i really did write this on a friday night, but couldn’t remember how posting works.

Well, it’s Friday night and I’m drunk on U Street, which means it’s either a half-smoke at Ben’s Chili Bowl or a jumbo slice and I’m not standing in that line today, I’m in a hurry to get home and watch Part 3 of Prohibition with my amazing and delicious jumbo slice. I’m all about the Drunken Ken Burns Experience.

Actually, I just thought of that right this minute but it sounds hilarious. Probably because I’m drunk, but I can’t be sure. See earlier part of last sentence.

There are way too many damn varieties of jumbo slice in this shop but I know I’m just going basic pepperoni so I should get through there pretty soon. It’ll wreck my diet – somehow I gain 3 pounds immediately after eating pizza, I don’t really understand how that works scientifically but it is absolutely true – but I’m drunk on U Street on a Friday night and that’s the way it goes.

Isn’t it weird how you make specific associations with specific neighborhoods? You’d think jumbo slice would be my intoxicated association with 18th Street in Adams Morgan – and you’re not entirely wrong, it’s there and I’ve certainly gone down that road before –except that for many years my food of choice on drinking nights in Adams Morgan was falafel. Falafel and fries, sitting on the steps outside the shop and sobering up enough to remember that I have my early class in the morning and shit! what am I still doing here?! Screw it, I’m sleeping in. Who cares about Property Law anyway. Way too many nights, falafel and fries. Drunk on 18th Street and that’s the way it goes.

Later, when Adams Morgan was too young for us, filled with college students vomiting into the gutters and randomly running into traffic, we stopped going down 18th Street on weekend nights and ventured no further south than Columbia. We’d meet early for dinner at Mixtec, agree we would share only one pitcher of mango margaritas, remind each other that they were very strong and we were Serious Adults now and Shouldn’t Drink So Much, and three hours and three to four pitchers later would be tripping over curbs and heckling innocent homeowners on the walk to the Woodley Park Metro (oh, you know who you are). Last New Year’s Eve, though, we went to a party at a friends and then notice, next door, a different party, thrown by strangers, which had an ice luge on the back porch. Somehow we thought it advisable to not only crash this party, but drink a plethora of shots of dodgy liqueurs through aforementioned ice luge and then play several rounds of beer pong with gin since we didn’t know where they were keeping the beer.

We were later thrown out of this party.

We broke out into a 4-minute dance party while trying to get our coats on, I lost an earring, Katie lost her handbag, someone threw up out a car window, I forget who, but we agreed we required a late night food run on the way home. For sentimental reasons Katie & Laura made a special request for falafel and fries, since they are more recent college students than I or our designated driver (Other Half, being even more patient than usual) and have fond though definitely hazy memories of other drunken nights on 18th Street. I stepped out of the car on Columbia Street, tripped on the sidewalk and fell into a flowerbed, and as I laid there dreamily gazing up into the trees overhead I thought, how odd. Usually when I am this drunk in Adams Morgan, I’ve been in Mixtec all evening. That’s my main thought. I should have Mexican food right now. But it was 3 am and only the falafel shop is open, so it was back to my roots. Drunk on 18th Street, falafel and fries. That’s the way it goes.

Tonight, though, it’s only minutes for my jumbo slice and then a cab home. Bring on the Drunken Ken Burns Experience.

PS. Is it ironic I’m going home to watch a documentary on Prohibition? Does that mean something?




If, perhaps, it sometimes seems to you as though I am the eccentric member of our little household, I would just point out that two weeks ago, Other Half arrived home from a distinguished architectural lecture – with reception following – and as he talked to me he nonchalantly began unpacking small white plates from his blazer pockets. Which turned out to be loaded with squares of brie and Monterey jack cheese.

“Where did that come from?” I exclaimed in amazement. Cheese does not usually appear miraculously out of pockets, as far as I know. I would’ve looked into that by now if so.

He looks at me like I’m crazy.

“I just told you I went to a reception,” he says. “They had cheese there.”

Apparently, that was supposed to be the complete explanation. And yet, I had more questions.

“So….they told you to take the cheese home?”

“Well. They didn’t tell me to, but what are they going to do with it in the end? Throw it away?”

I gasp in horror. “YOU STOLE ALL THE CHEESE? You just packed it up and took it?”

“I didn’t steal it. It’s available to people attending the reception. I am a person attending the reception. Therefore, it’s ok for me to have it.”

“Ok, but…was there lots left over? Did other people get to have some cheese?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Wha-you-you THINK so? Did you just go up to the table and start stuffing your pockets while you were in line? Holy crap. Did anyone SEE you taking it?” This was probably most important, in my opinion. I did not want him to be labeled a Cheese Thief by his colleagues. That is not professional, I am pretty sure (although I don’t actually know anything about the architectural world…maybe it is made up entirely by food thieves.)

Other Half rolls his eyes.

“It’s fine. No one cares.” (And maybe they don’t ….see above re: food thieves.)

So then, really, how worried should I be about this? It’s not like he shoplifted from a grocery store. It’s not criminal or even particularly wrong. It’s just odd. They probably would throw it away at the end of the reception…unless one of the organizers was planning to take it home. But that’s ok, right? They would just assume it was eaten by all the reception attendees, right?…unless someone saw him stuffing his pockets. Don’t think about that! Maybe this is just a one-off quirk. Then again, if he turns up one night with pickles, onions, and special sauce I will begin to be seriously concerned I have a burgeoning Hamburglar on my hands. (Cheeseburglar? Was that a thing?)

Of course, the fact that it had been recently traveling in jacket pockets didn’t stop me from eating all the brie during a Deadly Women marathon. (Crime sprees make me hungry.) We have a cheese obsession. We do. We have a real, concrete fear of becoming lactose-intolerant one day. A few weeks ago we were listening to a podcast about cheese (oh that’s right, chiclets: We Listen to Podcasts About Cheese) that informed us that Americans, on average, eat 32 pounds of cheese a year. We looked at each other in amazement. That’s all? We must eat twice that. Who are these lame-ass dairy-haters that only manage to choke down 32 pounds a year? Are they embarrassed to be Americans?

There is pretty much always a healthy – one might say unhealthy, if one is the type to be concerned with things like “saturated fat content” – supply in our refrigerator. I’d estimate we usually have at least 4 different types on hand – always shredded parmesan, always some kind of soft cheese like brie or goat, always some kind of slices for sandwiches, like Swiss or Havarti, always some kind of hard cheese in a block for crackers, like Monterey jack or cheddar – and then we might pick up something if we just accidentally, completely coincidentally, happen to cross by a Eastern Market or Whole Foods or Cowgirl Creamery or similar source. Mt. Tam for you? Yes, thanks, I was JUST THINKING we were in danger of a shortage! EMERGENCY GORGONZOLA!! YES!!


Where was I?

Oh. Well, before I could post this, there was another development.

Last night I opened the refrigerator and was delighted to see we were restocked in cheddar and smoked Gouda. I shouted, “We have Gouda?” It was an exciting moment. I love Gouda. I especially love smoked Gouda. And I really don’t think we’ve had any around since, like, September. I was about to start snacking – so convenient he’d already cut them into squares for me! – when I had a sudden, awful, feeling about them.

Didn’t he just attend a lecture tonight?

Wasn’t he wearing a jacket earlier? With pockets?

“Did you steal this cheese?!” I demanded.

“I didn’t steal it,” Other Half answered crossly. “It was leftover.”

Rubble, rubble, y’all.


It’s been almost 4 weeks and the mustard still tastes like burning hot fire, with extra fire sauce. Is that normal?

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