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.
Whenever I visit my parents for an extended period time in their suburban neighborhood, we always decide to buy groceries for my stay, and my dad goes through the weekly grocery store circulars to determines which store is offering the best deals.
For breakfast, I used to have nothing but a cup of coffee, until I decided that wasn’t really healthy and made myself get into the habit of eating a container of Fage yogurt every day. And then I switched brands.