I’m a pretty good cook, because I love food and I have sensitive taste buds. I cook a lot of Asian food, and usually that doesn’t require recipes, but I still like looking over a recipe to validate what I have in mind. I never follow the amounts in a recipe though, I just add as much or as little of something based on my own sense of smell and taste. I think the only times when recipes are meant to be strictly followed are for baking, which would explain why I’m not as good a baker as I am a cook.

One of my favourite dishes is duck stewed in beer. Delicious. I’ve made this at dinner parties before, definitely a hit. My other go-to dishes are chicken coconut corn chowder, ma po tofu, spicy eggplant, and sweet and sour pork ribs (the traditional way, not that breaded fried pork in red sauce stuff).

Duck Stewed in Beer

Ingredients:
1 whole duck
1 bottle of beer (12oz)
1 head of garlic
2 tbsp ginger
2 star anises, broken up
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 cup of soy sauce
1 tbsp brown sugar
1 stalk green onion
1/2 cooking onion, chopped
8 baby carrots

Instructions:

1. Chop the duck into big pieces with a cleaver. Slice the garlic and ginger.
2. Heat up the iron casserole pot and add some oil (1 tbsp). Put duck pieces in the pot, and stir-fry for 5 minutes till they become golden.
3. Add the garlic, ginger and anises, and then stir-fry for 5 minutes more.
4. Pour the beer in and boil for 5 minutes. Add soy sauce, salt, sugar, onions, and carrots, and cook for another 5 minutes. If you are using chicken, you can stop at this point as the chicken will be fully done (the meat should be half-hanging to the bones). If you are using duck, continue to the next step.
5. Preheat the oven into 250F and put the iron casserole pot with the dish together in the oven to roast it for 1 hour. Then open the cover and add onions in it. It will be cooked after being roasted for another 15 minutes.

Do you follow recipes? What’s a favourite recipe of yours?

24 hours ago, I was just waking up with a dull hangover, after a night out with my trip-mates and 50 other hostellers.

Rewind.

We had finangled our way onto the train, after being bussed from terminal to terminal at the airport, looking for the train station. Our luggages were huge and awkward, so we had to take up six seats for the four of us. Vin Diesel asked for some Spanish lessons during the ride, and I obliged, teaching him the most important phrase of the trip: ¿Dónde está el baño? (Where is the bathroom?)

The lady beside us giggled as she watched our exchange. Finally, when she could hold it in no longer, she joined our conversation. She didn’t speak English, so I was the only one who could talk to her, but I quickly realized that my Spanish was in bad shape. We were getting off at the same stop, so she led us out of the subway station and gave us directions to our hostel. It would be a 10-minute walk, she said. But with our luggages, it took closer to 20. By the time we arrived at the hostel, my hand had blisters from dragging my suitcase. It was appallingly evident that we had overpacked. Our heavy luggages were going to be our Achilles Heel on this trip, no doubt about it. Already, in my mind, I was making an inventory of everything I’d brought and trying to figure out what I could throw away. But I could part with little. Most of it were clothes, and I wanted to save my clothes for Paris, our last stop. So, for the time being, I will just have to try to survive on this trip with a 50 lb suitcase that I can’t even get up the stairs. Thank god for male trip-mates.

After arriving at the hostel, we unpacked as we waited for our two other friends to arrive. Soon we were joined by IndianPrincess and Jack Sparrow. IndianPrincess was a classmate of ours who was on exchange in Manchester this semester. She was staying with us for two days in Barcelona, because she still had classes. Jack Sparrow was from University Town with us, but because he had joined our trip last minute, he had gotten a separate flight two days earlier, so he was already in Barcelona.

We went for a walk down Passeo de Gracia to Placa Catalunya, then to Las Ramblas. We decided to go to a tapas restaurant for dinner, which I had found online (based on reviews) before we left. We walked through the winding alleys of Barri Gothic, with vertical buildings rising up on all sides, each with intricate balconies protruding from thousand-year-old stone walls. Each alley was as enchanting as the last.

The air was humid and sweet; we often reminded ourselves to take deep breaths of the Barcelonian air, which we described as the sweet smell of Spanish cologne of beautiful Spanish men. After several twists and turns, we discovered the restaurant wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I was the only one who spoke Spanish in our group, so I used my rough Spanish to ask for directions and eventually found our way tone off a side street of Ave del Portal de l’Angel.

Tapas were decent but relatively expensive. We realized it was a mistake to find a restaurant in such a touristy location, everyone else eating there were also tourists who spoke no Spanish (although there was only one server in the restaurant who spoke any English).

We went to a grocery store after dinner to pick up some food for the next day. We were all shocked to discover that alcohol was (far) cheaper than water! The cheapest bottle of wine we saw was only 0.82 Euros! The 2 Euro bottles we got would be considered mid-level wines in Canada, and definitely passable for our pre-drinking purposes. We bought 9 bottles for the six of us, thinking it would last us two nights. We were clearly under-estimating our drinking abilities. A few hours later, we were opening our seventh bottle and all quite drunk.

That night, we went out with the hostel. They took us to a hole-in-the-wall bar and somehow managed to fit all 50 of us in (we were joined by a group from their sister hostel). Time works differently in Barcelona (Spain? All of Europe?), as I’ve come to realize. Peak dinner hours are around 9 pm, and people don’t go out to clubs until 1 am. We were pre-drinking from 9pm to 11:30pm at the hostel, then stayed at the tiny bar from 12 till 1am before walking to the club.

The dance club was packed and we ran into a friend of ours from school. At one point during the night, Jasmine started dancing with a French dude, leaving me all alone. As I turned to look around, I realized all my other companions were dancing with someone as well. I felt awkward and extraneous on the dance floor. This would have been one of those moments where I could have gone into the bathroom to cry, if I were melodramatic. What I can tell you was that I wasn’t happy to be stranded on the dance floor of an anonymous club in a city I’d been in for less than 24 hours, an ocean away from home and any semblance of familiarity.

If this was a club back home, I would have just called a cab and gone home. But I didn’t remember the hostel’s address. I didn’t even know the closest intersection. All I knew was that this most definitely wasn’t home.

I stuck it out for another hour, after which I told my companions I wanted to leave. Most of them weren’t ready to leave yet, but because no one wanted to be left behind in a club in Barcelona (we had no idea where we were because we had just followed the leader – drunk – to walk there), we all ended up leaving together. It was a 20-minute walk back to the hostel, but I was just glad someone knew the way.

Our first day in Barcelona was incredibly long. When people I’d met asked me when I arrived, they were all surprised to hear “Today!”
“So, today is your first day in Europe?” They’d follow-up, wide-eyed.
“Yes!” I’d reply, equally wide-eyed.
Each time, I could not believe that less than 24 hours ago, I’d been in Toronto, doing absolutely nothing, and now I was chatting up some Australians, Germans, and Dutch boys in a random bar in Barcelona.

When I received the first two messages, I thought she was drunk-texting me. I have never been drunk-texted by a girl, much less on Sunday morning, so I was quite amused.
The Drake Hotel, I texted back.
She asked if I could join her for brunch.
I am with some guys from last night but they are leaving, she said.
I raised an eyebrow but only texted back, No problem.

Two hours later, CMA and I arrived at The Drake Hotel (I invited CMA at the last minute because she was a classmate of ours that had just moved to The City and I knew she was dying for me to take her to The Drake, or anywhere for that matter). I spotted BI immediately, lounging with – not one, not two – but four guys on the couches by the window.

BI introduced them as friends of Friend X who had shown up for Friend X’s birthday party last night. There was a German, a Russian, a Portuguese, and an Indian. It was like a bad racial joke. The introductions were awkward, seeing as we didn’t know them and BI barely knew them.

“Sorry for the last-minute notice,” BI said after we ordered. “I’m really glad you made it. This may be the last time I see you!” She has said that the last three times we’ve seen each other.

But it’s true, since classes ended, each time we see each other feels like it’ll be the last. Neither of us are sure how long it’ll be before our next get-together (after I go off to Singapore that is), so while we’re still in the same country, we make the most of it, which explains why I dropped what I was doing and drove all the way downtown after getting her text. I was hoping the boys would leave quickly, I wanted girl-talk time with my girl.

In the meantime, I concentrated on the food, an overflowing platter of scrambled egg whites, bacon, home fries, and toast, a breakfast burrito, and blueberry scones with raspberry jam and whipped cream (to share). What? We were eating for three hours okay?

After the food and the boys were gone, BI broke the news about her apartment-hunting woes. She was starting a job in The City in a few months and had originally planned to take over her cousin’s apartment, which was in a great location downtown (at a great price). Her cousin was supposed to move to Brazil with his wife, but he called her not 24 hours prior to say that he was probably not going anywhere. In fact, he might be getting a divorce.
This, of course, spurred a whole discussion about marriage, monogamy, and relationships. It’s strange how all my discussions with BI these days lead to the topic of marriage.
“I read this book called ‘The Myth of Monogamy‘ and in it, they say that most animals, humans included, are not meant to be monogamous. In fact, there are only seven species of monogamous animals in the wild,” BI said conspiratorially.
“Yes, I don’t know if monogamy is necessarily the key to a good marriage,” I said, surprising even myself. “Perhaps a polygamous arrangement could be just as successful, if people know what they’re getting into and have the right expectations.”
“Really?” CMA asked, looking doubtful. “I mean I know marriage is a social institution, but don’t you think the point of this practice is to elicit the promise of devotion?”
“Well if marriage is just about tying down someone who promises to devote himself to me, then I might as well marry my dog!” I said, a little too loudly.
Suddenly, BI burst out laughing, breaking the mood of our overly serious discussion. Seconds later, I was laughing with her, until we were making such a ruckus that our neighbours started shooting us angry looks.

This is why I love BI. She laughs with me (at me, with me, same thing), she makes me see the absurdity of some of my more extreme statements, and she makes me feel endlessly amusing, albeit a bit naive. For the last year and a half, BI has been my best friend at The Business School. We’re not best friends in a wearing-BFF-bracelets-and-having-sleepovers kind of way. But I feel like we can talk to each other, truthfully and without judgment. She’s the closest thing I have to a confidant at TBS. And of course, I love the fact that she finds me hilarious. She will often burst out laughing in the middle of our conservations at something I’ve said, something that I wouldn’t have otherwise found funny. I like the fact that she finds me amusing, lovable, sassy. I love seeing that me through her eyes. She makes me feel really special, like a true Sassy Girl.

Moreover, she’s five years older than me, and that much wiser, so she can give me advice about boys like she knows what she’s talking about. Having a friend like BI makes me honestly start to wish that I had an older sibling. Because seriously, I would love it if I had an older sister to tell it to me like it is without the bullshit – a trooper of the “He’s Not Into You” camp – and prepare me for the heartache that’s sure to come. I guess what I’m saying is that I want to keep BI as a friend, but I’m afraid that it might be difficult once we’re oceans apart with no shared context. Friends can care about you when it’s convenient but the commitment isn’t unconditional.

Unfortunately, I can’t force BI to be my older sister and care for me unconditionally. She’s been a great friend, whether or not our friendship stands the test of time (and space). I’m not supposed to feel bad about moving on with my life, even if that means leaving some people behind (kind of par for the course when I choose to move halfway around the world), but as she said at our last meeting, “It’s like the end of an era!” (and then I squealed with delight for hearing a quote from Friends, my all time favourite TV show ever) and I gave her a tight hug because I knew in that instant that she got me. She was the only person I met at TBS who ever really got me.

And now I have to make new friends in a completely different city with a completely different culture on a completely different continent. Will I still be considered witty? Funny? Sassy? Will they get me?

As an infant, I was what one may call a vegan. I disliked meat – it was never tender enough – and I would chew a piece of meat in my little mouth until it was all fiber, and then spit it out. I never swallowed. I also disliked seafood – it was never fresh enough. Basic human instinct should tell us not to eat something that smells like ammonia. I would throw up if I even glimpsed dairy (my parents had to feed me milk when I was asleep).
Food-wise, I was a difficult child to raise, and I have been making up for it in other aspects my whole life.

My father, to his credit, was and is a great cook. When he made something I liked, I loved it. The thing about food is that it always tastes better when prepared with care and love. That is why the best restaurant-food will never beat great home-cooking, and that is why I am so confident that I know what good food tastes like.

As I grew older, I learned about things like respect and obedience, which softened my edges as a picky eater. Nonetheless, I was rarely chastised for not eating a dish I didn’t like, or picking out certain things in my food. For the most part, my taste buds dictated our home-cooking. I was not a spoiled as a kid, but my taste buds were.

So it comes as no surprise that I grew into an amateur food critic. I know what I like and what I don’t like, and on that basis, I know what tastes good and what doesn’t. I have not lost my infant stubbornness – I rarely swallow anything I don’t like. This is what I call the “food critic diet”, I am not restricted by certain ingredients, I am simply restricted by what I deign worthy enough to eat. As such, I will try almost anything once, but after that, I may seek it out or never touch it again.

What worries me is that after I have been to Europe, I will never touch North American food again.

1. This was in China in the late 80s, so supermarkets did not yet exist, and everyone bought their groceries from farmer’s markets. When it came to meat, for example chicken, you had to buy a live chicken and slaughter it yourself at home.

Anyway, my friends have been very supportive of my excitement (maybe they just haven’t gotten tired of me going on and on yet). I was shopping with a girl friend who I haven’t seen in literally two years, and when I started rambling about this Europe trip, she pulled out a few euros from her purse and gave them to me. I, clueless that I was, didn’t even know they were Euros.
“Here, for your trip,” she said, handing them to me.
“What are these? Are these like arcade game tokens?” I pulled out a game token for comparison¹.
“What? No! These are euros!”
“Oh. Right. Of course. I knew that.”

And then last night, when I went out to dinner with some of the friends that are going on exchange (you know, the ones whose couches I will be crashing on when I go), they gave me some budgeting advice.
“When I went to Europe, I ended up spending a lot less on food than I thought,” one of my friends said. “For example, when I was in Paris for four days, all I ate was a baguette, some pickles, and a bottle of wine.”
I chewed on my rigatoni, considering this.

“Ohhhh,” I said, suddenly understanding, “So you replace food with wine, and you get so drunk you forget you’re hungry. Is that the idea?”
They stared at me incredulously and then burst into laughter. Was that not the idea?

My friend took a bite of her beef tenderloin, which looked a lot like salami. “Of course, I’m not a foodie like you, I don’t go out to nice places when I travel. I imagine you will be taking advantage of some of the ‘culinary sights’ on this trip?” She said, when they had finished laughing.
“Well, I don’t eat out that much when I travel either,” I admitted, thinking of my trip to California when I went to the grocery store on my first day in San Francisco, and lived off baby carrots, apples, bananas, and cereal for a week.
“But in Europe,” another friend piped up, “Oh in Europe, some of these places take their food very seriously.” She twirled a forkful of capellini, and after a thoughtful pause, she added, “It’s more like an art to them.”

I groaned in pretend ecstasy. “In that case, I may have to be a little looser with my food budget,” I said, taking a sip of merlot and looking over at my friend’s chicken breast with envy.

For the last 48 hours, other than food, my head has been filled with Europe. I have already planned out a good portion of my trip, for cities that I am definitely visiting: Prague, Vienna, Venice, and Florence. I have put my itinerary up here, although it is still a work in progress. Most of it is based on Internet research, so I will be waiting for feedback from Real Live People who have been there, or my friends who are going to be there over the next few months, before I finalize the itinerary. Or maybe I won’t finalize it, and just let myself travel a bit more spontaneously. After all, that’s what Euro trips are supposed to be about right? Spontaneity, recklessness, embracing flaunting the fact that we are young and alive. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt for me to stop acting like a 30-year-old and start acting my age.

1. Don’t ask me why I was carrying around arcade tokens. I had some left over from last time I went out with friends and we played arcade games while waiting for our movie to start.

Anyway, in lieu of any real post, here are some recent food pictures I’ve taken on dinners out with friends (yes, I still have a social calendar, despite the ridiculousness of my day job).

P.S. MFL has returned. Let the emotional turmoil begin (again)…

After lunch, OBF and I strolled around The City and caught up. We found a roof-top patio and she had a cold beer while I sipped on a Long Island Ice Tea. I told her about what had happened with HB and WAF. She clearly did not approve of the HB incident, but since I had already resolved it and learned my lesson, she did not say anything. She was not all that surprised to hear about WAF acting so irresponsible and out-of-control though.

“WAF is always like that. She lets shit hit the fans because she knows someone else will clean it up. And you know she’s never, ever going to pay you back.”
“I know,” I paused, wondering if I still believed in WAF, “But I think maybe I just attract people like that. Because I’ve got my shit together, and they don’t, so I end up being the ‘better friend.’” I felt a little bit uncomfortable admitting this to OBF because my relationship with OBF was one of them.
She understood immediately.
“You’ve always been there for me, and I really haven’t paid you back.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean for you, I know you’d do the same for me given the opportunity. But you know, I just don’t give my friends the opportunity because I don’t let it happen, you know?”
“But you might be able to take some stress off yourself if you reach out for help more. And you can certainly call on me.”

Although OBF and I had been quite close in our adolescence, we really had drifted apart in the last four years. “You know,” I mused, “When you went to the States, I thought our paths would diverge farther and farther. But now you’re back and it seems our paths might even converge¹, and stay converged for the next, oh, at least three years.”
“Well, I mean what I said, if you ever need me to bail you out, I’m there. Seriously.”
I reached across the table and patted her arm. “I appreciate that, I really do.”

And just like that, OBF was no longer a friend of the past. We were best friends again.

1. She had come back to Canada for law school, and if I stayed in Canada, I would be attending the same law school.

Canada Day was celebrated without too much fanfare. During the day, my parents and I went to dim sum at a restaurant (more like diner) that specialized in steamed dumplings.

Later that afternoon, I headed downtown to meet up with OBF. I got there a little early, so I hung out at a cafe with some chocolate espresso ice cream, a cookie, and a crossword while I waited. I’m getting really good at the “being alone in public” thing!
OBF showed up with PL, which I wasn’t expecting. I still hadn’t really gotten over how unforgivably rude and judgmental she had been that weekend, but I kept my mouth shut because I hadn’t told OBF what happened.

We went to see a play put on by an independent company that was a modern spin on bedtime stories. The concept was pretty good – they went through Little Red Riding Hood, Three Little Pigs, and Cinderella, which are all great stories – but the script was kind of cheesy and the omniscient narrator got very annoying very quickly.

After the play, we went to a coffee house to catch up. As we were deciding where to go, PL‘s obnoxiousness started to rear its ugly head.
OBF: I’m kind of hungry, let’s go somewhere with food.
Me: I already ate, so you decide. I’ll just get a drink or something.
PL: X Bar has good food, and decent cocktails.
Me: Oh, I can’t drink, I’m driving.
OBF: X Bar sounds good, let’s go there.
PL: Well, if only one of us is ordering food and she’s not ordering an alcoholic drink, we should probably go somewhere else.
OBF: Um…
Me: Ok, let’s go to a cafe then.

Honestly, I don’t understand why PL is always so concerned with how others will perceive us for not ordering enough, or not ordering drinks, or not ordering expensive items. I think I am the exact opposite, I never give these things a second thought, I always order/act however I want, and if a waiter treats me badly, I just don’t tip as generously. But I usually never get treated badly because I’m pretty friendly. So PL should just lighten up. If she stopped being an obnoxious bitch, maybe she won’t have to drop tons of money just to get friendly service!

That night, we went to the lake front to watch the fireworks. I love fireworks, and so did PL, so we both cheered up considerably.

On the whole, it was a pretty good Canada’s Day. The only thing missing? Strawberry shortcake.

“He blamed it on my sleepwear, as if I was wearing it to seduce him!”
Like a good girl friend, BI mocked outrage. “You? Seduce? Impossible.”
“It gets better. Guess what I was wearing?” I paused for dramatic effect. “I was wearing a purple cotton dress with a pirate face on it. My mom had bought it for me.”
BI laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. The patrons on either side of us looked at us before resuming their meal. We didn’t stop laughing until the waiter arrived with our glutinous rice roll with meat floss¹ and rolled scallion pancake with sliced beef.

“Although, maybe my mom was trying to buy me suggestive sleepwear. Maybe that’s her tactic to get me knocked up sooner.”
“Why would she want that? Grandchildren?”
“Bingo. I don’t even know if I want kids, but every time I tell her that, she just ignores me and starts describing her fantasy.”
I took a bite of the scallion pancake. Although it tasted good, it was made all wrong. Scallion pancakes are supposed to be thin and crispy, but this one was thick and doughy. The sliced beef was good though, so I picked those out from inside the roll.
“Her fantasy,” I elaborated once I’d finished chewing, “is to drive a school bus. Full of my children. And the children would bound out one by one, followed at last by a golden retriever.”
BI stopped mid-bite. “A school bus?” She asked, appropriately horrified.
“A school bus,” I confirmed solemnly, having already accepted my fate as some sort of baby-pumping machine.
BI couldn’t help but laugh, but I was not amused. “The only way I can fulfill her fantasy is if I do in vitro. I figure, if they can get the fertilized zygote to split enough times, I’ll only have to donate two or three eggs to fill up a school bus.”
The waiter returned with two steaming baskets of dumplings.
BI ignored the food and leaned across the table. “You realize that that is basically cloning. Are you really going to clone yourself a bus full of children? Honey, your genes are good, but not that good.”
At that, I had to laugh.

After I said goodbye to BI, I headed to LSAT training. The training ran nearly 40 minutes over, so even though I rushed down to the train station in a frenzy, I had missed my train back to University Town by mere minutes. The next train was leaving at 10pm and wouldn’t arrive until 1:30am. I had no choice, I had to work on Monday. So I bought a ticket and wondered what I’d do for the next three hours.

As I left the train station, I was not in a good mood. I was still wearing my skirt suit and heals from LSAT training. My feet were killing me (I’m pretty sure I was bleeding into my shoes but I did not want to look) and the blouse was starting to stick to my skin. I decided I needed a place to sit down and relax, possibly with a drink so I could sleep on the train.
I must have looked ridiculous wandering around downtown in a suit, with a bursting backpack and a tote, limping and muttering to myself. I was looking for a place to change when I suddenly realized that I had forgot to pack my tops. All I had on me were two pairs of jeans and half a dozen pieces of lingerie I’d bought the day before. If I wanted to change underwear, I was set, but otherwise, I was stuck with the skirt suit.

I found a place to rest my feet in the front courtyard of a large shiny building, that must house hundreds of bankers and lawyers on the weekdays. I checked my backpack again, not believing I could have forgotten to pack tops. Lucky for me, I found a t-shirt stuffed into the corner of my backpack. I was so overjoyed at the possibility of changing into normal clothes that I started to change on the spot.
Yes, I stripped down to my underwear in front of one of the shiniest buildings in the middle of the financial district. I seriously hope they have no video cameras pointed at the front courtyard.
Since it was a Sunday afternoon, there weren’t many pedestrians around. On the other hand, half my classmates from The Business School were working in these buildings this summer and if any of them had to go in on a Sunday afternoon and saw me, I never would have lived it down. But I wasn’t thinking about any of that. I was only thinking that I needed to get out of the suit and heels ASAP.
Only one man witnessed my strip show, he walked by while I was trying to pull my jeans up, but he pretended not to notice my ridiculousness. He probably assumed I was a crazed intern who had to work on a Sunday and was now getting ready to go to a bar and get sloshed.
He wouldn’t have been far off the mark.

Immediately after I’d changed into more comfortable clothes, I attacked the next order of business: finding myself a drink. And there was one drink in particular that I was craving: Long Island Ice Tea.
Luckily, I am not a girl who worries about being being seen eating or drinking alone, although I had never had much occasion to do either. I walked until I found a street patio tucked on a quiet side street of the entertainment district and, before I knew it, I was sipping on a cool Long Island Ice Tea. I smoked my last cigarette and practically inhaled my drink, already eyeing the lychee martini as my next victim. I hadn’t had any food since dim sum this morning, so the alcohol hit me pretty quickly. Soon, I was feeling light-headed and famished. After devouring a plate of freshly cut fries, I settled into the only reading material I’d brought with me: Everyone Worth Knowing by Lauren Weisberger.

Sitting on the quiet street patio with my book, a good drink, my last cigarette, and made-to-order comfort food, I realized I was not the least bit self-conscious that I was alone and essentially stranded in The City. In fact, I could not have felt better. Maybe it was the alcohol getting to my head, but I really felt grateful that I’d missed my train. How else would I have gotten the opportunity to spend such quality time with my favourite city?

I slept like a baby on the train, and when I finally stumbled into my apartment at 2 in the morning, I could not have been more optimistic for what Monday would bring. Because once you’ve stripped in public, you feel pretty much ready for anything.

1. Meat floss is what it’s called on their menu, which I find kind of bizarre. It is actually dried shredded pork.

Yesterday’s grocery trip yielded the following items:

• 1 box of frozen chicken wings (ready-to-bake)
• 1.5L of strawberry banana frozen yogurt
• 1.5L of chocolate brownie ice cream
• 8 containers of fat free fiber yogurt
• 3 apples
• 3 bags of chips
• 1 bag of cherry licorice
• 1 box of cereal
• 1kg of pasta

You will notice the blatant lack of vegetables, and only three measly apples to balance out hundreds of servings of sugar, complex carbohydrates, and saturated fat. How am I not a whale yet?

When you live alone, there’s really no one to comment on your diet, and therefore, no one to judge.
Ironically, when I first moved into my apartment, I was so healthy. I cooked my own meals every day (or enough leftovers for the next day) and I made everything from scratch. My fridge was a vibrant mosaic of red peppers and green lettuce and orange oranges. I didn’t want my vegetables to go stale so I went on three grocery trips a week. And I walked to the grocery store.

A couple weeks ago, I returned to University Town after living with my parents for a month, and I found that I had lost my magic in the kitchen! Suddenly, I never felt like cooking, and even when I did, I was a complete clutz. In one night, I set my kitchen on fire twice. First was when I left the popcorn in the microwave too long, and the entire room filled with thick smoke, the fire alarm went off, and I had to call the super to tell him not to alert the fire department. Then, not two hours later, I left a pot of boiling eggs on the stove and they started exploding!
Not a good night for me in the kitchen.

Ever since, I have not cooked. Seriously, not cooked at all, in over two weeks. This is unheard of, considering my reputation as an amateur chef among my family and friends. Instead, I have been ordering deep-fried take-out and heating up frozen chicken wings and digging through tubs of ice cream. What? Ice cream can be a meal.

This is how I get ready for bikini-season. Maybe people will think I’m pregnant and save me a spot on the beach?