I love food, and it occurred to me that I haven’t written a blog about it in a while. That’s because I’ve been living in a furnished room with a shared kitchen for the last year or so. Circumstances led to it, ahem, I won’t go in to that now.
The point is that this shared kitchen is as near to hell as I can conceive. The state some of my fellow –lets us say inmates– leave this kitchen in is such that I lose the desire to cook. Generally, the pan I need sits on the stove, crusted with… something. All the pots are in the dishwashing machine, which is full but hasn’t been started (dirty dishes are piled on the counter in front of it as well, of course), and the counter is covered with spattered oil… I’m no clean-freak, for Christ’s sake, but that’s too much, even for me. So much so that I pasted a notice on the cupboard exhorting the bastards to keep the fucking place halfway presentable. Lot of good that did.
So I tend to limit myself to salad. I don’t think there is a single being in this place who has ever used the salad spinner, so I can be sure it is as clean as I have left it. Yeah, salad is delicious and healthy… (Hellstrøm dreams of himself eating a three-inch steak, tearing huge chunks of half-bloody meat off and swallowing them whole…) yeah. I’ve been getting thinner day by day.
But, I did recently eat a wonderful meal. The place I work at had an anniversary, and they celebrated by having a colleague cook for everyone. I had heard she is an artist, but even I was pleasantly surprised by what was dished up, so I will describe it for you.
First, pieces of veal tenderloin wrapped in bacon, roasted and then drowned in a heavenly gravy, served with spätzle, which is a sort of germanic homemade noodle (it looks like a bunch of stunted worms have decided your plate is a good place to be, but it is delicious), and carrots with ginger-orange sauce. Oh my God. The German’s say „I sat down in it“, meaning I ate, and ate, and ate. You betcha.
Then, when I was already fit to burst, came a feta-spinach lasagna. I thought I was full, but this was so good that I simply couldn’t stop. Even a stomach shrunken by daily salad just couldn’t say no. The only thing missing was wine, but lunch at the office and all, no dice with that. If I was the boss, you can bet everyone would have been pissed out of their minds.
Then came desert. No. I just said no, I can’t. It looked nice though. Some kind of stewed fruit thing, different kinds of berries, layered with sour cream, very beautiful, but I just couldn’t.
Christ, I love food.

What the Psychologist Really Thought About

Goddamn, he’s at it again. Ranting on about something or other… every time he gets started I can tune out for at least ten minutes. Though sometimes it’s pretty funny, actually. He has a dark sense of humor that appeals to me on occasion. What’s he on about now? Honest what? Hypocrites? Ahh, Jesus… what was Margaret planning for dinner tonight? Oh, yes, those little pork-medallions on toast with gorgonzola and spring onions and chilies and… yum, that’s something to think about. I must make sure I get the right kind of gorgonzola on the way home. Dear me, how did he get off on that tangent? The sound of silence? Well, I can chalk up another ten minutes of wasted time. I am well paid for that wasted time. Damned if I care, don’t feel the least bit shabby for it, it’s hardly enough for enduring his incessant bitching. Oh, Salad! I dare not forget the salad. What would be a good salad with those pork-medallions? Radicchio? Oh my God, wine… better make a list. Margaret would kill me if I forgot her wine. Oh, he’s asking something…
„Watcha writing down, crazy as a loon?“
No, no, Mr. Hellstrøm, harmless notes, I assure you. Well, that seems to have satisfied him. He’s a bit awry, I don’t doubt I could convince him that my shopping notes were some sort of shorthand code for notes on his mental health, wouldn’t that be amusing? What would the psychological equivalent of radicchio be? Hehe. It would be a complete violation of the trust implicit in our relationship as patient and psychologist, of course. Ah, well, another time perhaps. The hour is nearing its end, thank God. Amazing how the time flies, when you think of food. What did he just say? A letter to his editor? What? Now he’s going on about lemmings…
Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Hellstrøm, but you lost me there for just a moment, between editors and lemmings, and unfortunately todays session is also at an end. Perhaps we can delve in to the subject again next week?