Homelessness is not a source of much joy. I take great solace, though, in two things: reading and eating. I’ve discussed my love of books previously, but don’t think I’ve said much about my dietary habits.
I like to cook, and don’t enjoy eating with a bunch of strangers, so I’m fortunate to have a camp stove and a small, occasional income. Beef jerky and chips get old quick. Only rarely will I go to a food pantry. Normally I subsist on canned soup, instant mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and pb&j on crackers (bread doesn’t travel well in a hot car). Now and then I’ll have Manwich on flour tortillas, tuna salad or fried chicken from the grocery-store deli (if I’m feeling lazy). I eat well enough, when I can afford to — it’s a good thing I don’t panhandle, I’m too fat to claim starvation. Obviously I can’t prepare anything that requires an oven or microwave or crock pot (sadly, no frozen pizza for me, and how I miss my beef stew!). I must do my best with a few pots, a skillet and a gas flame.
And I do fairly well, if I say so myself. Biscuits and gravy are a treat. Stir fry with beef, bell peppers, broccoli and onion is heavenly. Smothered hamburgers rock, and chili is a convenient standby (I’m only just recovered from a serious cayenne-pepper mishap in the latter dish — ouch!). My specialty is angel-hair pasta with my own sweet and spicy red sauce (no jars!). I’m a man of simple tastes. A life without black pepper and sweet onions would barely be worth living.
I doubt you’d expect the homeless to dine so well, and most don’t, even those who can afford it. I stay away from gas-station hot dogs and textured-vegetable-protein cheeseburgers. I place a certain importance on my meals. It may be unsophisticated fare, but the preparation distracts me and gives me purpose, and the eating releases endorphins which are desperate to be free. Prices are going up, so I may soon be forced to alter my eating habits unless I secure gainful employment or my Venmo account (see the fine print down at the bottom of the page near my so-handsome bio photo) awakens from its coma.
I hope the reader doesn’t begrudge me a decent meal. Who am I to be living so high on the hog? I don’t have a job to speak of, I live in a car and loiter a lot, do my taste buds really deserve to be catered to? Those who have read my articles in the past will know some of what the street person endures: cold in the winter, hot in the summer, nasty looks and harassment, never being sure from whence will come one’s next dollar or shower, hiding to sleep at night. Ah yes, the carefree and irresponsible life of the homeless! We all take our pleasures where we find them.
Indeed, life is a veritable picnic, and what would a picnic be without insects? While I never invite them, they’re never shy about joining the party. I’m often the unwilling host to ants, large and small, black and red, some merely annoying, others that bite, and flies, of course, and bees who eagerly abandon the goldenrod to sample my bacon grease. I’ve no objection to the other visitors I receive, the lizards and birds. The reptiles show no interest in my food, but I’ll willingly share a crust or chip or cracker with my feathered friends.
Outdoor dining carries with it other minor irritations. I seem to have inexplicably gained a weird ability to affect the weather. Every time I fire up my camp stove the wind commences to blow and gutter my flame, wasting gas and preventing an even temperature, increasing my cook time and sometimes burning my meal. It can also lead to harrowing misadventures with powdered spices — like cayenne pepper.
Food is one of the essentials of life, and while I sometimes question the value and point of my continued existence, my appetite remains unaffected. This must be a sign that I’ve not yet given up, right? I choose to think so. Hmm now, what’s for dinner?
Kurt Vonnegut once wrote a novel interspersed with brief recipes, hoping to affect the reader on a level more visceral than intellectual. I’m not sure that it worked.
