Appetizers

Almond, Milked

Last week, I wrote about the truly nasty almonds I kept in my bag as an “emergency snack,” and more than a few HangCraBs (Hangry Comrades of Buffet) emailed to share their own nibbles of last resort. Nina T. was truly flummoxed by my foibles, and wisely recommended “1–2 emergency bag apples in one’s bag at all times, restocking as necessary,” which she noted are “pleasant, super long lasting, not too pleasant, and an appropriate size.” (She also advised against using oranges in this way, sagely noting that they “become emergency bag OJ way too quickly.”) I found a fellow traveler in Helen P., who sources her Almonds of Despair in bulk from Costco, which means they take even longer to get through—maybe more rancid is more better? Speaking of Costco, that’s where Emma J. discovered these appropriately dubious-sounding “Aussie Bites,” which she praised as “filling enough to tide me over between meals but not good enough that I ever want to eat more than one.” (She has been working through the same pack since July.)

But the award for the most diabolical mental gymnastics (complimentary) in the pursuit of sagacious snacking goes to Sydney T., who favors “not an Intentionally Bad Snack, but an Intentionally Wasteful Snack.” They keep a bag of individually-wrapped Tillamook extra-sharp cheddar cheese slices in the work fridge to get over that 3 p.m. hunger hump, and the acute threat of total environmental collapse is more than enough to keep their appetite in check: “I don’t want to have more than one at a time because of how much plastic waste they produce.” Whatever gets you through the day! Thanks to all who wrote in, especially the person whose message I can no longer find but who suggested dry-roasted, unsalted edamame—that sounds like a recipe for cottonmouth if I ever heard one, and I’m going to pick some up later today. —Amiel

I Was Masked in the Lesbian Bar

If you’re lucky enough to not be on social media and missed seeing it, the Boston Globe wrote what can only be described as the best story ever written. It details the travails facing a Greenfield, Massachusetts, lesbian bar called Last Ditch—which required all patrons to wear KN95 masks for its first year of existence—after it decided to make masks optional one night a week. To put it mildly: all hell broke loose.

It’s a pity the Globe didn’t reach out to me for comment because, as a proud Western Massachusetts native, I have indeed been to Last Ditch. It’s a queer bar that perfectly encapsulates the insulated progressive culture of the Pioneer Valley’s five-college radius. The night I went, about a year ago, we were met with clear signs about the masks (and kindly offered ones to wear). I ran into a dear old friend who announced that it was karaoke night. Karaoke night?! I initially considered going elsewhere, but this convinced me. I sipped two vodka sodas in quick, discreet slurps to minimize open-mouth time and then thought, why not sing a song? There were probably twenty or so people there; they all seemed to be having fun. The karaoke rules were: 1) you have to put a little condom-like apparatus on the mic and 2) if you don’t have a Covid test from that day, you must sing masked. Sure! I got up and sang my muffled heart out to The Cranberries. As I sat back down, I looked onstage to see the next singer approach the mic with disgust. They placed their fingers upon my soiled mic condom and then threw it out while making direct eye contact with me. I was mortified. Sheepish and devastated, I whispered, “We must leave.” And so we departed. That’s my Last Ditch tale. To the bar’s credit, it had good, dingy dive-bar vibes. —Cale