– I never, ever thought I’d tire of eating French food, but at some point during our short jaunt I realized that I could not eat another duck confit. To be fair, this was less about being sick of duck confit and more about wanting to fit into the trousers I had brought with me.…
The first time Rand and I visited Sydney, we ate at the Opera House restaurant (at the invitation of conference organizers). Our meal was absurdly posh and beautiful. Later, every one of us who partook in the oysters at dinner (myself, and a few other miserable souls) got a wicked case of food poisoning. As…
– Food on Hayman Island was absurdly expensive. I plan on writing an entire post about it, but it actually causes me physical pain to think about the prices of our meals there, so I’m procrastinating on that.
– Do you remember the interstitial sketch from Monty Python where John Cleese would say, “And now for something completely different?” That seems like the perfect way to start off today’s post. Because today I am moving away from South Africa to tell you about the few brief days we spent in London. And I…
– Whenever I see someone who has succumbed to something incredibly touristy – whether it be the people running around Disney World with those invisible dogs on leashes, or anyone drinking beer out of a boot – two things go through my head: That is so incredibly cheesy. I … I kind of want in…
(Note: I just got back from South Africa yesterday. My brain has absolutely ZERO idea what time it is. I contemplated blogging last night, but I was deliriously tired, and acting slightly more crazy than normal. At one point, I may have fallen over my husband in the kitchen because I wanted to bite his…
Before we dined there, we had trouble discerning what Blue’s Egg was. The menu was eclectic and high-brow, but the setting (in a small strip mall) suggested a casual diner. – In truth, it was both – that blissful mix of homey and familiar, strange and exotic. Plus, there were cookies topped with bacon.
– Do you ever have moments of extreme clarity? I’m not referring to those times when the skies above you are cloud free, or when your skin is looking absent of blemishes, almost to the point of vulnerability. No. I live in Seattle, and I eat lots of cake. My clarity does not manifest itself…
– After my brain surgery, I had trouble accepting that I was unchanged. “Do I seem different?” I would ask Rand, time and again. “No,” he’d reply. “Baby, you are exactly the same.” And I’d stare at my reflection in the mirror, at my steroid-induced moonface, and say, “But I look different.” “It’s not how…
Tales of Food, Feminism, and Fury
by Geraldine DeRuiter
Available Now!
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