Something of a Snob

Today I bought something in a can.


This was monumental, you see, because this was a first. I’ve been having a lot of those. I also brought home a wake-up call. (Free of charge.) Now before you go jumping to conclusions, I hope that you will not judge me too harshly. I grew up eating plenty of things that took an extended swim in an added liquid, in a previous life. I just never knew it. And yes, okay, I probably would have turned my nose up if I had.

I’m going to admit that I’m something of a snob, and then I’m hoping that you’ll tell me that I’m not a total snob. That there is hope for me yet. 

I have, after all, been rotating between two pairs of pants for the better part of eight months. I have also become very fond of black. Did you know that you can wear a black t-shirt three days in a row — with a different scarf or cardigan or necklace — and nobody will notice? It’s a great thing, black.

I had breakfast at a chain this weekend, and it turned out to be just what I wanted. It was cozy and comforting. And I didn’t feel the least bit funny about taking a picture, or even slightly idiotic when my spoon clattered to the floor.

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Yes, I have eaten at a chain before. You may breathe a sigh of relief. Before I broke four feet tall, Applebee’s was absolutely my favorite place to go. There remains a spicy hot wrap at Pret A Manger that I quietly adore, most often in airports — where I do things like agonize over last meals. And you probably don’t need me to tell you that over at Panera, there lives a pretty outstanding broccoli-cheddar soup. I think I carried it home crying three times last fall. That soup deserves a Michelin star.

In my new life, which essentially starts today, I’m not going to be able to go out to eat very often. (If at all.) I’m going to need to become an All-Star Egg Recipe Researcher. And the eggs…they’re not going to be five-dollar farmer’s market eggs. They won’t be a breathtaking blue or a pearly white, and if they’re speckled with anything, I’m not going to want to look too closely.


I’m going to figure out how to make those red-rubber-stamp eggs wonderful. I’m kind of excited. I’ll need to work with just a few ingredients, and I think I will really appreciate the beautiful ingredients I do have, while they last.


I’m counting on having the time to cook again to make me happy. I don’t even want to tell you the things I ate when I was working eleven hours a day. I will say this, though: I’m pretty sure that I caused the Greek yogurt shortage at Trader Joe’s on Amsterdam.

Cooking is my version of buying a new dress or getting a pedicure. It is, quite simply, the best way that I know how to take care of myself. Point me towards the nearest can opener? Sans bells and whistles, please.


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