2002-01-30 || 11:04 a.m.

|| ingredients list ||

remember when it was a special event, your living alone? the treks to the grocery store, alone, to buy colored cereal if you wanted to? boxes of brown rice? expensive highly perishable orange juice? wheeling the cart down the aisles slowly, dramatically, the lens of the camera following you past frozen dinners and vegetable medleys? turning the corner, looking left and right, reading the backs of soup cans because that is what is instructed in the script.

your refrigerator signifies the end of an era. your eating habits. oly beer and half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. not because it's charming but because it's all you have.

we could catalog the contents of cupboards, assign meaning and connotation: two bags of flour. crystallized ginger opened once by your mum in 1999. four cans of soup. coffee filters. hot sauce. miso soup. the flavor packet for top ramen. never to be consumed. never to be thrown away. the occupation of space is what's important. the words written in fine print on labels: you are alive. you are a consumer. you value sustenance, although all of our expiration dates fall in the past.

sometimes i wish i knew how to cook. i think i would look at food differently.

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