Dealing With The World That Is Rather Than The One We Want


Finally some sense beyond the senseless slogans blooming over social media about the Edge.

Originally posted on Ottomans and Zionists:

I’ve been purposely keeping quiet as Operation Protective Edge rages on, which for someone who writes about Israel seems like a counterproductive move. The problem is, I have seen very little to convince me that writing anything will actually be productive in a real sense because everyone is living in a bubble. I have rarely been so disheartened by anything as much as I have by reading what friends and acquaintances are expressing as Israel and Hamas go at each other. My Facebook feed is a good illustration of this, being split between very different demographics.

On group is comprised of lots of Jewish friends from growing up in New York in an Orthodox community, attending Jewish day schools, currently living in a place with a large and engaged Jewish community, etc. and nearly all of them subscribe to the view that Israel is entirely blameless for its current predicament…

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For my second adventure I chose Ziplining with Alaska Canopy Adventures. WP_20140625_026 Before we go into how this worked out for me, I want to stress that though the day was a disaster, I cannot say enough good things about the company and the tour.

If you do it, this is what you can expect. You’ll be picked up at the dock by a rep, and if you’re lucky that rep will be Earl, a lovely gentleman who’s been doing this for years. If you accidentally get caught up in conversation with a fellow ACA attendee and get on the wrong bus, he’ll be infinitely patient as he tries to find you. He’ll keep up a good patter of information about Ketchikan as he drives you to your location, and you should tip him well.

At the spot they’ll invite you to go potty multiple times at the base, and then you’ll be taken up to the head of the ziplines in this thing: WP_20140625_022 which is apparently designed to go up really steep hills. Anything that might attract bears is locked in a box. You’ll be invited to go potty again. When everyone is satisfactorily evacuated, there are all the safety speeches to get through, and then you’re hitched into your seat harnesses.

Before. So excited!

Before. So excited!

You follow your guides- two per group- outside and see a marvelous view not unlike this: WP_20140625_014 and pretty shit all around you not unlike this:   WP_20140625_012   Then there’ll be a demo, in which, if one of your guides is Tyler, you can admire his guns as he explains what to do/not to do. WP_20140625_010 Then off you go on the first, baby zip! WP_20140625_011 You’ll spend the next couple of hours going through longer and faster zips, from platform to platform. The platforms are attached to the tops of spruce trees. You can see for miles. The ocean and further islands are visible through the trees. It’s breathtaking. You might see a bear! As you gain confidence you can try cannon-balling to go faster, or holding out your arms. You can take pictures if you want- they’ll secure your camera to your harness so it doesn’t fall. In the downtime on platforms while waiting for everyone else to complete the last zip you can take pictures that will make all your facebook friends jealous. At some point if you do my course, you’ll walk across a few swinging bridges that will make you shriek, probably. And then you’ll be at the bottom and you’ll high five and probably buy the photograph that the professional photographer takes of you, massive grin on your face, as you give a thumbs up on the last zip.

And those of you who are afraid of heights, as several of my friends profess to be? Don’t worry. You’ll get over it. At no time do you feel unsafe. At no time, up in the canopy, are you not securely fastened to something. There is no way to fall.You’ll soon be feeling confident and having the time of your life, says even my friend Angel, who is afraid to stand on chairs.

But then was me.

I’ve always been moderately afraid of heights. I dislike ladders, but can cope with them. Airplanes don’t bother me, though, and I don’t panic at views from tall buildings.

I also dislike the feeling of falling. No roller coasters for me, please. Dropping is an unpleasant and profoundly unfun sensation that no amount of adrenaline-fueled endorphin rush can make okay.

I knew I’d be scared my first few zips, but I figured the scenery and the fun of it would get the better of me, and that as we moved from zipline to zipline I’d get more confident, and as I was waiting for my first zip I was debating whether 20 bucks was worth it for a photo of me in the tree tops and thinking, yeah, it probably was.

First zip- awful. Oh god I hate that feeling of dropping. Dying from a broken elevator cable rates only somewhat less than being tortured to death by Assad’s thugs, in my book. But I got through it and made it to the platform! It could only get easier, right?

The platform seemed about the size of a postage stamp, and had no railings. Worse, the tree was MOVING… swaying in the wind.

Rational brain knew I was securely latched onto the tree and nothing was going to happen to me. Lizard brain was sending out rather strident alarms. I looked at the wooden pathway back and wondered if I should consider going back? No. Agent L is many things, but she is not a pussy. It is healthy to conquer your fears! Onward!

Still, I clung close to the tree til it was my turn and looked at the next zip- intimidatingly long- with growing trepidation.

The zips got longer and faster and instead of getting less afraid, with each one I somehow grew more afraid. By the third one I refused to look at the next, and had to be led to the block to stand on before I zipped. Every time I jumped off I HATED it.

By the fifth I refused to open my eyes on the platforms and just stood there, shaking, and holding the tree trunk in a death grip. I have never been so frightened in my life.

I cannot at this point stress enough how good the staff were with me. Makenzie was great at speaking to me soothingly, congratulating me on, well, trying to conquer my fears, and getting me through zip after zip. At one point in the middle there were three swinging bridges to navigate, that were careening alarmingly side to side, and the ground was so very, very far away. Probably. I couldn’t look. Might’ve actually been a few inches for all I knew. The first had the steepest slope and I felt, a quarter of the way down, that I couldn’t take another step. I had on overwhelming desire to sit down and clutch the slats for dear life. Makenzie was walking backwards so she could face me, and was keeping up a patter of questions so I kept talking.

“Can you just stop a minute so I can walk closer to you?” I pleaded, feeling the beginnings of a panic attack creeping around the edges. The trees in my peripheral vision seemed to be spinning.

“Sure,” she said. “Anything else we can do to make you more comfortable?”

Get me the fuck out of this nightmare.

“Nope. That’ll be good.”

“You can DO this, Sarah!” she said.


In the last segment the zipline went across a glade and in the glade was a black bear, rooting for grubs in the undergrowth. I was hugging the tree with all my might, my legs already starting to ache from the effort of trembling so hard for so long, eyes squeezed shut.

“Sarah can you just turn your head a minute? Just a minute? To see the bear?”

“Nope, I’m good.”

“You don’t want to see the bear?”

“There will be other bears.”

A lady on my tour kindly asked if she wanted her to take a picture of it with my phone. I fumbled with my pocket zipper and then finally said, “My hands are shaking so hard I can’t get at it, and if I DO get at it, I’m afraid I’ll drop it. Thank you, though.”

On the last zip I opened one eye for a moment and saw the bear in the glade, nosing something in a hillock and thought how marvelous this would have been had I been able, somehow, to keep my goddamned lizard brain from flooding my body with FLIGHT!!!!! signals and adrenaline.

Oh well.

Reaching the ground was the best part. There was a bear across the field from us that I attempted to take a photo of but my hands were too shakey, and I got to see a reindeer pen, or as they call them here, sausage pens.

WP_20140625_017 WP_20140625_021 Am I glad I did it?

I don’t know. I was pretty miserable.

But others I’ve spoken to who are afraid of heights swear they love ziplining. You never know until you try, and one way or another- this company takes safety very, very seriously- you will survive.

Experience: 0 (for me.)

Facilities: 5

Staff:4 (Guides outstanding, those in the shop and in charge of getting you onto a bus home, a bit disorganized)

Cost: $$$189

Bathrooms: 5 (spacious, plenty of stalls, clean)

Snack: 2 (salmon dip on a cracker and bulk cookies, plenty of free coffee and hot chocolate)

Retail: 5 (thoughtfully chosen gift store chock full of stuff you won’t find in town, ACA specific postcards, bunch of great children’s books)

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Adventure Karts!


It’s fun fact about Ketchikan time: tourism is the leading industry in this town, followed by fishing. Downtown is mostly comprised of a few streets that snake around the cruise-ship berths that are lined almost entirely with souvenir and jewelry stores. It’s an area of town where a bottle of water starts at two bucks. Also, caveat emptor, most of the shops are filled with imported crap, totem poles make in Thailand, native-style jewelry made in China, etc. Most of the jewelry stores and quite a few of the souvenir stores are actually owned by the cruise-ship companies which is why in every port of an Inside Passage cruise you’ll find the same things in the same stores. If shopping is your thing, look for stuff that’s actually made by natives. Ask which jewelry stores are locally owned. Walk an extra three blocks south to buy your water at Tatsudas.

Or don’t. I’m not here to tell you how to live your life.

Anyway, if shopping isn’t your thing, there are tons of other tours and activities you can do with an afternoon in Ketchikan. One of the perks of my job is a lot of the tourist excursion companies trade with ours, so on my day off I’ll be trying them out and telling you about them.

Our first was Adventure Karts. It was really ridiculously fun.

At the dock, reasonably clean

At the dock, reasonably clean

We all met on the dock in the morning, and were collected with the other Adventure Karters onto a bus. The bus driver gave us a running commentary of little facts about Ketchikan as we drove north out of town to the spot, which is the remnants of an old logging camp. We all dutifully peed one last time and were collected for the obligatory safety speeches and helmet fittings and waiver signings.

“We have rain gear,” our guide said, gesturing to a wall of rubber overalls and huge raincoats, “but, you know, we never really use them.” We all looked at one another. No one wanted to be the puss in bright yellow overalls.


Then we came outside to get instructions on how to drive the Tomcars, (ridiculously simple. Three gears: Drive, Neutral, Reverse) and what to do if we had engine problems, fell behind, etc.


We’d picked, (or rather whoever does the scheduling in the office picked for us) the perfect day for it. It was one of the almost heartbreakingly perfect Alaska summer days- cool but sunny with blue sky and sea breezes all around, but it had just rained heavily for the three solid days before. Everyone in the know told me the same thing: go in the rain. It’s more fun. You’ll see.

Ali and I got into one Tomcar and the boys got into another and away we went!



The ride’s about three and a half hours long, with breaks to take pictures and look at a waterfall, and change drivers. The trails are along old logging roads that were never paved, and are filled with rocks and potholes and unexpected dips and hills. Because of the recent rain, the potholes and dips were filled with muddy water so every three seconds there was a huge SPLASH that set me and Ali off in shrieks of delight. For most of the tour we were shrieking and laughing.

The crew

The crew

The formerly white shirt

The formerly white shirt

The view

The view






At the end we all got out of the cars and examined each other. The boys had some small mud spatters on their shoulders and shins. We girls were soaked to the skin in muddy water, and when we’d stood up we found standing muddy water puddles in our seats.

Formerly black trousers

Formerly black trousers

Capt’n looked at me.

“Did you swerve around any water AT ALL?”

“They told us not to swerve in the safety briefing, captain.”

“WITHIN REASON! and did you hit the brakes, like, ever?”

“I sped up when we hit puddles.”


We returned our helmets and the crew had us sign our names on the wall with sharpies. I corrected some of the grammar in previous tags while we waited for the bus driver to take us back to town.

And then we all went out to lunch, as is.

The waitress looked me and Ali up and down.

“Adventure Karts?”


She sighed.


Experience: 5

Facilities: 4

Staff: 4

Cost: $200 (pretty standard)

Bathrooms: 2 (clean porta-potties)

Snack: 1.5 (a granola bar, meh. A bottle of water would have been nice)

Retail: none to speak of. Color changing sunglasses and a few key rings.


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Shootin Shit in the Woods


I was relaxing with a beer by the firepit in the backyard grotto on Saturday night, chitchatting with a neighbor I just met- a young man named Rowan who lives in a house with a few other young men, just behind (and, we live on a mountain, above) me. We’d had a few beers and were chit-chatting about everything from world politics to Sarah Palin to growing up Ketchikan, (more about that later). His roommate came down the stairs as we were contemplating getting a few more beers or going our separate ways.

“What are you guys doing?” Rowan called.

“We’re going to go shoot shit in the woods,” he replied. “You wanna come?”

Rowan looked at me. “Up to you. I don’t need to go.”

“Can I come?” I asked.

“Sure,” said the roommate.

“The HELLS YES!!!”

A moment later six of us were packed into a pickup truck- four of us in the flatbed and two dudes in the cabin and we were off-


one stop to pick up the guns and another at walmart to pick up shit to shoot- two cases of soda and a few gallon jugs of tropical punch.



And then into the wild.

Ketchikan is not the most urban of landscapes. I live downtown and this is the view from my window as I write this.


There is one main road, two lanes, that is charmingly described as a “highway” on maps, along which are a few shopping centers and the Walmart. By the cruiseship berths there is a small shopping district with tourist-bait shops that all shutter up come winter. That and a few bars is about it. It doesn’t take long at all to find yourself in the middle of nowhere. About fifteen minutes past Wal-Mart exactly.



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We wound our way up into the mountains on a gravel road


and pulled into the chosen spot- only to find the cops there. Our driver knew the cop- everyone here knows everyone else- and got out to have a talk with him.


“Well, I know y’all just want to go shooting, but I can’t let you do it here,” the officer said.

“Should I hide the beer?” I murmured. Everyone shrugged.

“Tell you what- go on up the road about fifteen minutes,” the cop said reflectively. “There’s a turnoff to the left right past where there’s the drop off. Go there.”

“Thank you, sir,” said our driver.

And so we did.

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We found the turn off, a small dirt track, and came to the perfect place to shoot guns.



I was the only one who had never fired a rifle before. One of the boys started loading it for me, but I demanded to know how to do it, so he let me press the last six bullets into the chamber. Everyone in the company had been handling hunting rifles since they were kids, but everyone was extraordinarily patient with me when I asked questions, and talked me through holding the gun properly, (the stock DOESN’T go into your armpit, turns out!) and discharging the casing.

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I managed to hit a single can.


When we’d run through two boxes of bullets we packed up the guns and ourselves, and rode down the mountain again as sunset turned into gloaming turned into dark.








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A Year After Gezi

On the 28th or the 29th of May last year, I was smoking on the balcony with Z, in a break between classes. He started telling me about how out of control the original Gezi park protest had gotten, and I enthusiastically exclaimed that I knew! I knew! A handful of peaceful protesters viciously attacked by riot police- the famous Lady in Red getting squirted in the face with pepper spray at point blank range, etc. I astonished him. 

“How do you know this?! You are yabanci!” 

“How can anyone not know? How can you not pay attention to what’s going on around you?” 

We talked for a bit more, and I astonished him further by being up to date on Kurdish matters, (Z’s Kurdish) and the general downward spiral of Turkish politics. 

“I am going right after work, to Taksim. Do you want to come?” 

I wish I’d gone, but I was tired and looking forward to a nap. 

“I get off later than you. I’m going this weekend.” 


I have felt the need to write about the year that’s passed since the Gezi Park protests began, but every time I sit down to write no words come. There are 250,000 words in the English language, and somehow I cannot string a dozen together to explain. When I tell the story to people, the bowdlerized version, anyway, it sounds unreal. I went to protests. I photographed them. I got caught, beaten, put on trial, put in jail, and deported. Whew! But when I try to explain the why of it, and many, many people ask me why, and chastise me, and tell me I had no business, I come up short. 

How to explain how I felt when Ceren took me to my first Bir Mayıs in Taksim, and how I was struck with the bravery of the Turkish people for fighting so long and so hard for the right to assemble peacefully, as they gathered in the millions? How to explain how although at that time I was fairly ignorant of modern Turkish politics, the hair on my arms rose as I heard the roll call of the slain from Mayday 1977? 

Maybe it’s best discussed in terms of physical reactions: the gut twisting sensation of reading, day after day about ridiculous, petty, bureaucratic injustice. The ache in the stem of your eyeball when you roll your eyes too hard. The stomach churning feeling of helplessness. The swelling in the chest when you are so, so proud. The squeezing in your chest when you are humbled by how honored you are to witness something. The hair raising along your arms as you march with 10,000 people from widely disparate backgrounds, united in a common, positive goal. The prickling behind your eyes at the third rousing round of Ciao Bella, or when someone thanks you for being American and THERE, American AND present, American and a witness to the INSANITY. (Many people ask how I could be a guest in the country and participate in the riots. More on that in a mo- but I was never not thanked, never not looked after. Four minutes before I was swept up by riot police a middle aged man put his arm around me and urged me to retreat to a side street. “You are too precious. We need you here tomorrow,” he said.) The peripheral awareness of a crease deepening between your eyebrows, of your forehead muscles being rather overworked. And the tiredness, I was so tired last summer. The weight of it, the weight of it. The ache of laughing hysterically, because if you don’t laugh you might, just might, start crying and never stop.

Trying to explain it to anyone who wasn’t there, I’ve found, is impossible. We all developed new vocabularies, verbal and emotional, that summer

“But why were you even there?” 

I had a mild tiff with my mama over the winter about it. 

“You raised me to fight against injustice where I saw it,” I said. 

“I did NO such thing,” she insisted. “I did NO such thing.” 

My uncle hung up on me and hasn’t spoken to me since. 

A week ago I was scolded by a new coworker anew, and yesterday a comment was left on my blog by an anonymous someone, questioning my motives for “rioting” when I was a “guest” of the country. 

The only explanation I have is that old saying: if you stand by when injustice is being perpetrated, you are complicit. To say and do nothing is to be a part of the problem. The world would be a poorer place if everyone stood back and said, “this is not my problem.” 

It is all of our problems. 

My life was dismantled by protests in Turkey. 

I lost a country I loved, a life I loved, a job I loved, an apartment I loved. I lost friends, and rakı. 

If I had it to do all over again I would’ve left Bahariye two minutes earlier, or maybe I wouldn’t even have left Katrina’s apartment after I got the news that police were sweeping people up. 

That is the only thing I would take back. I was honored, again and again, by everything that I saw, that I witnessed, and everything that I experienced last year. 

I would do it all over again. 




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June 1, 2013, Gezi Park


A year ago today

Originally posted on agent L abroad:

To continue my story- when we were all vaselined, (sidebar- really, Agent J? Everyone told me vaseline helped) and had 50 cls of liquid courage in us, Lina and TJ and I headed down to Kadikoy to join the protests in Rhitim. My afternoon classes were all cancelled, because by mid-morning all transit in and out of Kadikoy had been shut down- no ferries to Europe, and the rumor was the bus depot and main boulevard were shut down. We were shocked, then, to see a ferry pull away from the Eminonu dock, with people literally hanging from the rails, so laden with protesters it seemed a little unsteady in the water. As the ferry sounded its horn and lurched off, the crowd went crazy- cheering, screaming.

I cannot explain why they would close transit in the morning and reopen it in the afternoon. But there it was- hundreds…

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Girding Our Loins for Battle


A year ago today.

Originally posted on agent L abroad:

It was important for me to go to Taksim Square, but I will not lie, I was nervous. Cops make me nervous anyway. Turkish cops terrify the fuck out of me. The Turkish police, in my book, have far too much agency and not enough controls. I mean, I even thought that before all the shit went down a few days ago. Riot police? We need to invent a new word for the level of panic I feel at the idea of Turkish Riot Police. Reinforcements brought in from the East? 40% of the Istanbul police force spread between Kadiköy and Taksim? Eek!

TJ came home around three and I ran out for lemons and coke. We sat on the porch checking twitter and speculating until Lina came over at around 4.

“Girls-” she said, looking us up and down, “uh-uh. No. No no no.”

I was wearing a cream…

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Nearly a year ago.

Originally posted on agent L abroad:

Agent L, having gotten back from Taksim Square only somewhat before 2 in the morning, and needing an hour and a half to wind down from an exhausting, uplifting, confusing, ultimately really awesome day, and then having had to get up and go teach at some ungodly hour, (all the teachers are hollow eyed today) is a little bit tired.

I am also overwhelmed and suffering from both sensory and information overload, and no coherent narrative about the last four days in Istanbul is coalescing in my mind. But I wanted to check in with those of you who don’t live here and might be hearing the news and fretting: I’m a-okay. I’m super. I actually feel better about living in Turkey than I did last Tuesday.

I’ll write more about this later, I promise. I have lots of good stories.

Quick, incomplete story from yesterday- got to Taksim late…

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13 FEET of rain a year.

Forgive agent L inc’s lack of posts, lately. We have managed to wash our smart phone in the Permanent Press Cycle, on Hot/Cold mode, and are therefore unable to post photos and photos rather than words are going to be our mainstay, we have discovered. Our days here are largely monotonous, if full and rewarding and tiring and the best AND worst of times. We ride in a catamaran 100 miles every day, informing, feeding, occasionally exhorting and cajoling, praising, pampering, and often telling reprehensible jokes to the 100-odd people who are our responsibility, life and limb, every day. We also sometimes see whales breach and bears lumbering across impossibly remote cirques and mountaintops. 

The weather here is dreadful. 

I am not coping well. 

We currently have our own personal waterfall in the backyard and my room is so chilly and my thin ghost-of-a-fleece blanket is so inadequate that even mummified in four layers of clothes, (and yes, Agent L has finally succumbed and for the first time in her life owns sweatpants) that I have woken up on more than one occasion sleep-crawling my way under the mattress pad. 

And my first real big girl apartment was an unheated attic with minimal insulation, so that should tell you something about how the damp and chill just crawl into your bones here and make themselves comfy. 

I am reminded of when I lived, briefly, in Panama with a certain Irishman who wasn’t coping well with the heat at all. I know heat: don’t move much. Don’t go in and out of air conditioned environments. Embrace the slick of salt and sweat on your skin and give in to the doziness, to the eccentric thoughts that come when you’ve nothing to do but stare at the ceiling fan going round. 

I need a cold and damp equivalent of me in Panama to guide me through this endless rain, through mornings where I think piteously to myself that I have always been cold and will always be cold. 

I am freaking cold. 

All the time. 

And it’s a damp cold such as I have never known. 

In a week or so I’ll have a new phone, and new photographs of truly beautiful things. 

Bear with me until then, and if you have any warming ideas, let me have them. I’ve already embraced sweatpants and given up on the idea that I’ll ever wear this cute madras mini I brought with me for nights on the town. The sandal wedges were likewise ill advised. More blankets are clearly in order. Any other suggestions? Joy- you live in Poland: surely you know something? 

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Shoe-String Budget Eating in Alaska

I met a rare breed today. Most folks I come into contact with are off a cruise ship and are only in Ketchikan for perhaps ten hours, four and of half of which will be spent exploring fjords and peeping whales with your favorite (I hope) rabble rouser and suspected terrorist, Agent L. (The second trial, by the way, will be over by May 25 and then we’ll all find out if I can ever stroll by the banks of the Bosporus or drink beer on Çaliş beach with dear friends again, but that’s another post about another life.) It’s a shame they spend so little time here cause for such a little place (8000 souls in the town proper) there’s a lot going on- hiking in snow covered mountains, kayaking, snorkeling, looking at the the world’s largest collection of totem poles, ziplining, fishing, and an unexpectedly big and diverse art scene. These guys found themselves an apartment rental and tooled around for a couple weeks, exploring the hiking trails and bars.

“We’ve mostly been barbequeing everything we eat to save money,” said the lady. “Everything is so expensive.”

PRO-TIP: groceries in Alaska are about 25% higher priced than in the continental US. Everything has to be barged or flown in.

“Oh my God I know. First time I went into Safeway I was in shock.”

“First time I went into Safeway I almost cried!” the woman said.

“You know, I pass a Chinese restaurant every day on my way to work, and their flipping egg rolls are eight bucks. Eight bucks!”

We all shook our heads in mute wonder.

The three of us, me and AC and SA, mostly washed up here broke for one reason or another, and we’ve been pooling resources to feed ourselves until payday. One of the perks of my particular job is I get to take home whatever clam chowder or chili is left over at the end of the day. It is widely acknowledged that I am the most creative cook in the house, and that I have a genius for taking shitty food and creating something better than the sum of its generic brand parts. That clam chowder, for instance, is much better reduced a bit, with lashings of hot sauce and pepper, perhaps with some canned corn or frozen veggies in it, poured over garlic bread, or reduced further and made the base for a sort of poor man’s clam alfredo sauce. Chili needs only cheese, more heat, and sour cream to transform it.

But one cannot live on chowder and chili alone.

Here are the universally liked cheap meals I’ve come up with in the past three weeks.

Start with: Generic boxed macaroni and cheese. So sad by itself!

Cook the noddles until al dente and drain.

In the pot melt a smidge under a tablespoon of butter and pour the noodles back in.

Add, in no particular order, the packet of analine-orange cheese powder, a splash of milk, and two or three tablespoons of garlic yogurt, and a few tablespoons af canned diced tomatoes. (To make garlic yogurt, add a clove of minced or pressed garlic to every cup and a half of yogurt, or to taste, and a pinch of salt.) Stir to combine.

Now add a can of chicken.

You read that right, and yeah, I know. I had the same reaction to canned chicken for years. But you know what? it’s cheap protein, and actually pretty good!

Now add two of those packets of parmesan that come with delivery pizza, and lashings of pepper. If someone recently ordered chinese and didn’t eat their fried noodle treats, sprinkle on top with another parmesan thing and bake.

If you’re a fancy rich person who has vegetables I bet they’d be good in this too.

Start with: Chicken Ramen noodles. (Oh so sad.)

Cook the noodles in less than a cup and a half of water, and add the spice packet to it first. Or just use half a chicken bouillon cube.

Stir in a beaten egg to up the protein and make it more like egg drop soup, and add a ton of lemon juice.

Also stir in half a can of chicken , some canned corn, and hell, maybe even some beans if you have them.

Same with the veggies.

What’s your favorite trick to fancy up shitty packaged food?



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