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September 8, 2003
The sizzle of the eggplant on my George Foreman was the most satisfying noise I’ve heard all day. So I threw more slices on and watched as they bubbled and browned. Cooking is a new hobby of mine; surveying and selecting which spices will complement the dish, pinching miniscule portions into pans and bowls. I stir the vegetables; wipe the moisture from my upper lip. This Indian summer plays with my mind. I pull a plate from the cupboard. Welcome to September, welcome to the third floor apartment, welcome to any future that doesn’t involve fear. Just spices and scents.