 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
The Broke Diaries by Angela Nissel
I got two eggs on the bottom shelf of the fridge, but they expired over a week ago. There's some old ass Hi-C and BBQ sauce congregating together on the upper level. Onto the cabinets: a tube of grits. (Why are grits and oats the only foods that come in tubes?") I peer into the eyes of the Quaker Oats guy gracing the label. I meditate...I feel like Pavlov's dog. My mouth is just a-watering. "Please let there be enough for one serving of grits, please let there be enough for one serving of grits". I chant this in my head like a sacred mantra. I open the top. A grit stares back at me. Hell-lo? Did y'all hear me? One grit. A grit. Una gritora. I have never seen a solitary grit in my life. Why did I stick a tube of grits back in the cabinet with only one grit left? I look in the other cabinet behind the Nyquil, the aspirin, the Theraflu, and the prescription pill bottles dating back to 1987, I locate another tube of grits. I'm tripping out. I do the Gritfest dance. Grit directions: for a single serving, boil one cup of water and add 3 tablespoons of grit. Cool, I have 3 tablespoons here. I throw mad pepper on my grits to make up for my lack of butter. I put the bowl down on the floor (I have no table, my brother borrowed it and never gave it back) and sit on the bed getting ready to chow down. The phone rings, so I get back up to get it. It's a close relative (gotta protect people's privacy, so let's call this person "CR" for short). She needs me to type up something for her. As I go to sit back down on the bed, I knock over my bowl o' pepper grits. I scream into the phone. CR asks what the hell I'm doing. "I just spilled the last little bit of food I have all over the floor! I can't believe it! I am so hungry, I have no food. My check doesn't clear until Monday and it's only for $77, my grits, my grits, my grits, my grits...." "I don't know what to tell you, baby, you're an adult now, go find some food." Okay, CR, up against the wall-now slowly put the "Tough Love" book down. Find some food? Do I look like a damn hunter-gatherer? When's the last time you've seen bands of Black women foraging the hood for berries? Of course, I can't say this to CR. But, dag, can I just get a little love for putting myself through college? Can a struggling sis get some turkey sausage or lactose-reduced milk? My cat approaches. I know he feels my pain. He's come to comfort me....no, he walks right by me. He licks at the gritty carpet. He walks by me again, he rubs up against me. He purrs. He goes back to licking the grits.
Hot Breakfast Scoresheet:
The Broke Diaries:Part 1 | The Broke Diaries:Part 2 | Order The Broke Diaries |
|
| . |
|
|