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How To Cook At 26

I’m 26 years old, sniffing 27, and my culinary skills have really hit their apex, so I’d like to share my daily cooking routine with you.

For breakfast, I start off with four eggs on toast and mild anxiety. Toast has gluten in it which the media has led me to believe is nearly as dangerous to my health as immigrants. Also, I can no longer eat eggs without thinking of those youtube videos of chicken farms where baby male chickens are sorted out and immediately blended – I assume to be made into the financially appealing yet emotionally troubling $1 for 10 nugget deal at Burger King. At times, it feels like my piece of toast is essentially a gluten infested conveyor belt for murdered chicken children seasoned with guilt…there’s no better way to start the day.

Next, I have a smoothie made with frozen fruit that is painfully cold to drink where I live – San Francisco, the windy city. But silly Nick, isn’t that Chicago? Actually, if you give it a quick Google, San Francisco ranks four cities higher than Chicago for average wind speed. But it’s not a point of pride for us, it’s a source of suffering, as it should be.

Lunch is a tuna salad with balsamic vinegar because I want anyone who speaks with me in the afternoon to grimace in olfactory agony. Also, as with any meal where I attempt to use balsamic as a dressing, it quickly becomes balsamic vinegar soup with bits of food sprinkled in.

Food stolen from the employer supermarket serves as my after lunch snack. I have my roommates bring back a combination of protein bars and bananas from their respective jobs. In return, I will be the only one who takes out the garbage in my apartment because apparently no one else has masterd this skill. The key here is to passive-aggressively store your fury and then write about it later in a blog post like a well-adjusted adult.

Finally, I have dinner and then second-not-being-able-to-fall-asleep-dinner. First dinner is usually chicken with veggies or frozen tamales from that man I used to trust but don’t anymore – Traitor Joe.

Later, at about 1:00 am, I’ll be wide awake, staring at the ceiling, not entirely sure what’s keeping me up. Am I worried that I’m letting fear keep me  from reaching my goals? Am I afraid of death? Or is it that I’m concerned with how Marvel could possibly end the final Avengers movie without having it suck (Time travel? Quantum zones? There’s too much going on!)? Either way, I attempt to fill those unanswered questions with leftovers, dark chocolate, and milk because nothing says a sound nights sleep like an active digestive system and a full bladder.

 

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