This morning I discovered that the seeming-endless stream of leftovers that had cluttered up our fridge (lasagna, pizza, peas-and-spinach-in-garlic-and-shallot-butter something, and even the greasy hand pies from weeks and weeks ago) had disappeared, and my husband had nothing to take to school to eat, and nothing to eat for dinner at work. Work is less of a problem, surrounded as he is there by fried tourist food and a place that either calls itself or offers “Breakfast Lunch Diner,” but for him to be without nutrients between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. is a clear dereliction of my duties as a wife. I don’t mean this in some winking post-feminist way, or some hysterical-newlywed way. It’s just true. He’s quite literally supporting me now, and going to school full-time, and I really, truly have nothing better to do than try cooking as cheaply and meatlessly as possible anymore. So I finally used that can of diced tomatoes, and some butter, and an onion, and let it cook for a long time, let it cool for a short time, and poured into tupperware over the pasta that always lives in every pantry. Because that’s what being married means.
Consuming, Item No. 1: Kenny Rogers & The First Edition, Greatest Hits
At the Oakland Museum White Elephant Sale this weekend, I bought a Kenny Rogers Best Of record for $1, and Jake bought some classical music, and he plugged in our record player. I still think it’s weird sometimes that this is really my grown-up house and my grown-up life and not just a really fun clubhouse I get to hang out in all the time. And someone else always keeps it clean. I’ll be sad if I really am allergic to that thrift-store smell. I don’t feel as bad buying Best Ofs as I should.