Before I get to how to cook your own potato chips and avoid the game we food allergic individuals refer to as Le Chip Roulette, I'd like to mention dreaming. Because I woke from some very strange dreams this morning. Dreams involving caveman chest hair and glistening inky fish and long distance songs on some radio left behind in an abandoned mining shack perfect for a David Lynch location shoot. Spandau Ballet, in fact- crooning, I know this much is tru-hoo.
It's day fifteen of the tenacious head cold I picked up in Los Angeles. And it's Friday the thirteenth. But I'm not so easily spooked. Old ghosts got nothing on this morning's weirdness. This is kindergarten stuff. Amateur hour. So I shook it off and brewed some tea.
I'm blaming high altitude and not enough fresh fruit.
