Spinach: I’ve got peaches like a river in my soul. And lots of other delicious foods. And I just want to sing about it quick.

I’ve got
Spinach in my freezer
I’ve got
Spinach in my freezer
I’ve got
spinach in my freezer
Yes I do...
I’ve got kale in my fridge
I’ve got kale in my fridge
I’ve got kale in my fridge
Yes I do...
*key change*
Iiii’veee gooot...
Beets and bananas
I’ve got
Beets and bananas
I’ve got
beets and bananas
Yes I do.....
I caaan
Make so many smoothies
I can make so many smoothies
I can make so many smooooothieeees
Yessss Iiiiii caaaaan.

Disclaimer: I do not recommend surviving solely on leafy greens and smoothies. HOWEVER, during a heat wave, I pump smoothies and other frozen plant materials directly into my veins, and it’s great.

Note: It’s not professional to end a sentence with “and it’s great”, because it’s lazy and sloppy and unspecific, BUT I was momentarily distracted by a dude walking past. He was unremarkable except for an cloud of energy that shimmered about his person like heat rising off blacktop. He must be hard to live with in close quarters because his enthusiasm was palpable from fifty feet away. Also he was wearing really big sunglasses and he had a very small head.

PS: There’s nothing edifying about this post.

Comments

Welcome to Weirdness!

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”! One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”. Say it over and over again. Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness. Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything. Lasagna. It’s a word with many layers. Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post. I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?” As if there aren’t more constructive things to do. Like...fishing. Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood). Or making clay...things. Useful things. Mugs and the like. Or I could be chilling with friends...engaging in meaningful conversations over cups of coffee.

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world. It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”. I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller. It just works for the already-awkward group conversations. There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect. Check it out. “You guys.” Offensive to feminists. “You girls.” Offensive to mature women. “You ladies.”

Noodles: Just, noodles.

I realized on Thursday that I have no idea who I am. It was very disconcerting, particularly as it happened moments after I’d stood up suddenly, not realizing there was a heavy plank shelf directly over my head. It was also after two or three hours of inhaling the stale remnants of ten years of uninhibited mouse parties, and an entire bottle of environmentally caring cleaning fluid. Anyway, this isn’t exactly humorous (unless you get a kick out of existential crises), but it made me wonder if anyone else feels the same way. So, readers, tell me this - do you feel as if you know who you are? Or are you just pretending to know? Or are you, at this moment, simultaneously reading this on your phone and telling a complete stranger all the ways that you feel isolated from the rest of the human race? Let me know. “I” am interested in your answer. PS Anticipating zero comments, because the majority of my readership is too intellectual to stoop to the paltry pract

The Password’s Lasagna.

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