Hello friends!

It's Thursday night and I just got home from work and I'm sprawled out on the bed with a whiskey on the rock (big rock) and a bowl of cold macaroni and cheese. Not an especially winning combination, but not the saddest dinner I've ever eaten.

I'm so bored with food, you guys. The what-do-I-feel-like-eating? and the grocery shopping and the goddam cooking and the do-it-all-over-again-tomorrow-ness of the endeavour. It's relentless.

I don't always feel this way.  Sometimes I get really into cooking. Remember when I went on that trip about how I wanted to eat "seasonally," and plan all our meals around what I found at the farmer's market? 

HA.

Clearly I was underemployed at the time.

Maybe I'll just buy a whole bunch of cottage cheese. Cashews. Cucumbers. Are they in season? Who gives a fuck! That Whole Foods tuna with the cranberries in it. 

Ricky would happily subsist on nothing but granola and yogurt, but I have this thing where I hate to eat the same meal twice in one day....

My this month in print is Alfred Lansing's Endurance: Shackleton's Incredible Voyage about the disastrous Antarctic expedition led by Ernest Shackleton. Speaking of food issues. If I'd been forced to eat nothing but penguin for months on end (with the occasional bit of seal blubber thrown in) and ring in the new year with a cocktail known as "Gut Rot, 1916," a concoction of water, ginger, sugar, and methylated alcohol borrowed from a cooking stove, I wouldn't be complaining right now, would I?