The particular sadness of soy chorizo

This morning, like every morning for approximately 92 of the past 100 mornings, I got the oatmeal out of the cupboard, but then I paused. Most mornings I put peanut butter and jam on my oatmeal and relish in its sweet and salty glory, but a few days ago I decided not to buy more peanut butter when I was at the grocery store. This was unusual, as I usually go through one jar in 3-6 days, but a Dr. Oz article I read recently insinuated that this was a problem. I’d long suspected this but I took the professional opinion as a particular sign. I, Eva Derby, have a peanut butter problem.

And this morning I didn’t want to eat almonds.

I poked around on the bottom shelf of the fridge (This is my shelf- the only shelf without mold. But actually, on shelf two there’s a jar of nacho cheese that expired two months ago, and leftovers shrivelled like shrunken heads or turned fuzzy green within their tupperware.) I pulled out an unopened pack of soy chorizo. My dad used to cook with the stuff sometimes. He’d whip it up in the same fry pan as eggs, sharp cheese, fresh carrots or other vegetables, and a clever concoction of spices. I decided I didn’t want to use a pan, my only pan was boiling water for my instant coffee right then anyways, so I cooked up cauliflower, broccoli, and chorizo in a bowl in the microwave, then dumped half a can of refried beans on top, and added some slices of soy cheese and poblano salsa for good measure.

This was pretty tasty, thank goodness for spice, but it made me imagine the dish that Dad would have more masterfully made, which I don’t think I’ve had since early high school- sometime between my parents’ getting a divorce and Dad’s moving in with his first girlfriend- the prim lady.

These days Dad’s living with his second girlfriend, a much less prim and thin character than the first, a woman with whom I pretty thoroughly burned the bridge of potential friendship during the summer after college. Thus, I haven’t spent the night in the same house as my dad in over two years. It hit me while I was munching my cold-in-the-middle soy chorizo this morning that I might never eat one of Dad’s breakfasts again. I think I’m writing this to try to come to terms with that.

On the other hand, he’s not dead, so there’s hope. One or the other of us might yet decide to reach out in a big way. Granted, this would hurt my mom, who spent much of the evening crying the one night I went out to dinner with Dad over this past Christmas break. She asked me why I didn’t resent him more (over financial stuff mostly), I told her I do but that I didn’t want to, she cried some more, and it was all dead uncomfortable.

I would say ‘we’ll see,’ but that sounds too passive, though I guess maybe not too passive from an honest perspective.

Good luck,

Eva

Skills

Yesterday, I spent a lot more time engaged in social interactions than I usually do in a day, and I ended up feeling pretty skilled. Not skilled at friendships, per say, but at peeling sticks of imitation crab apart into smaller sticks, at haggling for apartment prices, and at other randomy gidgety tasks.

In the morning, I received a text message from my friend Ivan who was going apartment hunting in my neighborhood with his friend Sandra, inviting me to join. I ran over to the address they sent me (then apologized to the broker for the sweat dripping down my temple, but hey, health). I asked more questions about the three places we looked at than either of my friends did (Is there roof access? Is 24/7 maintenance available? What can you say about the landlord’s character? Are real Christmas trees allowed? and so on), twas fun. About half an hour after I got home, my friends called me because they were about to be shown an apartment we’d already viewed again by different broker at a different price, and wanted my advice. I was flattered. I called my haggling-expert of a father for help (though he’s trained me enough tthat his advice didn’t surprise me: call the broker out on the inflated price, saying that you can’t disclose your source, and use the knowledge as a bargaining chip if you can). Thanks, Dad.

That afternoon (for six long hours that afternoon), I helped my friend film an instructional cooking video for his Korean final project. I was dubbed ‘intern’ by by his project group. I was asked to peel the carrots, among other things, while they practiced their lines. The carrots looked sparkling beautiful when I was done with them.

Later that night, when I was in the library writing an essay, wearing sunglasses under the fluorescent overhead likes like a cool kid, an amiga texted me with “I just got broken up with by text message. I’m not really okay.” I did my best to make her feel better. Selfishly, I appreciated her texting me. I love feeling wanted, emotionally and otherwise.

Earlier this week, I was asked to have sex with a man who I used to be almost-in-love with, and haven’t heard from in six months, who apparently up and got married a couple of months ago. He wants to sleep with me again, for mutually beneficial mindless release, to use his rhetoric. I asked him why me, and “you’re good in bed” was part of the answer. This from someone who’s way more experienced in the sack than I am, and eight years older, and very intelligent (though an impulsive sleaze bag); so I found the comment flattering. Though arguably that’s immoral.

I just felt strange about all of the above. I received positive feedback on my real estate and haggling advice giving skills, my cameragirl skills, my vegetable peeling skills, my being-a-caring-friend and counselor skills, and my sex skills.

I have no idea what I want to be after I graduate this fancy pantsy college, armed to face the world with an obscure (useless) sort of humanities degree. Usually I say ‘like a professor or a waitress or something.’ But yesterday made me feel more optimistic about my prospects than I usually do. Like, hey, I can do anything! (Sort of.)

Excuse my ego, though by all means give yours a little love.

Cheerily,

Eva