A few years ago my partner and I realised that we were done with simple carbohydrates: Pasta had failed us too often; I could never cook white rice to save my life; and spuds had just become background noise.
A university education does not / will not / can not imbue you with life lessons. None whatsoever: that’s not what it’s there for. A university is there for academic degrees and doffing you on the head.
Floorboards creaked underfoot as I made my way back through the house. I had never been in a house like this, yet it was utterly familiar in layout.
I do not know what everyone else does with their time if they’re not planning meals, shopping for food, cooking meals, or eating them. I wish I understood what banalities these people filled their lives with.
I get the impression that some people only indulge in their “normal” because everyone they have grown up around has done so, and so they take it as the sole option. That’s grotesque.
A shadow cast by the moon on the face of Mars is our guide through the understory. It is a marker on our divergent paths.
I dream of fantastic patés, bought wrapped in paper from the local charcutier, but then I shop in the local Monoprix, scared to set foot in artisanal shops.