history, the great cooks have had to take what they found around them and make the absolute best of it. We've all just gotten lazy since then.
I can do this.
Cave Girl Cafe, now open for business.
15
"W hat if I hadn't stopped by?" Amanda asked, slathering another slice of bread with that forbidden ingredient, butter. "Were you going to tell me?"
"How?" I said. "I can't use the phone."
"We need to work out smoke signals or something," she said. "Two puffs for 'fresh eats.'" She propped her high heels up on the chair next to her and closed her eyes while she savored another mouthful. "I think I'll just skip work and stay here."
She always dresses so elegantly for her job. She's the hostess at the fancy Greek restaurant downtown, and even though the only requirement is that all the workers wear black and white, Amanda always takes it up a notch.
This afternoon it was a knee-length black skirt, high heels, and a crisp white button-down shirt open just enough to show a light pink cami underneath. A long gold chain, a few gold bangles, gold hoopearrings--the whole outfit looked stunning. She'd swept her brown hair up into a loose bun so the tendrils wisped down around her face. And her makeup was just perfect.
The thing is Amanda never busts out that look for school. She's strictly a cargo pants, flip-flops, and T-shirt kind of girl, with very minimal makeup. She and Jordan had already been going out for a month before he stopped by the restaurant and saw that his girlfriend actually looks like a model. If he hadn't noticed the cool poet girl in his class before then, that certainly would have done it.
Every girl needs a friend who really knows about being a girl. Until I met Amanda, I was just a science-geek tomboy hanging out with the boys--well, one boy. She's the one who taught me everything I know about bringing my scary mane of curls under control and highlighting the good features on my face while concealing the bad. Now I may not be any better-looking in my natural state, but at least I know how to hide more of my flaws. When I can use makeup. Which, I have to say, I really, really miss.
Amanda helped herself to a fourth slice of bread. That's the other thing about her--she can eat whatever she wants and never gain an ounce. She's got the metabolism of a wood chipper. If she weren't so nice and completely unconceited, it would be easy to hate her.
"What's for dinner?" Amanda asked, getting up to snoop in the pots.
"Pasta, veggies, and I guess I'll be making another loaf of bread--"
"Cave people had pasta?"
And there it was--my second ethical dilemma.
Because here was the situation: I needed to get groceries this afternoon. There was hardly anything I could eat in the house, and so I needed to stock up. And while I was at it, I thought I could pick up afew ingredients and make dinner for my whole family tonight. Kind of as an apology for what a monster I've been to live with these past few days.
The grocery store is only a few miles from my house. It was daytime. So even though it was furnace-hot outside, I didn't really have an excuse for not walking. I brought my backpack with me to carry the groceries home.
By the time I got to the store, I was hot, tired, and hungry. And even though I really intended to just get fruits and vegetables and some dried beans or something, I got lured away.
Because right next to the dried beans were all these beautiful packages of pasta. Curly ones, flat ones, spinach ones, whole wheat ones--all of them so lightweight and easy to carry home and cook up once I got there.
And some of them were made of just flour and sea salt--no fancy chemicals or preservatives. That was okay, right?
Except it wasn't. Because premade pasta clearly violated rule #1: no manufactured or processed foods.
But I bought it anyway. Even though I know how to make my own pasta--something I learned during Italian Week at Amanda's and my cafe. But making it from scratch takes a long time, and it
I can do this.
Cave Girl Cafe, now open for business.
15
"W hat if I hadn't stopped by?" Amanda asked, slathering another slice of bread with that forbidden ingredient, butter. "Were you going to tell me?"
"How?" I said. "I can't use the phone."
"We need to work out smoke signals or something," she said. "Two puffs for 'fresh eats.'" She propped her high heels up on the chair next to her and closed her eyes while she savored another mouthful. "I think I'll just skip work and stay here."
She always dresses so elegantly for her job. She's the hostess at the fancy Greek restaurant downtown, and even though the only requirement is that all the workers wear black and white, Amanda always takes it up a notch.
This afternoon it was a knee-length black skirt, high heels, and a crisp white button-down shirt open just enough to show a light pink cami underneath. A long gold chain, a few gold bangles, gold hoopearrings--the whole outfit looked stunning. She'd swept her brown hair up into a loose bun so the tendrils wisped down around her face. And her makeup was just perfect.
The thing is Amanda never busts out that look for school. She's strictly a cargo pants, flip-flops, and T-shirt kind of girl, with very minimal makeup. She and Jordan had already been going out for a month before he stopped by the restaurant and saw that his girlfriend actually looks like a model. If he hadn't noticed the cool poet girl in his class before then, that certainly would have done it.
Every girl needs a friend who really knows about being a girl. Until I met Amanda, I was just a science-geek tomboy hanging out with the boys--well, one boy. She's the one who taught me everything I know about bringing my scary mane of curls under control and highlighting the good features on my face while concealing the bad. Now I may not be any better-looking in my natural state, but at least I know how to hide more of my flaws. When I can use makeup. Which, I have to say, I really, really miss.
Amanda helped herself to a fourth slice of bread. That's the other thing about her--she can eat whatever she wants and never gain an ounce. She's got the metabolism of a wood chipper. If she weren't so nice and completely unconceited, it would be easy to hate her.
"What's for dinner?" Amanda asked, getting up to snoop in the pots.
"Pasta, veggies, and I guess I'll be making another loaf of bread--"
"Cave people had pasta?"
And there it was--my second ethical dilemma.
Because here was the situation: I needed to get groceries this afternoon. There was hardly anything I could eat in the house, and so I needed to stock up. And while I was at it, I thought I could pick up afew ingredients and make dinner for my whole family tonight. Kind of as an apology for what a monster I've been to live with these past few days.
The grocery store is only a few miles from my house. It was daytime. So even though it was furnace-hot outside, I didn't really have an excuse for not walking. I brought my backpack with me to carry the groceries home.
By the time I got to the store, I was hot, tired, and hungry. And even though I really intended to just get fruits and vegetables and some dried beans or something, I got lured away.
Because right next to the dried beans were all these beautiful packages of pasta. Curly ones, flat ones, spinach ones, whole wheat ones--all of them so lightweight and easy to carry home and cook up once I got there.
And some of them were made of just flour and sea salt--no fancy chemicals or preservatives. That was okay, right?
Except it wasn't. Because premade pasta clearly violated rule #1: no manufactured or processed foods.
But I bought it anyway. Even though I know how to make my own pasta--something I learned during Italian Week at Amanda's and my cafe. But making it from scratch takes a long time, and it
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