“I hoisted the lid off the Spode vegetable dish and, from the depths of its hand-painted butterflies and raspberries, spooned out a generous helping of peas. Using my knife as a ruler and my fork as a prod, I marshaled the peas so that they formed meticulous rows and columns across my plate: rank upon rank of little green spheres, spaced with a precision that would have delighted the heart of the most exacting Swiss watchmaker. Then, beginning at the bottom left, I speared the first pea with my fork and ate it.”
“I was attentive to my knife and fork, spoon, glasses, and other instruments of self-destruction...”
“Enter my first neighbor - a woman who spoke in complete, coherent sentences, who ate with a knife and fork and who only cried at weddings. I couldn't help myself. In a dramatic gesture, I bolted the door and threw my body across it to prevent her exit. She understood.”
“I grab a snap pea and bite off the end of it, and then I pick up my glass of milk. I'm overwhelmed by the emptiness in my middle that food won't fill.”
“Um, tequila please?” I asked questioningly, enunciating each word as best as my drunken mouth would allow. So really, it came out as “Uff, shakira pea?”
“Though my stomach is only the size of a pea, I could eat two politicians’ brains.”