I made an epic pot of chicken soup the other day. Chicken drumsticks, cabbage, carrots, potatotes, tomatoes, corn and powdered chicken soup stock. As I was adding all the ingredients into the pot, it couldn't hold it all, I had to upgrade to the largest pot they had in the hostel.
So that soup has fed me for the past 3 days, and I still have one more meal's worth of soup for tomorrow. It reminds me of batch cooking with my crockpot back home. I get tired of eating the same meal six times in a row for three days.
I have too much free time here. I am reading these terrifyingly satisfying novels. They always seem to be about middle aged adults having love, marital, career and family problems and mid-life life crisises. It is so bizarre and disheartening to realize I can enjoy these novels and sort of relate to them. It is so bizarre to think that these problems in our lives are real problems and that the lifestyle depicted in these novels have any relation to reality when I watched a homeless man pee into a plastic bag and carefully set the bag aside for later. Or when I watched a well dressed young man hustling toothbrushes in downtown San Jose. Stupid novels.
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