Andrew J. Lederer's BRAND NEW LIFE

In my sister’s house, there is no food to speak of. Nevertheless, all I have done since Thursday night is eat.

I can find things under nearly any circumstances since I am (gentlemen, start your search engines) the Euell Gibbons of the empty larder.

Not for me, however, the doorknock dinner magic of remnants whipped into gourmet cuisine. I eat my scraps as I find them, in the footsteps of my hunter-gatherer forebears (I have one more bear than Goldilocks, a point of some pride in my otherwise meritless existence).

Sure, pretentious or talented men would, if need be, slow cook some braised dust. But I take my dust like a man … by the handful.

Or thimbleful.

Or off my thumb (as we are also out of thimbles).

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