I like bacon, eggs, and any valid reason to start drinking before noon, but I detest spending $30 for approximately $5 of value.
Despite the fantastic Lebanese mezze there is to be found in the Temple Lounge off Cowley Road, despite the remarkable momos from the truck that appears every Wednesday at the Gloucester Green market, and despite the best efforts of the much beleaguered co-operative People’s Supermarket (which in fact closed for good two years ago), perhaps the most famous food in Oxford in England is to be found on the table of formal hall.
“Are you afraid of getting burned?” asked my supervisor as I gingerly lifted a floppy, undercooked crêpe with a spatula. I looked at it with dismay as it fell apart. She swept it off to the side with one long motion of her own spatula, greasing the griddle again. “I’m not,” she said as I struggled to spread the thick buckwheat batter evenly on the huge griddle.
If we are going to eat well in the future, we have to continue to modernize our food production instead of looking to the past.
I worked the coat check at fetish parties, escorted women home from their plastic surgery appointments on the Upper East Side, babysat, dogsat, and cleaned out apartments belonging to hoarders.
You can fancy it up further with those herbs that you bought a bunch of for that one recipe and left in your fridge to silently judge you every time you open the door.
Really good bourbon whisky, for when the situation calls for it. Really good dark chocolate, preferably with sea salt, for the same reason.
Remember how I went grocery shopping last week and said “but it doesn’t feel like I bought any food?” Well, I was right on that count.
When you can see a notoriously cost-effective supermarket that is open 24/7 from your bedroom window, subscribing to a fortnightly organic food box feels indulgent.
Once a year, my roommate and I say “screw it” to our just-big-enough-for-two two-bedroom and invite all our nearest and dearest and then some to come hang out in our apartment, all at once, to be fed.
Your goal is to get back home at the end of the day, so invest in yourself; make sure you get what you need to get through.
“In my first two years of the food cart, people said that I’d reached the American dream. But I didn’t know what that was so I Googled it.”
When my boyfriend and I first started to pretend to be grown-ups, grocery shopping was an adventure.
“My college fund was my brain.”
My dissertation—defended in April and deposited just the other week—is about food access and farmers’ markets.
I came back from my shopping experience thinking “well, I got everything on the list, but I feel like I hardly bought any food.”
“I can’t think of another place where so many people are so quick to jump down each other’s throats.”
Cooking becomes a series of economizations; first, you discover that you don’t need a knife to slice your banana over your cereal—the spoon you’re going to eat the cereal with works just as well—and then you realize that it’s even faster if you just rip off chunks of banana with your hands.
Even false creation stories become true in time. First there was Adam and Eve, and now there’s Western misogyny. First there was John Montagu, 4th Earl of Sandwich, and now tuna melts. Even the tamest packaged loaf owes its ancestral rise to wild yeast.