I suppose that I see most food issues as childish, and that is probably less than fair. Probably.
I cook alone, because I like to be in control of all of the processes. To be helped by someone would require far too much explanation of the minutiae of what I am looking for, for it to be of any practical benefit.
I just don’t see the point of making the bed after I get up. The Sisyphean aspects of the pointless task do not worry me; such is the nature of our miserable human existence.
Inside the metal carton were ribs, and they were my introduction. In retrospect they were very probably very bad, but we loved them.
I most often want a variety of music, as if listening to radio without a presenter.
I didn’t mention to her my paralysing fear of talking to people; she wouldn’t have understood me.
Having been brought up on mild, cornflour-based sauces, and freezer vegetables, I can always get a meal I enjoy. My partner, not so much: She seeks out things with claims of actual Chinese heritage.