Mining the Dregs

The bourgeois asceticism of grilled cheese egg in a hole

There is a sick, puritanical pleasure I get from rummaging through a near-barren fridge in search of a meal. It happens most often when I am awaiting overdue freelance payments, or trying desperately to pay off my credit card bill, or gearing up to leave town. At the moment I check all three boxes. Don’t feel bad for me, I’m going to New Orleans for a f…