May 5, 2011
This is the introductory post for Eat Cheap Shit, my new column about cheap food, sexuality and cooking, and families going broke. May it be the start to a long run of posts about dirt-cheap yet delicious deals.
On Tuesday, I sat with my best friend S as she finished her dinner. She asked if I wanted some, but I declined. (I was broke.)
“Why’s that?” she asked. “What did you spend it on?”
“Food,” I admitted. She snorted.
“What did you eat?”
Well, what did I eat? I ate a sumptuous lunch at Amir’s, a tiny falafel joint on 116th and Broadway. It’s a tiny place that makes you hate the weather; each time someone opens the door, the straight chill freezes everything.
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December 10, 2010
She mentions grilled cheese, so Zemanta insists we have a picture of some. ...is that ham? Image via Wikipedia
Over at An Attitude Adjustment, Staying At Home For Now mom Jana feels like a kindred spirit. She’s an English teacher, but layoffs coincided with the birth of her second child so she’s decided to make the most of it. While she cherishes the opportunity to spend time with her young children, she also feels the need for something more than that. The blog is her outlet. As she says, this period in her life won’t last forever, but she’s in it now and she’s going to take advantage of it.
Her latest post has been recognized by the WP selection staff. The title caught my eye: Women in Aprons.
Jana points out that cooking is In. Everyone’s going organic, everyone wants to be healthier and feed their families good food. She’s all for that. What she objects to is the insidious implication that women are failing in their ‘roles.’ Everything is directed at women, not men.
This post made the Freshly Pressed board for a reason.
via An Attitude Adjustment
August 23, 2010
Masala Dosa, from Vandeindia.com
I haven’t always loved food as much as I do now. When I was a toddler, my mother played a VHS tape of the Bangles’ Eternal Flame on a constant loop. As soon as those ladies hit the high note, I’d open my mouth in astonishment and, oof, I’d be force fed another mouthful of whatever soggy rice mixture my mother made for me to eat that evening.
My father knew what was up.
“Picky eaters don’t always stay that way,” he’d say, when my mother would collapse from frustration after a difficult feeding.
He was absolutely right.
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July 31, 2010
Soon, W will be leaving for Ithaca. That is eight hard lonely hours away from here. Five, six, seven, any number in between. Eight sticks. It could be less or more, but that is what it is.
For the past week we’ve enjoyed a hundred thousand idyllic moments together. Sleeping in each others arms, ignoring the pain in our crooked spines. We’ve gulped down lemonades and mochas at fifty different Starbucks. Sometimes, we talk at length about Cold War politics. Sometimes, we talk about stupid things, like the fake cute-language we’ve made up between ourselves. We are linguists who like to work with baby-talk nonsense. Sometimes we forget that we’re speaking absolute nonsense and the homeless guy from the table next to us puts down his tepid grimace cup and glares our way like we’re out of our minds.
We’ve had a lot of moments when the impending separation registers with us and we feel depressed. Sometimes these sensations are not synchronized. I see it on his face when he thinks about it, and he knows when I feel the same.
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