Lately I’ve been moving away from the idea of a “meal.” I don’t sit down and eat a third or a fourth of my day’s caloric content at once anymore. Instead, I’ve taken picking through the refrigerator until I grab a handful or grapes or something and then scurry off to my room to eat it.

Unfortunately, pickings are slim. There was a roast chicken in the fridge but it’s hard to get at the good bits without a knife, and that would be more effort than it’s worth. The grapes were good, the small purple ones that pop when you crunch them, but overgrazing finished them off. I probably hit them seven or eight times today. There’s a little cheese in the fridge, but crackers have been eliminated and I won’t stoop to the level of eating plain cheese.

I think I’ve taken to hit and run consumption to hide from my family. See, my parents are wonderful people and I love them dearly, but every time I see I either get drawn into a long, usually awkward, conversation, or I get guilted into doing some kind of manly work–building a garage door from wood, cleaning gutters, sweeping off the roof. I hate this kind of stuff. Hate it, hate it hate it. Especially building things.

So I try to avoid  lingering in the public areas of the house for too long, and that means grabbing  handfuls of food from the kitchen when no one is watching.