I imagine this is approximately what it’s like when you die: someone will sort your life into a neat little pile, trying to make sense out of it. except it won’t taste like coffee beans. well, mine might.
when I open a restaurant, everything will be served in pyrex dishes.
I want to learn to a craft where I create something with my hands. making soba seems like a good one.
how you know you’re outside a real barbecue joint.
