“If food is like a language, then menudo is its own dialect in my family.”
I’ve gotten better at eating since rehab, but I’ve yet to explore the pleasure of food; of preparing it and enjoying it.
I want to be the bridge between his memory and her love for cooking.
“We eat meat and tell ourselves these bodies are just burger, ham, filets.”
“Half my neighbor’s sour cherry tree grew over our fence, which made that half ours by law no matter what she said.”
“It’s right, I think, to have death be a part of life; it’s the way it should be.”
“Americans don’t typically like being reminded of slavery.”
“He showed us the realm of good-eating fruit, and we have come to protect this pleasure fiercely.”
Level 1 is not hot (sorry, Sriracha). Level 2 (habanero, scotch bonnet) gets interesting. Then there is Level 3.
“I’d have to borrow money, but the question is: who from?”
I keep reminding myself that I’ll go to Sicily for the history, not the limes. But why kid myself?
What kind of story would you like to write?
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