These forays into the realm of food preparation are for the most part confined to openning cans and combining things, such as tuna with mayonaise, pasta with a celebrity endorsed sauce and hunger with a vague feeling of misgiving. Somehow by the time I reach the produce department I'm imagining myself sauteing and braizing, poaching and blanching, not to mention grilling and roasting. In other words wearing an apron and being goddam proud of it too. Then I remember that I'll be cooking for myself, who will never appreciate what I'm doing for him, and why should I slave away for that beast anyway. I decide that a simple method of food preparation is cheaper than extended therapy and I move swiftly away from the enticing yet ultimately pretentious world of miniature squash and shallots and into the humble yet honest potato and onion department.
Life seems simpler here, less complicated.
I pick up a small bag of tubers and think tenderly of my irish heritage, most specifically my grandmother who boiled everything until it was gray mush that had lost all nutritional value. I think how my life might change for the better if I just pick up some carrots and celery and make use of the juicer I received as a gift a few years ago. Then I remember that my juicer takes about ten times as long to clean as it does to operate. This results in such a vitality deficit that I have to take a nap after I use it. I also remember that Jack may be perky at 80 but he also looks like he's shrunk at least a foot in the last few years.