Yesterday the company who provided the portable toilet to the house under construction across the street from Caroline’s house came to empty it. A truck with a giant white tank on its bed pulled into the driveway, and shortly the entire neighborhood smelled like shit. I pulled my shirt up over my nose and finished my business on the internet. Then I went inside to tell Caroline about the smell, but the smell had already entered the apartment.
My friend Andy has been living in Germany for the last ten years. He calls me about twice a month. This spring he called me and told me about the “dirt menu” some chef in Japan created. The menu is a $120 tasting menu, and each item on the menu contains “dirt”—i.e. specialty compost made under very controlled conditions. I don’t know too much more about the menu. My phone is ringing off the hook—an expression that no longer makes sense—and I need my breakfast.