Starvin' Marvin

People have been asking, "Now that you're in grad school, Jules, are you eating like an anorexic Cistercian monk?" (I paraphrase.) Away from my boyfriend/cook, away from the New York restaurants I loved, and most palpably, away from the professional life that afforded my indulgences, am I sitting on a rock by Lake Michigan, gnawing on my arm like a crazy cur?

The answer to that question brings me to about eighth grade, when my kitchen dabbling became a regular after-school workshop. Nevermind that I was obsessed with processed foods. (I loved the critical quest of adding water to Lipton packs and seeing what became of the various powders: Alfreddo? Garlic and Herb? They basically all tasted the same.)

Obviously, years of this shit has formed a chemical Lego palace somewhere in my colon. I shudder to think about it.

Anyway, why did I come home from school, drop my bag, and hit the pantry, selecting a robotic pre-pack of pasta powder and setting to work in my lab? Was it because I was a pig? Because I was so hungry from lacrosse practice? Taking over for my absentee parents? None of the above (except maybe the pig, obvie.)


No, the reason I cooked so furiously was because I WOULD ALWAYS RATHER COOK THAN DO MY HOMEWORK.

Which should explain why my fridge right now contains: spinach and turnip green soup, spaetzle, an apple tart, lentil stew, tzatziki sauce (WHY? I had dill, I had yogurt, and I'd rather roll in poison ivy naked than read more Foucault), and a chicken thigh with roasted apples. I've got a lot of reading to do tonight, which means a couple of squashes might get roasted, and I think we're in for an elaborate coffee drink or two. I can't help it. It's a compulsion. I think better when I know somethings bubbling or roasting or braising somewhere in the kitchen. I think it helps my brain braise.

Better than that BrainBraiser9000 I bought off QVC!