This happens to me all the time: I’m with people and, for some reason, remember how the last time I was homeless a favorite meal was cold ravioli straight from a can, which I consumed in the park next to the grocery store.
I start to tell them this, and they interrupt me and say, “Why don’t you talk about that in your column, and spare us the details here?”
Well OK, then.
See, I didn’t have any place to cook food. I had food stamps, but food stamps can’t buy hot food.