But Not By My Man
In Defense of H&M


Last night I took the 1-California line all the way to 10th Avenue. The air was cold enough that I could see my breath. I passed a Chinese hot pot place where diners sat in couples smiling over steaming bowls that fogged the windows.

I wandered into a Russian market that promised "fine cheeses," and there looked to be fine cheeses indeed, but I couldn't read anything in there, and the woman clerk never turned around from washing her hands, so I left and went to the Korean market that had everything I have never heard of. Kim chee sat in rows and rows in large refrigerators. Soju bottles held a barely-dressed smiling woman on the front, dozens of her. I selected a "pho" noodle soup packet for $1.50, some instant miso and made my way home.

After unpacking and arranging more of the kitchen, I boiled water and poured it over the packet's contents, popped The Big Lebowski in the computer and slurped salty, salty soup on my bed wearing the biggest socks you've ever seen.


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there is a tiny russian market here, and the lady that works there (tanya) loves to give samples of the cheese, bread and other items.

latest discovery, half sour pickles.

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