From the backs of bodega freezers I pulled mysterious off-brand popsicles, summer’s refuse, and ate those too. Ceasing to cook was less a decision I made than a series of happy choices I could not. This was to finish my novel, I told friends, but also, I told myself, to cook in a proper kitchen. Facebook Twitter Pinterest Illustration: Eric ChowIf cooking for company is aspirational, cooking alone might be anything but, something like the first glance in the mirror early in the morning, unpolished and uncensored. I replaced the kitchen table with something less striking and more sturdy, heavy walnut I found at a flea upstate, and I haven’t drawn blood yet.

Source: The Guardian November 18, 2018 12:00 UTC