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