Towards the end of the book, things got kind of gloomy, but
the kind of gloomy I can handle, like when Chris is away on tour and the
VitaMix is on the blink, or I stain my favorite navy and cream striped Breton
top with red wine. “Face up, spacegirl, you’re lonely,” writes Melissa Broder.
“You’ve not been felt in centuries.” Thanks to the best masseuse in the nation
(see my Goop post, under “Be”), I don’t have that problem, but still, Broder’s
on to something with culinary matrimony. This part is from a poem called “Steak
Night,” which I totally relate to because although Apple came to veganism on
her own, I can’t get the men in my
family to see the veggie light:
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