One of the truly great things about the woman who used to be my date every Friday night, and is still my apartment mate, is that she loves cheese. What makes this remarkable is that her love interest for the last half dozen years has dietary issues -- he's white, lactose intolerant, neurotic, and apparently can't cook worth diddly -- and she herself is Chinese (but not lactose intolerant in the slightest).
See, that right there explains why we still live together and not with other people. Unlike most of English-speaking San Francisco we don't have bugs up our asses about gluten, meat, dairy, or gmos. We enjoy food, and neither she nor I worship kale, turmeric, or protein supplements.
Naturally, as the resident white person in this household, I consume more vegetables than she does. Vegetables are wonderful with fish sauce, or bacon, or chili paste. Or all three of those.
Tonight after coming home from Marin I did not feel like cooking. So I had cheese and crackers, and a large cup of strong coffee. She's asleep in her room right now, but I note that the bacon supply has been abundantly restocked. Good-o!
Tomorrow morning I shall briefly wake up when she fries up breakfast for herself and watches one or two more episodes of a murder series she's been following before going to work. Then I shall drift back into slumber, with the lingering fragrance of limp-crispy pork influencing my dreams.
When I get up for real later in the morning, I shall have a pipe and some Virginia flake with my coffee. I never eat breakfast; caffeine and tobacco are sufficient to get me started.
We're probably stuck with each other as apartment mates for life, because the alternatives in this city have food hang-ups, ideological problems, and multiple mental issues. Besides being totes "spiritual".
Or are vegetarian schizos who do drugs.
And think that cheese is murder.
Bacon is from the devil.
Tobacco is evil.
Yoga.
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