Some sort of food at Mother’s, the vegetarian joint in Hyde Park, Austin
Hey group. There will be a real post soon, I do solemnly swear. Meanwhile, lest ye suspect that I’ve gone totally off the deepest of ends, the deal is this: I am having to adjust to a heinous new schedule. This heinous new schedule involves radiation “treatments” every single day at ten in the goddam morning for the next two goddam months. Ten in the goddam morning happens to the be the time I have traditionally reserved for professional blaming, and, as is public knowledge, a spinster aunt is nothing if not unyieldingly set in her ways. I take a dim view of being barbecued before lunch, but there it is. The prospect of retraining myself to write in the afternoon, when by all that is right and true I should be farting around doing nothing in particular, is daunting, but I will persevere.
In the meantime, regard with quiet outrage the thing they call “barbecued” tofu at Mother’s. Flanked by twin globs of starch, it is recommended only for imprisoned criminals against humanity, or masochist aficionados of recycled styrofoam suffocating in baked ketchup. (Catsup?)