She woke up feeling a little hungry that morning.  A little more hungry than usual.  

I’ll just have an extra big bowl of cereal, she thought when she got to the kitchen.  But after two bowls of Fruity O’s, she poured a mound of sand that turned into grayish purple sludge in her bowl—which she promptly sucked down with the rest of the milk.  

That definitely didn’t hit the spot.  

She poked around in her pantry—found the last granola bar left in its box.  She tore through the foil wrapper—it was one of those extra chewy granola bars with the little bits of peanut butter and chocolate chips throughout—not organic.  The corn nuts she found were coated in ranch dust—not enough to make a dent.  The bag of potato chips left her hand greasy and her lips salty—and her stomach wanting more.

She grabbed a can of Angus beef chili, a plastic tub of porcini mushroom and cheddar cheese soup, and a box of fusilli pasta.  She put a pot of water on boil, grabbed a can opener, and tore open the chili.   She ate it out of the can—cold—with a tablespoon while the pasta water boiled.  A greasy orange gloss stuck to the sides of the can, which she scraped at with her fingers and licked feverishly.   Delicious.  Salty.  Beany.  The bits of meat had a grainy texture.  She concluded it was well worth the $1.19 she had paid.

The water, now boiling, was ready for the pasta.  Since she was indeed a little hungrier than usual, she emptied the entire box and set the timer.  

10 minutes.  

She poked around in her fridge and found a forgotten soft taco pushed way in the back.  How long had it been there?  A week?  The tortilla—like cardboard—the meat, tinged an odd green.  But just barely.  Probably just sauce.  Was it pork or chicken?  She couldn’t remember.  She took a bite and filled her mouth with the first half.  Oddly it tasted like lamb—but she knew Wacko’s Tacos didn’t make lamb tacos.  Tasted pretty darn good—maybe they should be making lamb tacos.   She stuffed the rest of it in her mouth, ignoring the slimy lettuce.  

She scooped a heaping tablespoon of chunky peanut butter out of the jar, pressed a handful of chocolate chips on top, and with her finger, dolloped a heap of strawberry jam on top of that.  She licked at the sticky mound like a scoop of ice cream—polishing the spoon until it shone like fine silver.

3 minutes to go.

She chugged the last bit of Coca Cola out of a 2-liter jug—flat.  Wrapped 3 slices of American cheese around a cold wiener—took a bite—paused to admire her teeth marks in the plastic cheese—inhaled the rest.  2 wieners and 6 slices of cheese later, she got tired of the taste.

A Doughboy Delight Honey Bun, a slice of cheesecake, 10 Red Hot Tamales, a blueberry Pop Tart, a handful of pretzels, and 5 Oreo cookies with a minty cream center slinked into her gut before the timer went off.  

Onto the main course.  

She poured the hot water into a strainer and dumped the pasta back into the pot along with her porcini mushroom and cheddar cheese soup.  She mixed the goop around and ate it straight out of the pot with a wooden spoon.  Warm, gooey goodness.  She ate every last bite.

Finally, better.

She got dressed in her stockings, and her silk, purple dress.  Charles from the office always noticed her when she wore her silk, purple dress.  As she headed out the door, she ran back in the house to grab a baggie of carrot sticks from the fridge.

She wouldn’t want to forget her lunch.