who, rather than waste time constantly changing the salt cod’s soaking water, placed hunks of it in their toilet tanks so that every time someone spent a penny, their future dinner got a fresh change of water. I tried to find that passage again but couldn’t locate it. And then I thought to myself, “Well, she drank.” Continue reading
I learned that I had put a bottle of bleach in the freezer when I discovered my raspberry gelato under the sink. Continue reading
Our neighborhood was so fruitful during the summer that bags of produce would simply be abandoned on our doorstep like fructifying orphans in desperate need of a home. Continue reading
I happen to feel that people who like to drink their dinner should be allowed to enjoy themselves at the table just as much as those who prefer chewing do.
The evening started out innocently enough– a quiet back to school dinner with friends. But my highly-prized purity was somehow called into question before the appetizers had even arrived. Continue reading
At the time, I took it for what it was– a punchline. I found the story funny and yet I resented it to some degree because it made me hungry for something I didn’t have– a bucket of crispy, salty, golden fried chicken– and more disappointed in the steaming pot of hen flesh in front of me that seemed to fall apart in my hand. Continue reading