Today, we have further evidence of my failure to become a real adult.
You’re looking at the contents of my crisper. Or what would live in my crisper, if I had one. We’re still in the mini-fridge stage of life. I can’t tell you how much this depresses me. It’s almost worse than roasting my vegetables in a toaster oven — one eighth of a butternut squash at a time.
Anyway, back to my imaginary crisper, in my big, beautiful apartment. It would house every vegetable under the sun, or as many as I could haul back from Trader Joe’s without murdering my fingers. There would be a lot of good intentions in there too — stuffed way down in the back.
If we’re going to be real friends — the kind that start writing back and forth and eventually meet up for coffee — you should know that sometimes I snub my vegetables. I won’t even say it’s not intentional, because I don’t have a crisper, and nothing is hiding. Except for the triple cream cheese I tucked behind the parsnips and the radishes.
The parsnips. They’re getting old. I think they’re destined for soup. Or I could peel and slice and steam them, and settle in for the night with something like mashed potatoes (only not really, not at all). But I could also rummage around for a nice knife and take that round of cheese and go sit at my desk. And work my way around in a circle while I write to you.
Will you tell me where home is, for you? Is it where your parents are, or where you grew up, or where most of your stuff is? Is it where you are now? Is it where you had imagined it would be?
Do you have absolutely no idea?
Excellent — me neither. I’ve never felt so bipolar about anything in my entire life. I come back to Portland, and I wonder how I ever lived without the open spaces, without the uncluttered skies.
But then I go back to Manhattan, and I wonder how I could do without it, now. I love it and I hate it, at the very same time. And I’m not ready to leave, not yet. Even as I line my shoes up by the door.