in which it is more than a bit like Fairchild

(I think only S will really get the title, but that’s all right.)

Billy and I spend a small but vital piece of our work day rhapsodizing about food: food we’ve had, food we miss, food we always wanted to try, food we want right now, damnit, and the food we will settle for.

I miss my kitchen. I miss any kitchen, to be honest: I miss making food.

On Bagram AF, there are several chow halls- two right by our camp, Koele and Aircrew. Koele is bigger, has a wider selection, and is usually crowded; Aircrew is smaller, less crowded, and has the awesome- est midnight chow. But sometimes I want something other than food that’s been cooked in massive vats, in a culinary style I can only describe as so determined not to offend anyone it becomes offensively bland. There’s some fast food on post: Pizza Hut (ew), Burger King ( ew ew eew + non- allergy safe), Popeye’s (one good sandwich and this lovely, strangely yogurt-y topping they tell me is mayo but definitely is not), Subways (actually seems okay, given my options). Oh, and Orange Julius, which just makes me think I’m in some weirdly hot and dusty mall. So that’s not so great, either. Local hires aren’t allowed to sell us food, and I don’t know anyone currently breaking that rule, but I’d be willing to enter into some shady back alley for a kabob, for sure.

There’s a chow hall delightfully dedicated to only barbecue on the north side of post, but the hours are brief. Good food, though- damn good food.

Me, I dream of Indian food, Thai, chicken cheesesteaks at Gianni’s, New York pizza, falafel, Nardelli’s. I have lurid fantasies about braising leeks, poaching chicken, deep rich sauces with cognac, white wine sauces with fontina and capers.

Oh. Capers.

Balsamic vinegar reductions.

Home- made macaroni and cheese casserole.

New potatoes.

Spices.

Coriander.

Damn.

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