I was a salesperson before I quit my job
to start writing full time, and I made a pretty good
living. Tonight I wanted to goout to eat to
celebrate my great day of teaching, to gush over the out-of-nowhere blog
traffic that made my toes curl with happiness, to high five a friend with a
glass of wine in my hand about the signing on of a new client. I wanted a thick
steak, a baked potato that made the butter puddle and spill out the sides. I
wanted fine linen, a snobby waiter, an expensive steak knife (the kind you’re
tempted to steal) and homemade rolls.

The bill for two would have come to $150,
and I wanted to hand over my debit card with authority and a dismissive, “No,
let me” comment to my companion.

But, I quit the job that would have paid
for a night like that. So I opened a can of black-eyed peas, added some Chinese
hot sauce, sliced in half a zucchini and threw on a couple of slices of low-fat
Havarti cheese. I would imagine the meal cost about a buck, maybe a buck fifty.

It was good, but it wasn’t as good as
steak.