. There are mooncakes at the Confucius Institute. Mooncakes! This does sound magical and I am not one to miss out on a bit of magic. The tables are filled with shiny balls of dough in pink, blue, and green, and there are tubs of red bean paste. I take a sample, with it’s etched design neatly stamped on the top. It’s sweet and tastes like raw flour. The gummy, gelatinous feel is unpleasant.
. Nobody wants a rumor started about a handshake up a vagina.
. Three teenage boys and one of them is making this awful screeching-squealing sound and the others are laughing. He stops with the noise to say “I just kept stabbing it with the stick until it stopped moving.”. More laughter and my stomach lurches with grief and for a blindingly white hot second I want to smash his face into the concrete until his teeth break off and his eyes explode but I keep walking towards home, their laughter echoing in my brain.
. I find an old poem I forgot I had written:
I did not know what it meant
to be alone.
I imagined it had a salty taste.
I left so many things.
With a craving in my mouth.
I did not know
that it would feel so
. I forage the fridge for dinner, Amanda Frederickson style, and come up with this:
1 pint + a handful of cherry tomatoes, on the verge of wrinkling
bunches of almost wilted sage, oregano, rosemary
leftover rice noodles
7 cloves of garlic, skins on
1/4 cup-ish olive oil
chop up herbs (about a tablespoon each), put all the vegetation in a small casserole dish, drench in olive oil, coarse salt, fresh cracked pepper
into the oven at 375 for about 90 minutes. (When tomatoes have shriveled and everything is bubbly and the aroma is to-die-for, it’s ready)
pull out the garlic and when cool enough, squeeze the flesh from the skins and toss back into the tomatoes.
reheat noodles by dunking into boiling water for 1 minute, drain
noodles + sauce collide
parm parm parm
. Body and blood