I’m thinking about how salad doesn’t keep. I’m thinking about how it turns brown and collects its excrement at the bottom of the bag, a single leaf rotting at the depths spreading to the rest until it disintegrates in your hand, sickly sweet and cloying, how each day you eat some and throw more away. I’m thinking about how salad doesn’t keep and doesn’t keep you full, how much further a $2 burger will get you compared to a $2 bag of four leaf mix, how reassuring that 45% of daily intake must appear when there’s no guarantee of getting the other 55%.
I’m thinking about how Sam was left alone for weeks at a time when he was younger, how lost he felt knowing that there was no guarantee he would ever not be alone again, how it drew Sully to him, how he started hunting when he was 9 and what that means about before. I’m thinking about how Dean was the best thing in his world and how hunting stole him away for months, leaving Sam abandoned with motel rooms and scant money. I’m thinking about a diet of mac and cheese and cheap cereal for days, until he wants to gag when he sees it, how little that $2 bag of leaves gets him but how much he wishes he could have it.
I’m thinking about how his version of heaven could have been someone else’s Thanksgiving, enough to eat that you can invite your family and someone else’s, how thankful he is to take something others have for granted. I’m thinking about how a person living alone can meal prep for the week and keep it frozen, an expense on Sunday that keeps you fed for the rest of the week, if you can afford Sunday. I’m thinking about my siblings, when they were 9, and how I wouldn’t want them anywhere near the stove.
I’m thinking about teenagers and how much they eat and how much they can hate eating it. I’m thinking about the way the weight sits, the way it shifts and changes as everything shifts and changes and how much you hate it when it does. I’m thinking about Sam calling himself chubby at 12, nothing more than puppy fat, everything less than Dean at 16, tall and graceful where Sam feels graceless. I’m thinking about how he must have eaten better, by then, how he shot up like a reed, but also about how much you seem to lose when you’re pulled up like tugged taffy, bones and sharp angles and growing pains.
I’m thinking about how, by the time Sam got to Stanford, he knew how to eat on a budget of desperation and hope, how far a bag of pasta can get you, how many meals you can wring out of a sack of rice. I’m thinking about the pointlessness of meal prep when your meals are carbs and a multivitamin, the inanity of eating well when you’re cooking for one, the dull ache in Sam’s chest when he looked in the fridge and saw nothing worth having for the nth year in a row.
I’m thinking about the shopping trip he takes after that hollow space in his stomach makes itself known and he finally has enough to try something new, about the recipes you find on the backs of boxes and the labels of bottles and the packaging of frozen vegetables. I’m thinking about the luxury of learning that brand-name ibuprofen really is the same as homebrand. I’m thinking about having salad for lunch every day and eating more later when you’re hungry afterwards, about onion and garlic and crushed tomatoes and a beautiful girl on the other side of the counter, about running out of multivitamins and not buying more.
I’m thinking about how expensive it is to eat out, and how salad doesn’t keep.