You, dear reader, are already used to me describing in far too much detail what I ate for lunch. Or dinner. Or as an ill-advised midnight snack. The words 'bacon', 'Sriracha Hotsauce', 'noodles', 'fresh green chilies', 'oyster sauce', 'curry paste', 'pickled green mango', 'stinky fermented goo', and many others, have entered your vocabulary from reading this blog.
They fester in your food-subconscious.
And infect your dreams.
So I shan't even mention that dinner, mere moments ago, consisted of zucchini chunks and bacon with ginger and hotsauce, accompanied by toasted cheesy bread, which was very good indeed.
Plus a cup of strong coffee right now.
Instead, let me describe what a co-worker ate for lunch: Stale ham and egg breakfast muffin. Followed by a pint of ice cream.
Stale breakfast muffin, and a pint of ice cream.
No, not a pregnant woman. A man of approximately my age.
I presume that it was all delicious.
Maybe I need to start bringing half a dozen crunchy fresh Jalapeños with me whenever I head across the Golden Gate Bridge from SF.
Just to make sure he gets his vegetables.
My own lunch was unmentionable.
That's Marin, bugger it all.
Food purgatory.
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