chickpeas
I began in the middle. Or, by cheating, however you want to count it.
On Monday night, I ate leftover ribs and potato salad from the weekend’s barbecue.
On Tuesday night, I took @listenmissy to the movies. She snuck me in a falafel sandwich. Later, she bought me a beer. I guess you could say that made it an eleven-dollar falafel, or a twelve-dollar falafel, including the small service fee I paid to preticket myself for the nearly-empty theater. You could even call it a twenty-four dollar falafel, given that there were two of us. You can call it what you like. I didn’t pay for food. (We saw Jarmusch’s “The Limits of Control.” In an interview in Film Comment, he said, “as a filmmaker I can’t not travel in a plane or drive my car or use a credit card, you know?” Consider this exchange my credit card, my plane travel.)
But now it was Wednesday night. I had to cook something. I had to cook something good. I had to cook something cheap.
