Last night, I ordered the fried seafood extravaganza at a local little restaurant my husband and I love to frequent. With a side of fries. It arrived, a giant, overflowing pile of various shapes, in crispy brown. Yes, it tasted great, but now my mouth is still coated in grease, my stomach is churning and burning, and my mind is trying to come up with a formula for the number of cucumbers and kale leaves I must eat today, to counteract the damage done. I’m going to have to cut this short today, friends. (Friend is a much better word than fried, it’s amazing what one little letter can do . . . ) Virginia Woolf said it best:
“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.”
Nor can one write well. Well, maybe Virginia Woolf could, but she was Virginia Woolf.