I am not a lover of pickles. But I recognize that many people are, and I respect that choice. Every Sunday at my local farmers’ market I see that the pickle man’s stand has a crowd around it, everybody jostling each other to point out which barrels they want their pickles drawn from. They all seem happy. (Well, at the very least they seem loud.) This past weekend I decided to get myself a quart and see what all the commotion is about.

Here is what I discovered: Pickles are salty, crisp, and sour as hell. They ruin your appetite for chocolate. There is not a wine around they can pair with. They smell strongly of vinegar. If you eat three or four in one sitting (I try to be thorough in my research), the inside of your mouth will burn, not in a pleasant way.

But the fact remains tons of people go wild for pickles. And I hate not liking things that everybody else likes. I’m thinking specifically of certain movies shown at the IFC Center, playing pool, and Guinness (beer or book of world records).

I do like cucumbers. Especially when they’re thinly sliced and placed on petite little triangles of buttered bread served with a nice pot of tea. Followed by cream scones. And I like salt, particularly when it’s coarse and crunchy and sprinkled on roasted almonds drenched in dark chocolate.

The stand at the market sells their pickles in sour, half sour, and three-quarters sour batches. They’re all sitting in the same brine (vinegar, dill, mustard seed, salt, salt, salt), the designations depend on how long they’ve been pickling – half sours, which are most crisp and cucumber-like, have only been in the drink a few days; sours have been soaking up to a three weeks and are the pickliest, a bit on the soggy side and just about to cross the threshold from sour to bitter on account of prolonged exposure to the mustard seed. Three-quarters sour seems kind of a b.s. label – those pickles were sour as could be, if you ask me. Okay, they were slightly more crunchy than sour proper. After four days of sitting in my fridge, the difference between sour and three-quarters sour became imperceptible. So buy from the three-quarters sour barrel, if you’re into marketing.

It’s possible I’ll learn to like pickles – I’ve still got a bunch left, getting sourer and less tempting by the day. But I doubt it. I think I expended too much effort in the years I tried to like Guinness, sipping it with a forced smile, pretending that warm beer isn’t gross. I’m over that kind over pretense. Though I still long to be one of the crowd.

In case anyone is reading this who is interested in the show Lost and hasn’t seen the first couple of episodes from the new (and final) season, be warned: there are spoilers ahead.

If it’s possible anyone is still interested in a show with ridiculously confusing plot twists, which, come to think of it, shouldn’t really be called twists but rather entirely new plots that go nowhere and then get dropped, but are occasionally referenced like they contain some kind of vaguely intellectual or philosophical meaning. With characters that get shot multiple times in a tropical environment (I imagine wounds get gnarlier faster in the tropics) and survive with no ill effects, not even a limp. And there is a smoke monster who, oh yeah, is also a dude from 1845. And then the writers have the unmitigated nerve to include this line, delivered by the fake Locke recounting the death of the real Locke, “his last thought was, ‘I don’t understand,’ isn’t that the most pathetic thing you ever heard?” Let me tell you something, Linderhof and Cuse: none of us understand.

I could go on, but I do want to talk about snacks. Okay. You know how some movies are sort of there just to get you out of the house and into the theatre where you can eat movie popcorn which is unbelievably delicious but also a bazillion calories and a half-bazillion dollars? Which is prohibitively expensive so you stay home and watch TV and get hooked on shows like Lost and before you know it five years of your life go by with nothing to show for them but a (waning) crush on Desmond? Right, well I can’t give you back all those Wednesday nights, but I can give you a really great technique for making popcorn at home. So that’s something.

Put three tablespoons of oil (I always use extra-virgin olive oil as it’s what I always have, but use any kind of oil you like – I bet hazelnut oil would be good) in a large saucepan with a lid over medium-low heat. Medium heat would be okay, if you want the popping to go faster, though the oil might sizzle in kind of an alarming way and anyway it’s not a race. Don’t use medium-high or high heat because that is how grease fires start.

Have ready one-third cup of popcorn kernels. Drop two or three kernels into the oil. Wait for a couple of minutes. When they pop, dump the rest of the kernels into the pan, cover it with the lid, and take it off the heat. Count out loud one to thirty (you don’t have to say the Mississippis), then put the pan back on the heat. Be patient, the corn will take about a minute to start popping. After you stop hearing the pops, take off the lid and decant the popcorn into a big bowl. Shake on some kosher salt and flavor as you wish.

Melted butter is an easy option, you can just drop a pat or two into the saucepan while it’s still hot and it’ll be liquid in no time. Another simple treat is to crumble up some goat cheese (four or five generous pinches) and toss it into the popcorn right when it comes out of the pan, so the soft cheese crumbles melt a bit. Then again, you could break up a chocolate bar into the bowl or add butterscotch chips. Don’t forget to shake on the salt for that satisfyingly sweet-salty combo. Or, if you don’t mind taking a little trouble, make a garlic paste by pounding a minced-up garlic clove with a big pinch of kosher salt using a mortar and pestle (you can smash it together on a cutting board with the flat of a knife, if you’re not gadgety). Whisk two tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil into the paste and drizzle all over the popcorn, tossing well to combine. It’s garlic-tastic.

Any way you flavor it, this homemade popcorn is healthier than movie popcorn, certainly cheaper, and you can crunch it as loud as you want, no worry about drowning out the sound of the castaways’ dialogue. It’s not meant to be understood anyway. Nuclear bomb-created alternate realities, let’s move the island, Locke is dead – no he’s alive – no he’s dead, indeed.

Photo by kozumel

Does anyone enjoy cocktail hour more than an eight-year old? Not possible. Though my grandmother was an excellent cook, her pan-roasted pork chops with string beans and potatoes remain the height of culinary achievement in my estimation, it was the hour or so before her dinners that most resonates.

When we were ages, say, six through ten, the years when our parents were busy getting divorced and starting careers and such, my brother and I had dinner and drinks with our grandparents just about every weeknight. It was all so sophisticated. My grandfather would come home from his office and make martinis in a shaker, strain them into a proper glass with little stars etched into the side. My gran would have a Seagram’s and 7 or a screwdriver in a cut-crystal highball. They’d make us our own Shirley Temples in these shiny tin cups and put two maraschino cherries (picture perfect, as if from a slot machine) on top.

And there would always be a plate of hors d’ oeuvres set up on the coffee table, too. Salty mixed nuts served in a delicately painted porcelain bowl (my grandfather had won a set of them in a talent competition at his VFW hall) alongside Ritz crackers and sliced cheddar fanned out on a plate. Or cubes of Swiss cheese and pimiento-stuffed olives skewered with a foil-tipped toothpick. Or skewered slices of smoked sausage painted with barbecue sauce. Foil-tipped toothpick skewering was key to an appetizing presentation. Even on the nights my gran was kind of phoning it in (pizza rolls heated in the microwave) you better believe those rolls were cut in half and run through with a party pick before being arranged on the platter. Because that is the way my grandparents rolled: even when your guests are a couple of elementary school latch-key kids whose conversation didn’t much rise above speculation as to which A-Team episode would be re-run that night, you still put on a fancy spread to make for a civilized evening.

It’s possible, probable even, they would have done the same if they had only had each other for company. And why not? In my experience, having a little drinky-poo and snack before dinner will never ruin your appetite. Rather it prepares you for what’s to come. If the dinner is very good, it’s that extra bite that will prevent you from making a pig of yourself. If the dinner is very bad, it’s that cocktail inspired serenity that will allow you to compliment the cook with eyes that are loving, if only a bit glazed over. Either way, I’ve come to believe it’s the cocktail hour that is the cornerstone of our society, makes us into better people.

In a more perfect world we’d always take an hour as the sun goes down to eat a little something off a toothpick and drink a little something topped with a cherry. 60 delightful minutes when we can all, pre-teen and senior citizen alike, act our fantasy of what it is to be a grown-up. Which is a lovely way to start the night, I think, no matter if after-dinner plans include doing math homework or laundry or the bossa nova.

I was a vegetarian once. It started soon (well, immediately) after I saw the movie Babe. It lasted for four whole years until I took my first trip to Paris. Less than one hour after catching a cab from Charles DeGaulle I ate a ham sandwich.

It was a spur of the moment decision. I didn’t speak French and I didn’t want to be an uncouth American staring at the menu, consulting my phrasebook to make sure I didn’t order horse or brains or anything like that. I saw Jambon-Beurre, reckoned it to be non-equine, and asked for one along with une café in my best imitation Gallic accent. I may have blown through my lips a little bit as well, in that Frenchity-French way. I like to fit in.

The waiter brought the sandwich (he actually said “voila!”) and it was, in a word, su-freaking-perior. Simple and perfect, the baguette hot and fresh (not just toasted, but fresh from the oven) spread with this butter that was unlike any I’d ever tasted, and, of course the ham. I mean, if that cute little singing pig had to go, better he should be cured for ten days in a not-too-salty-brine with some kind of fragrant bouquet garni then sliced tissue paper-thin and draped over warm, crusty goodness. And with that good French beurre? Oh, that piggy’s number was up.

Though this lifestyle-changing menu choice set the tone for my stay in the city of light, a visit happily marked by un-planned for excess and extravagance, the real takeaway was how great a sandwich could be when served so plain and simple. None of this smearing of mustard and mayo to disguise a tomato that was sliced too thick and came out of the fridge. No shredded lettuce to cover up the objectionable texture of slimy deli meat. No substandard cheese that has to be piled high in order to give a smidgen of cheese flavor. Just the three perfect ingredients – and maybe a sprinkle of sea salt on top of the butter. Because sea salt is rad.

This kind of sandwich does not have to be eaten in the 7th arrondissement to be an extra-special snack. It’s every bit as splendid at your desk during coffee break. What better time is there to enjoy a moment of elegant sophistication? Savor the pleasing harmony of pure flavors on your tongue before you return to the workaday world. And try not to think of Babe.

Some people like to use the month of January as an inspiration to get healthy, exercise, eat right, and stop drinking. I think those people are making a huge error in judgment.

In actuality, this month is a glorious 31-day window of opportunity to eat and drink too much and it should not be wasted. Honestly, do you really want to be abstaining right now? It’s freezing outside and anyway there’s nothing else to do. Hot yoga class is too packed with all the poor slobs who resolved to take hot yoga class. Nobody’s throwing any parties, so you won’t find yourself tagged in any random party pics. Swimsuit season is months away. In January, there is no point in trying to look good or act cool. So put on your Slanket and pick up a Mallomar.

If you can even find a Mallomar in this town. I stopped at three stores (one Key Food and two Mets) on the way home and not one of them had the s’more-ish cookie. The Key Food and the first Met were just plain sold out, but the second Met won’t stock them anymore on account of they’re switching over to selling more organic food, less Nabisco. Thanks a lot Food, Inc.

But they did have Newman-O’s (organic, so whatever Michael Pollan) and I bought a one-pound bag of chocolate chocolate. In case you didn’t know, Newman-O’s are a lot like Oreos but the middle is creamier, less marshmallow-y, more ganache-y. They are a slightly more sophisticated cookie and therefore lend themselves to dunking not into milk but into red wine. My preference is for Malbec, though any of your full-bodied reds will do. This also works well with chocolate vanilla Newman-O’s, the vanilla crème soaks up the Malbec more than the chocolate and gives you a truly pronounced wine flavor. Please don’t try this with chocolate mint. You would be disappointed, I assure you.

Another snack that’s perfect for a month of hermiting is something I call a lazy crepe. Take a six-inch corn tortilla, spread half of it with Nutella or quality strawberry jam (or both). Add a pinch of sea salt if you’re feeling cheffy. Fold it over and fry in a little butter. You’ll think you got it off a food cart in Montmatre (especially if you make it after a couple of glasses of the Malbec).

No, neither of these treats is the sort of thing I’d serve to guests, or even eat in front of another living soul but that is the point. January is the prime season to indulge personal guilty pleasures, don’t squander one week of it with carrot sticks or cucumber water. Just overpour a glass of wine and run a bath. Go ahead and put on your Harry Potter audio book, nobody has to know. Have a lazy crepe and another five Newman-O’s (or Mallomars, if you can get them). Wait for the spring to come.

Sometime in the last decade, at a Billy Bragg concert, I remember the venerable folk-punk rocker telling the crowd that there were sweet countries and there were savory countries – the U.S. decidedly sweet and the U.K. savory through and through. And while I’m certain ol’ Bill was using this observation to make some sort of lefty political statement, it made me think rather more of snacking than socialism.

We do make great ice cream here, really you won’t get better anywhere else. (Okay maybe Italy. Or Argentina. It’s pretty nice in France, but still.) And with bits of raw cookie dough swirled in? That is a product of a proud, sugar-loving nation. Even our salty snacks have sweet in the mix, I’m thinking of barbecue potato chips or Cool Ranch Doritos; McDonald’s putting corn syrup in the fries. And it’s true, we do wash it down with sticky sweet soda pop, or beer that is advertised for the merit of temperature – cold as a mountain stream, pal – with a flavor that is considered beside the point.

Whereas in good old London town, pints of porter are on order and the little bags of crisps you get at the shops are piquant to say the least. Pop in at Meyers of Keswick on Hudson Street to try them yourself. They sell normal flavors like Cheddar Cheese or Salt and Vinegar, though the vinegar is robust enough to make you blush from the inside of your cheeks out. Then there’s Smoky Bacon and Roast Chicken which, I’m not joking, taste absolutely and exactly like smoky bacon and roast chicken. The package says it’s done with a blend of paprika, allspice, dried milk whey, and barley, completely vegetarian. It leaves you with a weirdly ominous disconnect, just what I figure it would be like to eat soylent green (because those wafers must have tasted awful meaty, even though Charlton Heston was acting all shocked).

And, love it or hate it, there’s Marmite. I like the spreadable vegetable and yeast extract (looks like molasses and tastes sort of salty-carroty) well enough to keep a jar in the cupboard for special occasions, I do find it a bit overpowering for everyday use. I had it out last weekend in honor of BBCA’s two-day Doctor Who marathon, which culminated in (as everyone knows) the Tenth Doctor’s death and regeneration episode. The Rasta-colored label says it’s a good source of B vitamins, which is lovely. The internet tells me B vitamins are good to combat depression and I knew I was going to be pretty bummed to see David Tennant go. He’s so dreamy.

During the screening of the Daleks Take Manhattan two-parter (no worries about skipping those eps – Daleks in the Empire State Building? What was Russell T Davies thinking?) I took a nap, then made myself a nice soft-boiled egg (3 minutes in the boiling water, set it up in a shot glass, cut the top of with a spoon) and spread a slice of whole-wheat toast thinly with the Marmite (seriously, do spread it thin – just a half teaspoon has 8 percent of your recommended daily allowance of sodium). I cut the toast into soldiers and dipped them into the egg, so good. The hot, runny yolk mellowed the flavor while retaining it’s characteristic, er, savouriness.

What conclusions can be drawn from this sweet/savory discussion? Ice cream, porter, and vinegar chips are good. Marmite’s okay, but vegetarian bacon and chicken flavor is weird. Heston is a phony. Tennant is a super fox. And Billy Bragg, though he talks kinda funny, speaks the truth.

This has been a hard month at the end of a rough year capping off a real doozy of a decade. It seems like everybody’s saying it, not just me. And what are we going to do about it? I reckon we’re all going to drink a good deal on New Year’s Eve, to celebrate the back of 2009 and to buck ourselves up for the year to come.

But spending New Year’s Day worshipping the porcelain god (assuming the presence of mind to make it to the loo in time) is definitely not the right choice, symbolically or otherwise, to ring in 2010. We could all agree to imbibe in moderation, consume a nutritious and well-balanced meal, then remember to brush our teeth and say our prayers before bed.

Or we could take a sober moment to form a snacking plan which will help see us through to the welcome click signifying sobriety is no longer on the menu. Then who knows what happens next – because if we just fill our bellies with the right combination of foods we can go ahead and drink like the mid-eighties Tom Waits. Circumstances being what they are, that seems like the only viable option.

Start during the day by drinking plenty of water, nine glasses are recommended for healthy hydration. That sounds like a lot and maybe it is, but if Captain Sully can land a jetliner on the Hudson don’t you think you can manage to gulp down 72 fluid ounces from the tap? (Okay, that still sounds like a lot, but over an eight-hour period it’s really not that bad.)

Grab a slice en route to your party; the combination of olive oil and pizza crust is just the foundation you need for an evening of drink. If there’s not a Famous Original Ray’s conveniently located, have a piece of toast drizzled with good e.v.o.o. at home. And if you’re out of toast, just have a spoonful of the oil. Think pretty thoughts while you take your medicine, remember the inauguration last January – even if you can’t recapture the feeling of hope and pride upon the moment of swearing-in you can surely smile as you picture Ms. Franklin’s lovely hat.

While at the party, it may seem like a good idea to stuff your face with whatever is on offer but, trust me, that strategy can backfire. Going for a couple of canapés between pitchers of dirty martinis is a fool’s errand, especially if we’re talking about caviar spreads, sun dried tomatoes, or your stinkier cheeses all of which are particularly disastrous should they reappear in post-masticated form. I’m only saying.

One last tip: when you do manage to stumble home (or wherever), swallow a tablespoon or two of honey before calling it a night. No need to measure it out, just uncap that pudgy bear, tip back your head, and squeeze away. I don’t know why it works, but it does. And while you do it you can think about, uh, well, that guy didn’t succeed in blowing up that plane over Detroit. So that’s another good thing about 2009.

Here’s to 2010, everybody. Cheers.

When Kerouac went on the road his snack of choice was apple pie a la mode. Of course, his chief companion was Neal Cassady and they made their way west via bus, ’49 Hudson, and thumb. On my road trip to the (mid) west I’m accompanied by Ronan and Molly, their 18-month-old baby Jude, Molly’s youngest brother Patrick, and my cat. We travel in a minivan, carry a good deal more luggage than the beats ever did, and try to stick to a schedule that doesn’t allow for lingering visits to seedy heartland diners.

The plan is to leave from Queens at 6:00 am sharp, so I pack Minerva in her carrier at 5:00 and flag down a gypsy cab from my Brooklyn street corner. In Queens, Ronan buzzes me in. I can smell frying bacon as soon as I open the door. I leave my suitcase in the foyer and go on up. It’s fine by me if we get a delayed start due to a proper cup of tea and a couple of bacon sandies.

Ronan is from Ireland and he knows how to make tea: water brought to boiling, but not overcooked (yes, you can overcook water), loose leaves (imported from a European purveyor), and a splash of milk stirred in. It makes a good start to our day, though Patrick opts to finish his pint from last night instead – really, I don’t blame him. 6:00 in the morning is still last night, if you ask me.

But the clock is ticking. Molly and I split Patrick’s sandwich as Ronan forcibly reminds him to pack. Baby Jude has a few minutes to run around the apartment growling (he thinks he’s a dinosaur, which is pretty adorable) ‘til Patrick emerges wearing all his clothes – two pairs of pants, T-shirts, sweaters, tweed jacket, multiple socks, and a Wee Willie Winkie-style sleeping cap his mom made him. He’s all packed, he says, and doesn’t even need to lug a bag. Fair enough, we say, and load up the van.

The sun is up over the Hudson as we trundle across the George Washington Bridge. I’m riding shotgun, and am therefore in charge of navigation. Too bad I’ve packed my glasses in which bag I don’t know, my nearsightedness makes me a poor fit for the job. But I squint at the road signs and try to make myself useful, changing CDs as Molly shouts out directions while feeding Jude peanut butter from the middle row of seats. The person who was supposed to navigate is snoring on the backbench, sleepy cap pulled over his eyes.

It turns out to be for the best, when Molly passes out her famous sweet potato-black pepper muffins. She only has three leftover from her sales at the farmers’ market and, as everyone knows, if you snooze you lose. They’re still a bit cold, but delicious, as their time in the freezer has intensified the pepper flavor in the most marvelous way.

By the time we stop for gas at the Stroudsburg, PA’s WaWa we three have eaten two apples, one banana, and several handfuls of Chex Mix. (It was me who brought the Chex Mix, I swear I can’t get enough of the stuff. And I’ve never been much of a fresh fruit-eater.) Jude has had some vanilla yogurt and shared a juice box with Patrick. We’re making good time, even though we spend an inordinate amount deciding which pot of coffee to pour from – the WaWa offers rather a dazzling array. We each choose something different (100% Columbian, Dark Roast, and Regular), then switch cups to determine they’re all the same. Oh, marketing.

A few more hours and a round of chocolate covered pretzels and pitted prunes (uncharacteristically, I brought the prunes) brings us to the parking lot of a Hardee’s in Akron where my mom has come to pick up me and my cat. The rest of the crew would continue on to reunite with family in Missouri – after they popped in for a quick thickburger and order of fries.

It’s no Kerouac-ian tale, but at least we won’t be suffering from booze and Benzedrine fueled hangovers. Though I did develop a killer case of dry mouth, that Chex Mix is powerful salty.

It’s that holiday house party time of the year. And while everybody knows that a good guest shows up with a bottle of wine, those who are truly considerate will bring along a little something more. They’ll bring cheese.

I don’t think I’m going to blow anybody’s mind by pointing out: people love cheese. As a matter of fact, did you know that the average American consumes 33 pounds of cheese annually? And that is just the average. There are plenty of lactose intolerant Americans who are bringing down our total. This statistic was shared with me at a slightly stuffy holiday shindig just the other night – one that would have benefited from a few plates of fromage set up on the bar.

Because cheese gets people talking. The phrase may be in vino veritas, but in my experience there is no better ice breaker than an assortment of Murray’s finest. In the first place, it brings everyone physically closer as you all jockey for position around the board. Small talk is made and patience feigned whilst you vie for slices of havarti, schmears of triple cream Brie, and shards of cave-aged Gouda.

Conversation begins a bit stilted, conventions of politeness dictating you say something until it’s your turn to use that miniature knife. You can start by throwing out that 33 pounds of cheese-eating a year figure, just to get the ball rolling. Next, of course, thank the bringer of the cheese and spend a minute or two discussing how long he or she had to wait in line at Murray’s (or the cheeseshop of your choice – but probably Murray’s). That’s usually good for at least one amusing anecdote, this time of year maybe two or three. My best one is about the time Wallace Shawn tried to cut in front of me. I was all, “Mr. Shawn, you have to take a number!” And he was like, “Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!” (Okay, he didn’t really say that, but it was still awesome.)

By this time everyone’s beginning to surpass their daily-recommended portion of dairy and the talk, even amongst near strangers, becomes looser. Cheese-stuffed faces are shiny, glowing even, and the air surrounding the decimated hunks of stinky goodness becomes charged with a palpable sexual energy.

At a recent party I attended we had a fantastic and voluble debate about who is actually (despite what People magazine says) the sexiest man alive. Pretty hot stuff, anyone would agree. Eloquent arguments were made, though it did get oddly shouty considering we remained in the cheese board huddle. Which is precisely the kind of festive drama one can expect when the flames of desire are fanned by Epoisses on water crackers. Factions were formed for and against the usual suspects: George Clooney, Viggo Mortensen, Jake Gyllenhaal, et al. (I suggested, as always, Christopher Eccleston but nobody wanted to hear it. As always.)

The party finally came together to reach a unanimous decision in favor of Paul Newman. Yes, we knew he had died, but it took us so long to agree on someone we collectively decided not to bring up that unpleasantness in deference to unanimity and to accommodate moving to the next room where there was rumored to be a platter of Manchego and fig jam.

Of course, this is not to say you should skip bringing the bottle of wine. That’s crazy talk. It’s only that cheese makes everything better. And isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

But little bites of tasty nourishment are just what the doctor ordered. I mean, you’ve got to keep your strength up for all that crying and staring at the wall and hitting replay on that one New Order song. A broken heart is a hungry heart – in more ways than one, but you get my drift.

The heartbreak snack is extremely personal and non-repeatable. It satisfies in the moment, but may sicken if you ever try to duplicate it in a fit of nostalgia. My first-ever romantic misadventure was soothed by grilled Swiss cheese on sourdough bread, with the bread generously buttered on both sides. It took a surprising amount of dairy to forget about a guy who was too old for me and (probably) gave me mono.

For my longest relationship, I relied on the classic: pints and pints of Ben & Jerry’s. (Again, with the dairy.) Owing to the fact that we kept breaking up and getting back together, my jeans size went up and down drastically throughout my twenties. I’ve heard they make a low fat version of Half Baked these days, but really, I’m over it now.

There doesn’t seem to be strict correlations between the snacks and the fellas who’ve sparked them. It was ripe avocado, pitted, balsamic vinegar drizzled in where the seed used to be for that British guy, then cream scones with strawberry jam for that dude I met in Italy. Honey-mustard pretzels helped me look back and laugh at that singer-songwriter from Queens, then chocolate-covered edamame did the same for that singer-songwriter from Portland. (I’ve stopped going to open-mike night at Sidewalk Café.)

And just because I asked my boss for a mental health day today that I used by biking over to Sahadi’s and getting something to nibble on, don’t think it’s because my heart is broken.

But if it were, there would be no better place to go. They have a bulk food section that is always crowded so you have to take a number. While you’re waiting you can take it all in – barrels of goat cheese-stuffed olives, dried kiwi slices, candied lemon peel, roasted pistachios sold with the shell or without. And when it’s finally your turn the man at the counter doesn’t rush. He eagerly offers you samples of the goods, enthusiastically agrees with every decision you make, and conspiratorially whispers that if you’ve forgotten something you can just go to the head of line and tell him what it is you want. He makes you feel like the prettiest, most desirable girl in all of Brooklyn. Not that I need that or anything.

I chose dark chocolate-covered malt balls. Which I’m eating cut in half and placed on Saltine crackers. Because I love sweet-salty and because I’m, you know, classy like that.

And no, I’m not crying as I type this. It’s just that I’ve got something in both my eyes. And that wall is really interesting. And who doesn’t love New Order?