In the morning, I’m attending a class on how not to let your life turn into a crumpled brown bag from McDonald’s. It’s a metaphor, in case people are having trouble waking up. This is yet another one of my “meaning of life” classes.
Then I’m taking Klara to a birthday party at a skating rink.
After that, I’m planning to cook a literary dish. That means a recipe mentioned in a work of literature. It’s a 4-ingredient cheap-and-easy dish, so I’ll share the recipe.
I like your literary dish plans. When I was a child we had a book of Vietnamese stories for children at home that came with some pretty detailed recipes of food the characters ate. I begged my mother to cook some of them. Of course, the recipes included steps like “wrap it in the banana leaves.” There were no banana leaves to be found anywhere. My mom made up her own recipe inspired by the book and cooked it for me. At this point, I do not remember the story or even how the dish tasted, but do remember the excitement of my mom cooking the food.
A conservative literary critic and college professor
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