Kitchen Note: Bento Box

Tomorrow there will be a full post on cheesecake. For now, a quick note.

Today I take a walk. It takes a good block before I achieve a normal gait instead of a shambling, arthritic lurch. Jesus, I must be a sight to behold. Middle-age wrapped in neoprene.

Never mind. John is having a tough day at work, and I want to cheer him. A sugar doughnut from the shop a few blocks away: they’re out of plain. Then it’s to the Japanese market, a wonderful small store where I grab a small bag of green beans for dinner–one of John’s favorites–and a bento box for his lunch tomorrow.

“Do you need chopsticks?” the cashier asks.

I thank her, but no, I don’t. I have somehow become a person in possession of chopsticks. So much of adulthood is becoming somebody you had no idea you’d become. A person who owns chopsticks. A person grateful for her proximity to a Japanese market. A person who can identify a bento box.

Collecting my purchases, I walked home. Tomorrow at lunch, my beleaguered sweetie will open his bag to a treat.