Say hello to my little friend

There’s this story that a friend of mine told me almost two decades ago so the details are fuzzy but here’s what I remember: She was living and working two or three jobs in Florence, Italy and had a real Italian boyfriend. Her Italian was fantastic. She spoke it a mile a minute. One day she had an opportunity to make a little extra money at this catering event. She was serving breakfast to a bunch of fancy Italian men. She circulated through the room carrying a pitcher of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. “Pompino?” she offered them. She thought pompino meant “grapefruit”. She couldn’t understand why the men were laughing and saying: “Si, si, signorina!” Turns out pompelmo is grapefruit in Italian, not pompino. Pompino means “blow job”.

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Confessions in Buffalo

On Friday, soon after I got home from work, the Beast appeared in the kitchen wearing mint green shorts and a breezy, over-sized button down shirt.

“Today I’m giving you Armie Hammer CMBYN realness,” he told me. “Now you go dress up like Timothee Chalamet.

“You’d be so proud of me today,” he continued. “I went for a bike ride to the outdoor gym by the water and I took off my shirt…”

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Always with the hot sauce

I was home alone last night so I did what anyone else in their right mind would do. After successfully installing a new set of shower curtains, I scrubbed the tub, harvested some chin hairs, grilled some halloumi, made a simple arugula salad with zucchini, mint, pecorino, and asparagus, poured myself a glass of cheap rosé, and watched Megan Leavey, a 2017 film about a U.S. Marine who returns from Iraq and eventually reunites with her bomb-sniffing combat dog.

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Garbage soup and being home alone

It is not uncommon for the Beast to have to fend for himself on a weeknight.

It is extremely rare, however, to find myself home alone. When it does happen, I am often overwhelmed with the anticipation of freedom: the very idea that I can eat and drink and watch whatever I want, with no debate, both thrills and paralyses me. Anything could happen.

Two weeks ago, the Beast had plans to see a concert with his older brother. It was happening. I was going to be home alone.

“I have no idea what I’m going to do tonight,” I told him that morning before I left for work.

“You could do what I do: read a play, masturbate, and then watch old episodes of Frontline on YouTube.”

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Who’s afraid of reading Virginia Woolf?

Beast: What do you think is the most-bought but least-read book in all of history?

Foodie: [Silence]

Beast: I bet it’s Gödel, Escher, Bach.

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Checking in, and checking out

Walking to an undisclosed location on a recent Friday evening to celebrate our 13th anniversary:

Foodie: I love the light out right now, and the way the snow has just sort of settled on the tree branches. It looks like a Bruegel landscape.

Beast: For fuck’s sake.

Foodie: What?

Beast: I didn’t know I’d be spending the night with Wordsworth.

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Risotto and resolutions

On a recent week night:

Foodie: What smells so good?

Beast: I’m making risotto for dinner. But I haven’t even started it yet. You’re probably smelling the chicken stock, which I made from scratch, heating up.

Foodie: What kind of risotto are you making?

Beast: Obviously Milanese. But I’m using chicken stock instead of beef and I’m adding peas.

Foodie: So not Milanese then. Can you help me get my coat off?

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