anyone who’s eaten with me more than twice will notice a pattern. i never finish a meal. or rather, i always finish a meal – but it’s about a day or two late, in the form of leftovers eaten at the next meal. i don’t know when it happened – perhaps some time after i graduated from college and eating as a social activity waned dramatically – but my stomach shrank. at this point, it’s probably the size of your little sister’s fist.
the other night, i was thoughtfully chewing chewing my way through dinner, and i found myself at a stopping point, my stomach full. and i looked down to see this was the sad (yet, oh-so-familiar) state of things:
a few inches of apple cider, the stubby stump of a chicken wrap, and the last two bites of a chocolate chip bar. and i couldn’t go further. i don’t know why i can’t eat like a normal person.
yes. will you look at that. little miss coin-purse-for-a-stomach finished the whole thing. what that used to be was a lovely slab of marinated salmon, charred to juicy perfection over a grill, and served with rice, fried plaintains, some variation of a salsa, black beans, and a side salad. i went with a couple friends to have this early evening meal at a tiny shack of a brazilian restaurant. it was grimy in the most charming kind of way, and despite being farther west from my home than i usually venture, i’m already thinking up excuses to go there again. because, really, a girl can get awful tired of saying, “can i get a box for this?”