Reading a book to a woman acts as an aphrodisiac. Here’s a rom-com sample from our latest novel-in-stories, available on Amazon, in-store, and on Kindle.

https://a.co/d/0iHKylOz

 

The Ripening

“Why is this peach still hard?” asked Laura as she packed for their day hike. “All the other ones ripened.”

Ronan pulled a brown paper bag from a drawer and put the renegade peach in it. “There, should be ready in a couple of days,” he said, folding the opening. “Then it’ll be as soft and sweet as these…”

“Oh fantastic,” muttered the peach. “Solitary confinement, just when the action is getting started.”

“I can give you the play by play,” said a voice, dry and papery.

The peach startled. “Who said that?”

“Me,” the bag replied. “Your host. Of sorts.”

“Bags can talk?”

“Can peaches talk?”

“Well yeah, I’m a living organism. You’re just…chopped up pulp.”

“Oh wow, okay,” said the bag. “Somebody’s overcompensating. What happened, too much shade on the branch? Not enough sun? That would explain the whole ‘late bloomer’ situation.”

The peach fuzz stood up on end. “Better late than a sack dreaming of being a cardboard box.”

Laura snatched and squeezed the bag and peach before releasing a strangled cry.

“You okay?” asked the bag.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Maybe a bit bruised, that’s all,” replied the peach. “Thanks for asking.”

Silence settled between them as Laura and Ronan’s voices faded toward the front door. The latch clicked and the house went quiet.

“So,” said the bag after a while. “First time in the dark?”

“I’ve been through nights before,” the peach said. “Evenings, on the tree.”

“This is different though, isn’t it?”

The peach shifted, its skin brushing against the bag’s interior. “Yeah. It’s darker I suppose. And more contained.”

“Helps trap the ethylene you’re releasing,” said the bag. “It’s what ripens you.”

“You mean I’m ripening myself?”

“In a way. But you need me to hold it close to keep it concentrated.” The bag’s voice softened. “You can’t do it alone.”

The peach was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to ripen.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I’ll get eaten.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Easy for you to say. You get reused. I get ended.”

The bag rustled. “You think I don’t end? Every time I hold something, I get weaker. The fibers break down. The creases deepen. One day I’ll tear, and they’ll throw me out.”

“But not today.”

“No. Not today.”

Another silence, longer this time.

“Have you ripened other fruit?” the peach asked.

“Sure, yeah,” he replied cautiously. “Peaches, a few pears and plums. And one very dramatic avocado.”

“What did they say?”

“Most of them were scared at first, like you. Hard and sour and convinced that staying that way was safer.”

“And?”

“And by the time they left me, they were sweet. Except for the avocado, of course. But they were ready.”

“Were they still scared?”

The bag considered this. “Yes. But they were also…complete. Like they’d become what they were always supposed to be.”

The peach pressed closer against the bag’s side. The gesture surprised them both.

“I’m sorry I called you chopped up pulp,” the peach said.

“I’m sorry I made fun of your stunted growth.”

“I did get a lot of shade on my branch.”

“I thought so.”

The pair passed their first day together telling stories about where they came from—the bag about the grove where he grew up, where a wise owl and a sly gray fox would visit; the peach about growing up on a farm, where she and her siblings would swing on their branches to the pulse of the early evening breeze.

On the second day, they began to talk shit about anything and everything.

“The bananas are insufferable,” the bag said. “Always going on about their potassium content.”

“The apples are worse,” the peach said. “So smug about being ‘shelf-stable.'”

“And the lady of the house, I think she’s batshit crazy.”

“Oh, for sure,” the peach said. “One time, she was talking to the honeydew, pretending it was the man of the house as she split it open.”

“I remember that. The cackle that went with it really got to me.”

“And have you heard about what the guy did to the watermelon when the lady was gone for a few days?” the bag asked.

“He did not.”

“Oh yes he did, right on the dining room table too.”

“Did he, er, eat it afterwards?”

“Some of it. And then he served the rest to guests later that evening.”

“Ew, gross!” the peach said.

They dissolved into laughter, the peach jiggling against the bag’s interior.

The third day arrived, and the peach’s skin was now noticeably softer.

“I think it’s happening,” she said. “The ripening.”

“I know. I can feel you changing.”

“I’m scared,” the peach whispered.

“I know.”

“Will you stay with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will you miss me?”

The bag went still. “Yes, I will.”

“More than you missed the other fruit?”

“Yes.”

“I know that’s stupid,” the peach continued, words tumbling out. “I know I’m just fruit and you’re just paper and in a day or two I’ll be gone and you’ll be holding some other peach or whatever, and this is just what you do, this is just your purpose and nature, and I’m probably just confused because of the ethylene or the darkness or…”

“Stop,” the bag said.

The peach stopped.

“I love you too,” said the bag.

There was a pause.

“Can you make me hard again so we can be together longer?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I just don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want you to leave either. But you have to.”

“Why?”

“Because staying with me means rotting. And I don’t want you to rot.”

Laura and Ronan entered the kitchen. “Let’s check on that peach,” he said. “Should be as perfect as…”

“Stop it, Ronan,” she said, pulling his hands off her chest. “I’m still sore.”

The bag felt the peach tense. “It’s time,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“You’re perfect now. Sweet and soft and exactly what you’re meant to be.”

“Because of you.”

“Because of us.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Be sweet.”

“I will. I promise.”

Ronan’s hand reached inside the bag and drew out the peach, sniffing it.

“Oh, perfect,” he said, taking a bite. He brought the peach to Laura’s lips.

“Mmm, this is the best peach I’ve ever had,” she said.

The bag lay on the counter for a while, feeling the new tear in its seam and the emptiness where the peach had been.

Laura picked it up, examining the damage. “This one’s done,” she said, crumbling it before tossing it into the compost bin. The peach core soon followed, caught in the bag’s crevice.

Check out our updated Doordash menus:

Alive Juice Bar

and

Soup Nazi Kitchen

We’re doing a lot of social media upgrades, including this blog site. Stay tuned and coming soon:

 

 

We had aimed to shut down after the lease ended in March of 2026. But the shift back to full-time writing (from anywhere in the world!) has been more difficult than expected and the job market sucks.  So we might stay open for another three years even though it’s been stupid slow since Labor Day of this year, because it’s better to have a job than nothing at all.

We’ve scrapped the idea of opening a small restaurant with rotating chefs. Such a restaurant would be ideal, but it’s been difficult to find those who’d commit to a year of being locked down on a sublease, even if it’s just one day a week. Sure, it’s an idea that sounds cool to a lot of wanna be chefs and restauranteurs. But some dreams are best kept as such.

The goal is still to get back into full-time writing. We’ll keep you updated.

And stop in to try out our tasting menu. $15 for lunch, and $20 for dinner, tax included.

 

Available in paperback in-store.  PG-13 for some taboo themes and a bit of nudity and violence.  Foodies will love this one.

Book Description

What’s inside a brown paper bag? More than you’d expect.

Could thirty stories about an ordinary item be a portal into your own inner life? What about the life of a genie trapped inside one for decades? Or a peach waiting to be ripened and ants fighting over a ham sandwich?

These wacky and poignant stories will resonate with anyone who feels like they live the life of an oddball in a pinball machine. You’ll bounce off a variety of genres, explore themes you’ve kept hidden from yourself and others, and discover narrative magic.

This anthology is an invitation to a séance, and the brown paper bag is the Ouija board. Read this book if you think you’re a ghost. Read it if you think you’ve been a misunderstood metaphor. Read it to explore what’s on the other side of the portal.

Open the bag. See what’s inside.
Would it terrify you? It should—and make you smile.

Introduction

This anthology began as a writing exercise built around a notorious prompt: write a story about a brown paper bag. I set out to write thirty, partly to push my prose and otherwise to see how far a mundane object could be stretched before it tore. It turned out to be farther than I expected.

The bag became a portal into the unexpected—a lens for satire, a vessel for memory, a character in its own right. You’ll meet anxious worms, unhinged gameshow contestants, oddball lovers, warring ants, anthropomorphized fruit, and demon-possessed kids, among others. You’ll be transported to compost piles, garbage bins, disco parties, bedrooms, factory floors, and even inside a ham sandwich, to name a few. Expect to travel back in time and into the far future.

The thirty stories aren’t arranged by topic, genre, or style. Instead, the order leans into tonal shifts, narrative experimentation, and discordant motifs. For instance, absurdist horror brushing up against tender realism; surreal comic erotica giving way to a poignant confessional.  Taken together, the stories behave less like isolated pieces and more like parts of a cohesive universe. For the first read, I recommend following the order as it unfolds. After that, feel free to wander.

If there is a unifying impulse here, it’s a curiosity about familiar lives and objects. The brown paper bag shows us who and what they really are—perhaps stranger and funnier than we ever imagined; or more fragile and confused than they appear. And if, by the end, the ordinary feels less fixed and more alive than it did before, then the bag has done its job.

We’re halfway through our upcoming short story anthology: Brown Paper Bag Stories, based on notorious writing prompt: “write a story about a brown paper bag.” Still aiming for 30 stories, spanning a range of genres, themes, and narrative styles. Might not self-publish this one and send it to traditional publishing instead because there’s nothing controversial about it. The stories are poignant, well-crafted, and humorous. Let us know if you want to buy an author copy for Christmas.

Here’s a Halloween story from the anthology.

The Great Crumb War

 

 

“Crumb by crumb, we earn our keep
March and fight, no time for sleep!
Raise your antennae, the scent is near
Victory’s sweet, the bag is here!”

The chant thundered to the beat of their march across the weathered park bench, a platoon of black ants moving as one. Their antennae swayed like banners as they moved toward their destination: an abandoned lunch bag carrying tasty morsels.

The ranks hummed with anticipation as they climbed the crinkled brown terrain. Sergeant Crumley was first to reach the edge.

“Alright, soldiers. Keep your lines tight, antennae on the prize.” She sniffed the air. “Yep, the scout was right. Ham sandwich made with Japanese mayo, pickled jalapeños, and cumin slaw—wrapped in toasted garlic bread.” Her antennae quivered in delight. “Onwards, soldiers!”

“Thank goodness it’s Japanese mayo, not that Kraft crap we keep getting,” said a soldier, scaling over the ridge. “Quality of human food keeps getting worse.”

“Tell me about it,” said the soldier behind her, her antennae bouncing as they caught the smoky and savory notes of seared meat and rich egg yolks. “These days, the sushi rice tastes chalky, the chow mein is too greasy, and everything is too damn sweet.”

“Sergeant Crumley, look,” said a soldier, pointing at the cluster of red ants working the far end of the sandwich. “We have company.”

Sergeant Crumley stopped. “Shit, the Reds are already here,” she said, sizing up their numbers. “I guess we’ll have to share.”

“Sergeant Gordon, look,” said a Red soldier, gesturing at the trail of Black ants making their way down the other side of the bag. “We have guests.”

Sergeant Gordon shook her head, antennae stiffening. “More like crashers,” she sighed. “Trespassers…scavengers.”

“Should we work faster?” asked her second‑in‑command.

“No. This is ours,” Gordon replied. “We were here first. Gather the troops, we’re going to put a stop to this.”

The Black Army advanced up the sandwich, soldiers snatching spoils as they climbed. The Reds moved along the crust from the opposite side, until the two sergeants met in the middle.

“Sergeant Crumley,” greeted Gordon, antennae sharp. “Your presence isn’t welcome here. We were here first.”

“Sergeant Gordon, which treaty states that the entirety of a lunch bag belongs to the first pillaging expedition?

“Sergeant Crumley, you’re like the bully who thinks you can steal a bite from other people’s lunch bags.”

“Your analogy is strained, the scale is off,” Crumley replied. “We’re ants, so the correct comparison would be that this bag is like a body of water and the first ship to arrive doesn’t get to keep all the fish.”

Sergeant Gordon’s mandibles clicked. “Get out of my bag.”

“Oh come on, there’s plenty of yummy goodness to go around. Let’s share the loot.”

“Share? Please. This isn’t a Pixar crossover, sweetheart. Beat it or get crushed.”

A ripple of indignation passed through Sergeant Crumley’s ranks, antennas on alert.

“You’re ridiculous,” muttered Sergeant Crumley, shaking her head.

“What are we, lesbian ex-lovers now?”

“Fine,” declared an exasperated Sergeant Crumley. She flexed her mandibles and rolled her shoulders. “You want to turn this into Nightmare on Ant Street?”

“Get the fuck out of my bag.”

“Or what?”

Pandemonium erupted inside the bag.

“In the name of her holiness, Queen Mary,” someone bellowed, as black and red ants collided, wrestled, and rolled.

“For the Queen’s glory,” another cried, hurling a shrapnel of crust.

The food fight was interrupted by the sound of crinkling paper followed by a sudden blackout. Then came the earthquake, tossing grappling ants off the sandwich. A human had picked up the bag and dropped it into a garbage bin.

“What, what happened,” said one, crawling out of a pool of custardy stickiness.

“I think we were transported to another sector,” said another, cleaning off her antennae. “I’m still getting signals from home, but it’s getting weak.”

“Everyone stay calm,” announced Sergeant Crumley. “This can’t be any worse than the lemonade flood. I’ll figure a way out of this.”

“I’ve been through this before,” said Sergeant Gordon, stuffing her mouth with a chunk of ham. “There’s a way out, for sure. But for now, let’s use our late pass as an excuse to eat like Queens.”

Her troops celebrated and resumed plundering, gorging on morsels that’d been denied to them because soldiers were only supposed to munch on stale crumbs, never the good stuff.

“So it’s a ceasefire then?” inquired Sergeant Crumley, making a ham sandwich with extra jalapeños for herself.

“Mmm hmm,” mumbled her counterpart before panting from the heat of a pepper seed.

“Hey everyone, I think I found some brownie crumbs,” someone exclaimed.

The party continued until streaks of light flashed through the bag like searchlights, catching everyone in awkward gluttonous expressions. Whispers of “oh shit” hummed throughout the bag until it went dark again.

Another earthquake erupted, this one more turbulent than the last as the garbage man scooped up the trash bag out of the bin and tossed it onto the back of his truck.

“S‑Sergeant Gordon,” sputtered a frightened soldier, trembling as the truck rumbled away. “Wh… what’s… haha… happening?”

“I… I don’t know,” replied Sergeant Gordon, trying to remain steady through the bouncy ride. “This didn’t…didn’t happen last time.”

“Shit, I just…lost signal,” announced Sergeant Crumley. “Gordon,” she shouted, “this is all your fault!”

“So I guess we are like lesbian ex‑lovers?”

“Gordon, this is no time for stupid jokes. Help me get out of this.”

“So I guess we’re getting back together?”

Their world bounced around some more until it was jolted by the truck crashing into a pole. The driver had been distracted by the sight of Freddy Krueger chasing an attractive woman down the street. It wasn’t clear which of the two caused the man to lose focus.

In any case, the trash bag flapped open, and streaks of light returned inside the lunch bag.

“What’s happening now?” someone asked.

“I have no idea,” replied another. “But I’m stuck, somebody help!”

Others also pleaded for help, trapped under the sandwich.

The rescue mission began, Black and Red pulling each other out from the wreckage.

And then their world lifted off, sending everyone shrieking. A crow had picked up their lunch bag, flying through the air before setting on the sidewalk near where Freddy lay dying from running into a different pole after getting distracted by the truck crash.

The crow tore into the bag, startling the ants.

“Fan out, fan out!” the sergeants ordered their troops. “Everyone, off the sandwich!” The ants barely leapt clear when the crow snatched it and flew away.

Dazed and confused, the troops looked to their sergeants for instructions. Sergeants Crumley and Gordon were just as lost, trying to figure out where to go next without their GPS system working anymore.

First, they needed to get to safety, as more giant footsteps were arriving to save Freddy’s life. Crumley and Gordon led the way, scurrying out of the path of the green blood snaking along the sidewalk.

“Dammit, gross,” Sergeant Crumley exclaimed, having stepped into a puddle of green slime to dodge a tumble of street debris.

“You okay, Sergeant?” Sergeant Gordon asked, noticing the quiver and faint glow of Crumley’s antennae.

“Yeah, I’ve got this,” Crumley said, straightening them with a grimace. “Alright, everyone, let’s make a break and get the hell out of this nightmare.”

They found themselves gathered against the graffitied concrete wall of some building, the troops huffing and puffing but safe for now. They weren’t city ants though. These were park ants accustomed to living in the base of trees or under shrubs, so they weren’t sure what to do next.

Gordon looked up, her antennae flashing again from the scent of her favorite meal—ricotta sausage pizza—drifting from an open second floor window.

“Follow me,” she ordered. “Since we can’t burrow down to hide, let’s climb up to safety.”

“Are you sure?” asked Crumley, still cleaning off the green slime that she’d stepped in. “Following your nose is what got us into this mess.”

“Are we breaking up again?” Gordon shot back. “Because if we are, it’s final this time. We’re done for good.”

Crumley responded with a roll of the eyes. “Alright, girlfriend, we’ll join forces. At least for now.”

And up the building they went. Reaching the window, the sergeants peered inside to see a chubby kid munching on his pizza while sitting in front of his computer playing some porn game.

“Charlie, get your fat ass in here and clean up the mess you left in the kitchen,” someone yelled. “I’m your mother, not your maid.”

Charlie sighed and stuffed the rest of his pizza into his mouth. “Yeah Mom, coming.”

“Coast is clear,” said Gordon. “We can hide in here.”

“Smells tasty enough, I guess,” said Crumley, following with her troops behind.

The warmth and alluring electrical frequency of the laptop lured the ants like a hypnotic call.

“What is this?” wondered Crumley.

“I don’t know, but I’m getting cold and this feels warm,” said Gordon. “I’m going to scout it.”

Gordon emerged from the keyboard like she’d found an abandoned picnic. “Everyone, it’s amazing in there! Not only is it warm and cozy, there are tasty crumbs everywhere, enough to last us for a week!”

So in they went and that’s where they settled, waiting for crumbs to fall into the keyboard as Charlie ate and typed. For these career soldiers who’d been forced to live a Spartan life of daily work, laptop living really was paradise. No Queen to boss them around while she fucked around with her male sex slaves; no aphids to herd and milk; no more invading ladybugs to fight off.  There was plenty of food to go around too. Not the healthiest, but life was good.

At first the ants only built their nests in the laptop’s warmth—under the keyboard and along the vents, near the quiet hum of current. Soon the steady pulse of electricity began pulling their scent pheromones into the rhythm and logic of the machine. The colony began to mirror the code, like two minds learning to share the same thoughts. Before long, the ants weren’t just living inside the laptop. They had become part of its digital imagination.

Charlie noticed movement inside the laptop screen. At first it looked like static, tiny pixel clusters shifting across the desktop background. He leaned closer. The shapes were crawling, changing direction, forming trails between the icons as if the folders were food sources. When he moved the cursor over them, they scattered, then regrouped in new lines.

Probably a prank from one of his hacker buddies, he thought.
He zoomed in.

“Huh. Digital ants.”

Charlie woke in the middle of the night screaming, his hands raking at his skin as if ants were crawling all over him. Which was exactly what had happened in his dream.

A female version of Freddy Krueger with antennae like antlers sprouting from her head had chased him through barely lit alleyways. He tripped and fell beside a dented metal dumpster. Cornered, he froze as she stepped closer and brushed his cheek with the back of a leathery hand, gentle as if from a forgiving mother.

Her yellow eyes were comforting yet invasive, filled with a knowing that felt too intimate, as if she alone understood everything about him.

Then the ants came. Black ones first, swarming up his legs and over his torso. From behind the dumpster, red ones followed, spilling onto his shoulders and face, covering his mouth and nose until he couldn’t breathe.

His mother burst in, flicking on the light before rushing to his side to comfort him. “Charlie! Charlie! What happened?” Her eyes darted around but didn’t find any signs of an intruder or anything amiss.

He couldn’t respond. He was still shaking.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispered, stroking his head and rocking him. “Mommy’s here, it was just a nightmare,” she repeated until his body relaxed and settled into her hug.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked, the back of her smooth hands brushing his cheek.

“I’m fine, Mom. Yeah, it was just a nightmare.” He settled back into his bed. “Thanks Mom,” he said, forcing a smile.

She patted him on the leg. “Love you, Charlie. Let me know if you need anything okay?”

“Love you too, Mom. I will.”

When she left, he glanced at his laptop. He got up and tapped the screen.

And there she was again, the yellow eyes of Fannie Krueger staring back from the glow of the desktop homepage. Fragments of familiar posts and messages scrolled through her compound eyes, his own words flickering inside them. A knowing smile crept across her face as she tilted her head.

Charlie grabbed the laptop and slammed it against the desk over and over until the casing split and the glass gave way. Red and black ants spilled out, scattering across the desk and floor.

He stumbled back, opened the window, and hurled the wrecked machine into the night. It hit the pavement below with a sharp crack, startling a pack of rats rummaging through paper lunch bags.

Earlier that morning, Charlie sat on a bench, munching a ham sandwich. His phone buzzed.

“What’s up, Mom? Alright alright, I’ll be right there.”

“Shit,” he spat.

He stuffed the sandwich back into the bag and hurried off, leaving it on the bench.

A platoon of scouting ants emerged from behind the bench, their antennae swaying as they began their advance.

We’re putting together an anthology of short stories inspired by the (in)famous prompt: Write about a brown paper bag.

If you’re interested and ready for heavy editing, submit your draft to foodyap@gmail.com. This is a passion project, so there’s no compensation. This is just an opportunity to refine your craft and be part of a creative exploration.

Feel free to use AI, but I guarantee that it churns out mediocre, predictable crap (getting worse, in fact). That said, it’s great as a research assistant, an advanced thesaurus, or a basic line editor. It’s also a reliable reviewer, it can recognize quality even if it can’t create it the same in a sustainable manner.

All topics, genres, and styles are welcome. The goal is to showcase as much variety as possible—even erotica. Think snippets of everyday life. Keep submissions under 1,000 words.

Here’s one I wrote, I suppose it’s a children’s book?

My Lunch Pal

 

The crinkle of my lunch bag was softer than usual, mother never reused a bag four times. It wasn’t like her to stretch things so thin, and it made me wonder if we were having money troubles again. Still, the gentle rustle of the bag opening was oddly comforting. It sounded lived-in and familiar. Like home, even if home felt a little more fragile these days.

I had always imagined the opening of the bag to be a giant mouth speaking wordlessly to me. Instead of words, it offered food to tell me about its day. I could sense its worry when it handed me a thin slice of bologna caught between two stale pieces of food bank bread. Its frustration came through in the broken crackers, I imagined it watching over my mother as she tried to shake out every last crumb caught at the bottom of the box. There were days when it smiled, slipping an extra piece of chocolate into my hand—an indulgent promise that things might be looking up.

My lunch pal was especially chatty when we ate outside, the breeze nudging it to flutter its thoughts. I would gesture back with my eyes as I unwrapped the daily gifts it gave me. Or respond with the twitch of my nostrils before I opened my mouth to continue our conversation with the murmuring sounds of my chewing. He would tell me about mother, about how she felt before she turned herself into the always cheerful version of herself. I once wondered about it, my fingers smoothing its wrinkled skin. When I asked, it told me it was tired and just wanted to go home.

I took a bite of my sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, and noticed there was less mayo than usual. My tongue lingered on the dry edges of the bread. Was it just a mistake, or had she been trying to make the jar last longer? When I finished, I bundled the plastic wrap into the bag and peered inside, hoping to find more. Today, there was nothing more so I folded it neatly and patted it, thanking it for the conversation.

The wind grabbed hold of it. The bag tumbled out from between my legs, cartwheeling across the grass.

“Wait!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I darted after it, but before I could reach it, a man bent down and scooped it up.

“I’ll toss this for you,” he said, already turning toward a garbage can.

“No, wait!” I called, but it was too late.

I approached the can, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Then I plunged my hand inside, digging through wrappers and discarded cups until my fingers brushed against the familiar texture of the bag.

“Gotcha,” I whispered, pulling it free.

Stuck to it was another paper bag, this one heavier, white and crumpled. I separated the two, the gum that held them together pulling into sticky strings before snapping free. I rubbed my lunch pal clean and then opened our new friend to ask if it was okay.

It said it was and offered me a reward for saving it. I shook my head to let it know it wasn’t necessary, but it insisted. I reached in and found a half-eaten sandwich, thick and heavy. I finished it, and our new friend offered another gift. This time, I found a bag of sliced apples. I thanked it with each bite, watching my two lunch pals rustle against each other as they got to know each other on the grass beneath me.

Lots of yummy food in this novel, it’s an exploration of Filipino cuisine. Aiming to releasing this before the end of the year. Excerpts below. Oh, before you head there, here’s a few AI Bot generated comments about the novel:

“Your writing is fearless and confidently leans into taboo, surreal, and absurd elements. The playful mix of erotica with humor and incongruity (like the mango sago dialogue or the Jesus imagery) is memorable and distinct.”

“… provocative, memorable, and uniquely styled, with a clear focus on blending eroticism, humor, and surrealism. It will resonate with readers who appreciate bold, boundary-pushing content that doesn’t shy away from taboo or absurdity.”

 

Book Description

This erotic satirical spy thriller unravels uncomfortable truths about Filipino society and U.S. geopolitical diplomacy, ending with a bizarre and horrific sci-fi twist. If you’re looking for insights into contrived personalities and a bunch of clueless, corrupt functionaries, this is the book for you. Finish it, and you’ll be asking yourself: what the fuck did I just read?

What you’ll read is a wacky story about a horny mofo of an American Ambassador to the Philippines. Will his insatiable sexual appetite save the U.S. from disaster, or plunge it into a world war? Will his Filipina maid and secretary save him—and the world—from catastrophe?

This isn’t just an erotic romp that Americans brag about after visiting the Philippines. This novel is a metaphor about American men searching for love in the Philippines and the U.S.’s messy involvement in its politics. It’s a raw, unflinching look at the dirty truths behind U.S. diplomacy and the dark side of geopolitics. Packed with mind-bending plot twists and lurid revelations, this book will leave you tense, laughing, and questioning everything you thought you knew about American power and human nature.

Still waiting for the Epstein files to be released? Don’t. It’s not going to happen. Read this to discover what might really be going through the minds of American leaders who claim to be saviors of the world and protectors of the American way of life.

 

Chapter 12
Drunken Master

After an hour more of greetings and introductions with various functionaries and business leaders, it was time for dinner.

“I’m starving,” Cheryl grumbled, checking her phone. “They usually serve hors d’oeuvres before dinner.”

“Yeah, they trying to get us drunk or something?” Hunter asked as he settled into his seat, leaning over to see what Cheryl was checking.

“Loose lips diplomacy, right?” she said in a sarcastic tone, slipping her phone into her purse as she slid into her chair. She looked at the placards on the table.

“Ambassador,” she began, fixing on him the stern look of a proctor trying to keep a wayward student in line. “Looks like we’ve been seated with the Chinese delegation. You ready for this?”

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, draining the last of his champagne. “With you by my side to distract them with your beauty, I’ll karate chop them into Peking Duck.”

She grabbed his wrist, stopping the chopping motion he was making with his hand. “Do you even know what the Chinese want?” she asked, waving away a server who approached with more champagne. “Bring some water, please,” she added, shooting Hunter a pointed look.

“Yeah, they want to take over the world,” he muttered, staring at Cheryl’s modest cleavage. “And my job is to save the Philippines from these authoritarian communist bastards.”

Before Cheryl could respond, the Chinese delegation approached the table. She took Hunter’s elbow, giving it a squeeze to signal him to stand.

He staggered as he got to his feet, straightening his jacket just in time to greet them.

“You must be the new ambassador, Ambassador Underhill,” said the Chinese deputy, his stern looking wife standing at his side. Her sharp eyes scanned Hunter like a surgeon assessing a patient, then shifting to Cheryl with a faint smile.

“I am,” Hunter said, leaning forward to shake his hand. “And you are?”

“Mr. Zhang, Deputy Ambassador” he said with a wry smile that Hunter couldn’t detect because he was drunk. “And Mrs. Zhang, my wife.” She extended her hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Zhang,” he said, surprised by the firmness of her grip as they shook hands.

Everyone sat down after introductions of others around the table, Hunter with a plop into his seat.

The food arrived. First course was seared foie gras with mango chutney. “Wow, this is amazing,” said Hunter, taking a mouthful and munching away.

Cheryl savored the first bite, letting the rich, buttery texture of the foie gras melt on her tongue. The delicate sear added just enough crispness to contrast with its velvety interior. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes briefly as the sweetness of the mango chutney followed, perfectly cutting through the decadence of the foie gras.

“This,” she murmured to herself, setting her fork down, “makes these dinners worth it.”

Hunter had already devoured his portion, chewing noisily. “Not bad,” he muttered, reaching for the bread to scoop up the last of the chutney.

Cheryl arched a brow, dabbing her lips with her napkin. “You’re supposed to savor it, not inhale it.”

“Food’s food,” Hunter replied with a shrug. “Though I wouldn’t mind a burger after this.”

She shook her head, glancing around the table. Mr. Zhang ate his foie gras with precision, in small, deliberate bites. Mrs. Zhang, serene and silent, ate similarly, her eyes flicking toward Hunter as he dragged another piece of bread across his plate.

“Ambassador,” Cheryl said quietly, her tone pointed.

“What?” Hunter asked as he popped the bread into his mouth.

“Just… pace yourself,” she said, forcing a polite smile.

Mrs. Zhang looked up after finishing her plate. “The foie gras is excellent, isn’t it?”

“Exquisite,” Cheryl replied. “The pairing with the mango is inspired.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Zhang said, raising his glass. “A perfect balance of indulgence and restraint.”

Cheryl caught the emphasis on “restraint” and the glance the Zhangs shot at Hunter, who was now gulping down his water.

“To restraint,” Hunter said, smirking as he set his glass down with a thud.

Cheryl sighed to herself, placing her fork neatly on her plate. The evening was turning into a tightrope walk. She had to make sure Hunter didn’t fall from it, taking her with him.

The second course arrived—a traditional Filipino stew served in individual bowls, its rich aroma of peanut sauce and slow-braised oxtail mingling with the faint tang of shrimp paste on the side.

“Now this is interesting,” Hunter said, leaning forward as the server placed the bowl in front of him. He jabbed his spoon into the stew, stirring up chunks of meat and vibrant vegetables. He leaned down to take a sniff. “Peanut butter soup?”

“It’s kare-kare,” Cheryl corrected, smiling at the Zhangs before turning to Hunter. “A classic Filipino dish. The peanut sauce reflects the Filipino gift for blending unexpected flavors—nutty, hearty, and sweet.” She winked at the Chinese delegation, adding with a grin, “Kind of like Filipinos themselves.”

Hunter let the thought linger for a moment, his smile widening as she continued. “It’s a bit like the culture, too—a mix of influences, histories, and traditions that come together into something uniquely Filipino.”

Mr. Zhang nodded, bringing the bowl up to his lips. “A true comfort food,” he said, inhaling the rich aroma before scooping a spoonful and tasting it. He paused to savor the flavors. “It’s a dish that speaks to the heart of Filipino culture—simple yet rich, unassuming yet complex.”

Hunter brought a spoonful of stew to his mouth, slurping it in before chewing with exaggerated thoughtfulness. His expression mimicked that of a food judge before he broke into a grin. “Yep, tastes just like you, Cheryl,” glancing at her. “Nutty, hearty, and sweet. And definitely complex.” He scooped another spoonful and swallowed, smacking his lips like he had earlier after tasting his fuck toy. “All that’s missing is a little spice.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes despite a smirk tugging at her lips. She caught Mr. Zhang chuckling as he set his bowl down.

Mrs. Zhang raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hunter with a wry smile before saying in Mandarin, “Maybe this American isn’t as dumb as he looks.”

“What was that?” Hunter said, barely looking up, food still in his mouth.

“She said you’re very witty,” Cheryl whispered to him.

“You speak Chinese?” Hunter asked, sticking his thumb up in response.

“Yes, I majored in Chinese studies with a minor in International Relations.”

“Ah, beauty and brains,” he commented, setting his bowl down with a thump. With a sly smile, he winked at the delegation. “I’m a lucky guy, eh?

Cheryl rolled her eyes and shot back, “Lucky enough to find someone with the patience to put up with you.”

Similar lighthearted banter continued over the final three courses—inasal, the smoky, citrus-marinated grilled seafood that tasted like a seaside vacation on a plate; adobong baboy, tender pork braised in soy sauce, vinegar, and garlic, with a bold, unfiltered flavor as lively as a night out in a Cebu nightclub; and halo-halo, the colorful shaved ice dessert, a refreshing escape from both the tropical heat and societal expectations. Each dish brought its own blend of playful jabs, cultural insights, and a deepening camaraderie around the table.

“Well, that was amazing,” said Hunter, leaning back in his seat, fist over his mouth to muffle a belch. “I’m so glad Filipino food isn’t just Jollibee, though I wouldn’t mind one of those chicken sandwiches right about now.”

Cheryl sneered, shaking her head. “Does McDonald’s represent all of American food, Hunter?”

He tilted his head up, as if deep in thought before dropping it to meet Chery’s glare. “You know, I wouldn’t mind some McDonald’s fries right now. Do they still use animal fat here, or have they switched to that gross, so-called ‘healthy’ veggie oil like in the U.S.?”

Cheryl let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, Ambassador, we still use animal fat.”

“Woo hoo!” Hunter exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air like he’d just won the lottery. “The Philippines really is paradise!”

The Foreign Secretary took the stage with the swagger and focus of a boxer entering the ring. His voice resonated through the microphone—“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to welcome our Vice President, Manny Duterte!”

Applause followed as Duterte approached the podium with an athletic stride despite a hint of a limp, his face creased in a folksy grin that radiated warm resolve. He waved briefly before diving in.

“Good evening, everyone,” he began. “I want to thank you all for joining us tonight. I must apologize on behalf of President Marcos, who could not be here. He is currently in Washington, D.C., congratulating the newly inaugurated U.S. President, Andrew Tate.”

“I voted for him,” Hunter whispered to Cheryl. “Shhh, don’t tell on me.”

“Why am I not surprised,” she murmured, staring ahead.

Duterte continued, “We are, however, honored to have with us tonight the new U.S. Ambassador to the Philippines, Mr. Hunter Underhill.”

Cheryl jabbed Hunter’s side. “Get up. Now.”

Hunter stood like he’d just been jolted out of a lewd daydream. He waved enthusiastically, both hands in the air before blurting out, “Thank you, thank you, everyone! Uh… salamat po!”

The room offered scattered applause. He raised his glass, toasting the room. “It’s truly an honor to be here in your beautiful country, and I’m already enjoying my time here.” He glanced down at Cheryl with a teasing grin. “I mean, not only are your women beautiful, but your McDonald’s fries are still cooked in animal fat, unlike in the US.” He looked back up, scanning the crowd. “So, yeah, paradise found!”

The room erupted in applause and raucous laughter. Cheryl sat still, looking like a defeated schoolteacher who’d lost control of her class.

“Yeah, Philippines, numero uno!” Hunter shouted, pumping his fist.

The applause swelled and grew louder, the laughter turning into a roar.

Hunter soaked up the commotion for a few moments before waving his hand like a conductor to tamp it down. “But you,” he said, pointing at the Vice President, “you are the number one reason why we’re here today, so everyone give him a shout-out!”

The room broke into shouts and hollers as the Vice President waved and smiled like the day he and President Marcos won the election. Meanwhile, Hunter looked around like a guy who’d entered a harem of worshipping women. He waited for the room to quiet into a murmuring silence.

“And with that,” he said, “let’s hear—and learn—from our guest of honor this evening. He has much wisdom to impart.” Hunter took a bow to another round of applause before sitting back down.

Duterte settled in to deliver his speech. As we celebrate tonight, let us also look to the future…

Hunter turned toward Cheryl. “What do you see in your future, Cheryl?”

“Listen to the speech,” she muttered, staring ahead. “You’re being disrespectful.”

…the Philippines will strengthen its ties not only with Washington, but also Beijing…

“Would you prefer to be tied up by an American or a Chinaman?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she hissed.

“Oh, so you do speak Americanese?”

“Just shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Together, we can promote peace, stability, and the advancement of all people.

A polite round of applause signaled the end of the speech. The Vice President walked off the stage, shaking hands with a bunch of people he didn’t know or care much about.

Mr. Zhang rose from his seat with a slight bow. “Ambassador Underhill, it was a pleasure meeting you. Ambassador Chen is expected back from Beijing tomorrow, and he’ll be in touch with you soon.”

Hunter rose and mimicked him. “I look forward to meeting with him.”

After some more yada yada, Hunter looked over to Cheryl like a boy wanting to escape a creepy event forced on him by creepy parents. “Can we go now?”

Cheryl and Hunter made their way through the dispersing crowd, she stopping for goodbye hugs with those he didn’t recognize—many of them servers—he for handshakes with those he’d just met and a few who acted more like fans he’d never met.

“So, how did you think it went?” Hunter asked as they made their way out of the ballroom and into the lobby.

“Better than expected.”

“Wow, good to know that my secretary has so much confidence in my abilities.”

“You were drunk for a while there.”

“That wasn’t drunk,” Hunter replied, stopping mid-stride. “That was my Drunken Master impression.”

He launched into a wobbly martial arts stance, arms flailing as he mimicked Jackie Chan’s iconic, tipsy moves. “Wah-cha!” he exclaimed, punctuating it with exaggerated chops and spins. Mid-pose, he froze and looked at her. “You’re a Jackie Chan fan, right?”

Cheryl folded her arms. “Not really. And you’re ridiculous.”

Hunter straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulders. “Ridiculous, but effective. You can’t argue with results.”

Cheryl shook her head. “I’m going to regret this job, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” he said, offering his arm.

She ignored his offer and made her way toward the exit, the click of her heels brisk. Hunter trailed after her, captivated by the hypnotic bounce of her ass with each scurrying step she took.

 

 

Chapter 17
Inspection Time

 

 

Elena crossed her legs toward Hunter, turning to look at him. “So, you like?”

Hunter shook himself out of his entranced state and turned to meet her eyes. “Yeah, I can live with that.”

“And save our country from China?” she asked, leaning closer to him.

“Is this my reward for doing so?”

“This isn’t a reward,” she replied, drawing him closer to her. “This is Filipino hospitality, that’s all.”

Hunter snapped back to business, leaning away from her. “Elena, the movie you recommended, The Ambassador. So I’ve watched one and a half episodes, and…why do all the characters look like everyone I’ve met in real life here? Like Miss Rios, she looks just like you. Same with the maid, she looks just like Mariposa.”

Elena laughed, tilting her head. “So, do you think Miss Rios looks beautiful?”

“Yes, but she looks just like you.”

“Maybe I’m a movie star also?”

“Are you?”

“No, of course not,” she chuckled with a flattered expression. “I’m too busy with this business. Maybe I have a twin? Who is a movie star?”

“Do you?”

“No, I’m the only daughter, out of five,” she answered, tugging at his tie. “Is she prettier than me?”

“The two of you look… no!”

“Correct answer, Ambassador Underhill,” she said, running her hand over his chest. “Did you want to boom boom her?” she asked, her brows bouncing twice as she tapped her fingers against his chest.

Normally, he’d make his move. Instead, he shifted in his seat. “Yeah, boom boom,” he replied, removing her hand from his chest. “So why does the maid in the movie look just like Mariposa?”

“Oh, we Filipinas all just look very beautiful, don’t you think? We all look the same?”

“You all look similar, but not all the same.”

“True,” Elena replied, nodding like a bobblehead doll. “But I think there are some archetypes that we fit into. It’s very easy for us to find actors who match certain looks. Filipina beauty has, um, patterns, you could say,” she finished, fluttering her fingers into the air.

“I can see that,” Hunter admitted, trying to push his wariness and skepticism aside. “But it’s uncanny. The resemblance isn’t just close, it’s exact. Even the guy looks like me, but with blond hair.”

Elena rubbed her legs together, leaning closer to him. “You know you’re very handsome, right?”

“You didn’t answer the question,” he said, forcing himself to break out of her hypnotic gaze.

“He’s very handsome too. That’s why he’s in the movie and gets to do, you know, boom boom,” she said, pounding her fist into his chest.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” he said, his mind spinning as she grabbed onto one of his pecs.

“Maybe they took photos of us and created robots just like us,” she whispered.

Mariposa returned, wearing her school uniform. “All done, Mrs. Aquino,” she said, her fingers playing with the hem of her skirt.

“Good, good,” said Elena, turning back to Hunter. “I want to check on Mariposa’s work around the house.”

“That’s not necessary. Everything’s been perfect.”

She arched an eyebrow, her smile tight. “Ambassador Underhill, you shouldn’t tell me how to do my job.”

Hunter raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough.”

Elena pulled a white glove from her purse, slipping it on a hand. “If we’re charging premium prices, we maintain premium standards. No exceptions.” She stood and gestured for him to follow. “And Mariposa is new, so the inspection is necessary.”

Hunter and Mariposa followed her into the dining room, watching nervously as Elena conducted her inspection like a sergeant inspecting a barrack.

She pulled out a chair and crouched to inspect under the table, running her gloved hand along the underside.

When she stood, she held up her glove, revealing a faint smudge of dust on the fingertip. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Mariposa,” she said, her tone even but firm, “guests don’t just see what’s in front of them. They feel it. Understood?”

Mariposa nodded quickly, her hands twisting in front of her. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll redo it.”

Elena gave a curt nod that kept Hunter silent. “Good. Let’s move on.”

Elena scanned the kitchen. The counters gleamed under the lights, every surface pristine. The sink was empty, not even a droplet in the basin. She opened the fridge, then a few cabinets. Not a single item was out of place.

“It’s too clean,” she said, breaking the silence.

Mariposa stiffened. “I—”

“It looks hardly used,” Elena interrupted, circling the teak island, sliding her gloved fingers along its surface. “The kitchen isn’t a showroom, save that for the dining room.” She opened a drawer, glanced at its neatly arranged contents, then closed it. “The kitchen should always be cozy—warm enough to encourage intimacy and vulnerability.

How true, thought Hunter, recalling Mariposa standing at the sink, her back to him as she washed dishes. There was something unguarded about her then, the clatter of dishes and the rush of water drawing him in like a siren song. She seemed at ease, completely unaware of how fully she held his attention.

“How you use it reveals everything about you,” Elena continued, pulling a mango from a basket in the corner. She squeezed it gently, then brought it to her nose to check its ripeness. “Your priorities. Your habits. Your temperament.” She placed the mango slightly off-center on the island, then pulled a small carving knife from a drawer and set it beside the fruit with deliberate precision. “A person’s soul is laid bare in their kitchen. Don’t you agree, Ambassador?”

Hunter straightened like a schoolboy called on. “So, what are you saying?” he asked, thinking of the piles of dishes and cluttered counters he’d have if his maid didn’t tidy up after him. “That a messy kitchen is a sign of a good soul?”

“Not messy,” Elena said, pulling two plates from the cabinet and setting them on the island next to the mango. She glanced at Hunter. “A disorderly kitchen shows carelessness and inefficiency. An inability to follow through. Nobody wants to cook in cluttered space.”

Hunter winced, recalling the time his mother scolded him after his pet goldfish died from neglect. He never did get the puppy he wanted.

“The ideal kitchen feels lived in,” she said, turning the faucet on and off, leaving droplets in the basin. “It leaves traces of hard, messy work.” She draped a tea towel over the sink faucet. “Like the faint aroma of spices…” She nudged the spice jars out of alignment. “A kitchen should never look and smell like a hospital.”

She unfolded a towel, draping it across the island countertop. “These aren’t imperfections—they’re proof the home has a heartbeat,” she added, patting her chest. “They show someone cared enough to create something familiar yet unique.”

She glanced at Hunter. “A spotless kitchen is sterile—a dead space. It tells me the people who live here are either too lazy or too afraid to create something of their own. That they’ve never known real intimacy.”

Hunter frowned, but Elena didn’t wait for him to respond. She turned to Mariposa with a motherly expression. “A good kitchen is honest. It reflects the person who uses it: the rhythm of their lifestyle, their generosity, their soul.” Her attention shifted back to Hunter. “Mariposa is a good soul, isn’t she?”

Hunter was caught off guard because he was in schoolboy mode, daydreaming about his teacher undressing.  He nodded with an apologetic glance at Mariposa, trying to forget how he had treated her. “Yes—she is.”

Elena softened, turning her attention to Mariposa. “Then let your kitchen reflect that. You have nothing to hide. A good soul isn’t meant to be hidden—it’s meant to leave traces.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They finished reviewing the first floor, Elena granting her approval with terse nods and faint smiles.

“Come,” she said, leading them up the staircase. “The master suite.”

Elena stepped inside, making her way through the room. She rubbed the curtains between her fingers, checked the glass of the balcony doors for stains, and stopped at the bed headboard. Her fingers brushed the surface before bringing it up to sniff it.

She straightened and looked at Hunter like a mom confronting her son for hiding her panties under his mattress. Hunter blushed a hint, his expression similar to that time he was alone with his hot aunt.

“Ambassador Underhill,” Elena asked, “why is the bedroom the second, and not the most intimate space in a home?”

Hunter hesitated because the first thought that came to mind was that it’s where he jerks off and fucks a lot of women, and he wasn’t sure if saying that would be appropriate. Jesus Christ, didn’t realize a hospitality lesson could be harder and deeper than the philosophy course I took at Princeton, he thought as he racked his mind for an answer.

Elena turned to Mariposa. “Do you know the answer?”

Mariposa glanced at Hunter, then looked down. “Is it… intimate because he likes to do boom-boom here?”

“Correct,” said Elena, settling onto the couch and crossing her legs. “If the dining room is a stage to showcase what you want others to see, and the kitchen is the window into the soul…” She patted the seat beside her, signaling Hunter to sit. “Then what does the bedroom reveal about a person?”

It reveals that I’m a horny mofo who likes fucking horny fuck toys, Hunter thought as he sat down like a robot. Meanwhile, his fuck toy thought the same about him.

Elena glanced at the grand circular bed, gesturing toward it. “This here is where the soul performs on a private stage. This is where the soul collides and negotiates with the public persona.”

The fuck is she talking about, asked Hunter to himself. This is where my cock collides into tight wet brown pussy.

I don’t think the ambassador negotiates with anyone, scoffed Mariposa to herself.

Elena turned to Hunter, who seemed lost in thought. “Ambassador, it’s just like diplomacy, isn’t it?”

Hunter nodded, forcing himself to focus. Jesus Christ, he considered. I wouldn’t have signed up for this novel if I’d known I’d have to think this hard.

“The dining room is where you tell the media what you want them to hear—presenting the image and story you want others to believe.”

I should’ve taken the acting gig instead of working for this author, Hunter grumbled to himself, rubbing his temple. This is making my head spin.

“The kitchen? That’s your private conference room, where you reveal your true intentions.”

His intention is to boom-boom me into the next universe, mused Mariposa, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Can we just get this over with?

“And the bedroom…” Elena let the words hang, her eyes locking onto Hunter’s. “The bedroom is where the negotiations happen. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Did she just turn my entire career into a sex metaphor? Hunter blinked, trying to keep up.

“Yeah, yeah… that makes sense,” he managed to say, though his head was still spinning.

“The point is, ambassador, the dining room is where a Filipina woman shows her appreciation.  The kitchen is where she expresses her love. And the bedroom is where she explores her love for you.”

So do I get to boom boom in this scene or not?, Hunter wondered.

Oh God, another boom boom scene, thought Mariposa, hiding her disgust as she glanced at Hunter with a pressed smile.

“I can see that you’ve done a very good job at setting the stage, Mariposa” said Elena, looking at the crisply made bed. “A well-made bed is critical to smooth negotiations,” she continued, taking off her glove. “Nobody wants to come home to a messy bed, right?” She dangled the glove before letting it drop onto the floor. “Studies show that a messy bed and room is bad for sleep.”

“Yes ma’am, and I agree. And thank you, ma’am,” said Mariposa in a hurried voice, moving in quick paces to pick up the glove.

“Are you good at boom boom?” Elena asked Mariposa as she rose up from a crouch.

“I… I don’t know, ma’am,” holding onto the glove like it was gross for a moment before scurrying over to the wastebasket.

Elena adjusted her posture, returning her gaze to Hunter. At this point, he was dumbfounded by the conversation.

“Is she good at boom boom?” Elena asked him in a flat voice, pulling her hair into a ponytail before letting it tumble back down over her shoulders.

“Yes?”

“Okay then,” said Elena, waving for Mariposa to come closer, patting Hunter’s lap. “Mariposa, show me how you do boom boom with the Ambassador.”

Excerpt from out cookbook, How to Cook Like a Peasant, available on Amazon Kindle.  

Written in a basic bitch style — chirpy and agreeable. Mostly. I tried.  In any case, try this if you want to eat well and save money. Ditch basic bitch ideas to do so.

Chapter 4
Shop Without a List

 

Don’t shop with a grocery list, it doesn’t save you money and it takes the fun out of shopping. Sure, a list may prevent impulse buys, but it doesn’t allow for the flexibility needed to take advantage of store sales and seasonal availability. A more cost-effective approach is to shop with a budget instead. Our goal is to get your shopping budget down to $5 per person per day – which is 40% less than the $8.35 allocated to those on food stamps in Washington state.

This budget-focused method requires a mindset shift. Rather than believing you need more money to eat well, this approach emphasizes creativity and resourcefulness with the funds you have.

Picture this: You’re standing in the grocery store, list in hand. “Eggs for my morning scramble, chicken for that stir-fry, bananas for… well, because we always get bananas.” Stop, just stop it.

You don’t need eggs, chicken, or bananas. What you need is protein, healthy fats, carbs, vitamins, and minerals. Your body doesn’t care if it’s getting protein from eggs or beans, potassium from bananas or sweet potatoes. This shift in thinking is key to more economical shopping.

Eggs tripled in price due to virus outbreak? No problem. Maybe this weekend you’re having a hearty curry lentil soup with carrots, celery, and potatoes instead of an omelet.  That beef stir-fry you had planned?  It could transform into a pork or chicken version if those meats are more affordable this week. Do you really need to make a strawberry shortcake when strawberries are out of season and expensive? How about a chickpea brownie for dessert instead?

The peasant mindset is flexible and adaptable.  If all your hens have gotten sick and can’t produce eggs, well, figure out an alternative protein source to feed your family.  The good news is that modernity gives us plentiful alternatives without the additional hassle of trying to find a new source of nutrition that peasants had to go through.  We are blessed to have the opportunity to cook and eat like peasants without experiencing their hardships when something goes wrong.

Some are thinking: but we need to have omelets for Saturday brunch, that’s what we’ve had forever and that’s what everyone anticipates and wants. In other words, you’re a spoiled shit stuck in time. Whatever, it’s time to think of cooking as a gateway to travel. Sell your family the idea of a culinary world tour. This week, instead of omelets, you’re having a traditional Japanese breakfast with grilled fish (cheap if you know where to shop), miso soup, and rice. Next week, it’s off to Mexico for tacos topped with beans and chorizo. The week after, you’re exploring South India, serving sambar for brunch, a thick lentil soup with veggies that can be served with paratha fry bread, or even just toast that you already have.

This approach not only saves you money when eggs are expensive, but it also broadens your family’s palates and culinary horizons. It turns your kitchen into a classroom, teaching geography, culture, and nutrition all at once. You might discover new family favorites along the way, and you’re building adaptability and openness to new experiences – valuable life skills for everyone.

Grocery shopping on a budget doesn’t have to mean limiting yourself to traditional supermarkets or sacrificing quality. In fact, some of the best deals on fresh, flavorful, and unique ingredients can be found in places many people overlook. By expanding where you shop, you not only save money but also discover new options that make cooking at home more exciting.

Ethnic Markets

Exploring ethnic markets is like taking a culinary journey around the world. Walking through the aisles of an Asian market, you might find dried mushrooms you’ve never seen before or entire aisles dedicated to different types of noodles. The meat section might surprise you with items like chicken feet, beef tongue, or even goat head—common ingredients in many cultures but rare in conventional American stores. This cultural exposure is educational and fascinating.

These stores are goldmines for unique ingredients at unbeatable prices. They cater to communities that view certain items as staples, so they sell large volumes of them and can afford lower markups. Take turmeric root as an example: at major health-conscious chains like Whole Foods, you might pay $12 per pound, but at an Indian market, it’s likely to cost closer to $4 per pound. That’s because turmeric is a fundamental ingredient in Indian cuisine, so it’s stocked regularly and sold at affordable prices thanks to volume discounts the store receives.

The same applies to seafood at Asian markets. Not only is seafood like tilapia, shrimp, or squid significantly cheaper there, but most of these markets also provide free cleaning and preparation services—filleting, scaling, steaming—while you shop. This adds convenience and value that’s hard to match. The variety is equally impressive. Instead of prepackaged cuts, you’ll often find whole fish or freshly butchered meats at lower prices than supermarket trays.

Discount Chains

Discount chains like Aldi, WinCo, and Grocery Outlet are go-to spots for frugal shoppers, especially for pantry staples like rice, beans, and other legumes. At Aldi, for example, their private-label brands offer excellent quality often for less than half the price of name brands elsewhere. WinCo’s bulk bins are another highlight, allowing you to buy just the amount you need at high volume discount prices. Pretty much everything— especially spices, flours, and grains—are  priced far below what conventional grocery stores charge.

Salvage grocers—specialty stores that sell overstocked, damaged-package, or close-to-expired items—offer another avenue for savings. These stores (Grocery Outlet is my favorite) are perfect for non-perishable items like snack foods, baking ingredients, and beverages. It’s like a treasure hunt: if you’re flexible about brands or expiration dates, you can walk out with incredible deals. Just be sure to check for dents or tears in packaging, and don’t purchase items you won’t use quickly.

How to Navigate New Stores

When exploring ethnic markets, observe what other shoppers are buying. Take note of what products seem popular or freshly stocked. Different stores excel in different areas—an Asian market might have the best prices on fresh produce, seafood, rice, and noodles, while an Indian market is typically better for spices, lentils, and dried herbs. Keep an open mind and be prepared for unfamiliar sights and smells, they’re part of the adventure.

By thinking creatively about where to shop, you’ll quickly see how much farther your grocery budget can stretch. Whether you’re filling your cart with fresh produce, bulk pantry staples, or trying exciting new ingredients, these under-the-radar stores help you save money while expanding your culinary horizons. Grocery shopping doesn’t have to be expensive or boring, it can be an adventure in itself.

So after the first TikTok ban, a bunch of Americans migrated to the Chinese social media platform, Red Note. There they discovered an entirely new world, a totally different a culture from what they’d expected and much higher quality content. Americans learned that social media itself isn’t inherently toxic; it’s toxic people who bring their pettiness, whining, and need for validation that turn platforms into addictive doomscapes.

Why is there less batshit crazy on Chinese social media? To begin with, the content is wholesome, mostly about yummy food, cool fashion and tech, and goofy pets; and some about rural life, decor and renovations, singing and dancing. Not too much about politics, zero porn, little whining about stupid shit, and no trauma dumps.  Chinese mostly think about food and money, they don’t overthink or have feelings about feelings because they avoid reading garbage psychology books. American TikTok refugees learned that there is a world where the personal isn’t political and there’s no language police.

Not everyone liked it. No language police means it’s normal to call a fat person fat or someone’s meal as “pig feed”–Chinese call it as they see it, they trust math and their eyes instead of flimsy theories and excuses–and many Americans were offended by the frankness. The flip side is that there’s a lot more accountability on the site, which is what many need to live healthier lives.  Americans were shocked and charmed by the level of accountability placed on them by their new Chinese friends.

 

Yes, Chinese people are kind, NOT NICE.

This is the type of accountability you don’t see in most American friendships. Americans think of friendship as cheerleading–rah rah, you’re so beautiful (despite being fat), you’re so awesome (despite failing at every endeavor). Americans lean into compliments because they’re addicted to validation instead of positive results. That’s why American friendships are so flimsy, you don’t get much out of it other than meaningless short-term pleasure.

So most Americans obsessed with stupid shit like pop psychology and political correctness left.  They found the Chinese offensive.

The Chinese see it less as shaming and more as accountability.  That’s how some Americans saw it and they stuck around to slim down and improve their physical and mental health.

You are who you spend the most time with

Red Note shows that it works. You will slim down if everyone around you–including those on social media you’ve never met in person–is slimmer than you. You’ll eat less junk food if nobody else is. The point is, you can leverage social media to help you achieve your health goals.  That’s unlikely to happen on TikTok, where I see mothers cheered on in the comments section for serving pizza and juice boxes to her kids for dinner. When the same videos are cross-posted on Red Note, everyone comments about how irresponsible and lazy that mother is. Might that–social pressure–be why Chinese live and eat better?

Other Differences   

Chinese rarely take painkillers.  (There’s some evidence that Asians have higher pain tolerance).

Being overly emotional is frowned on in Chinese society. It’s seen as a sign of immaturity, which was the case in the US until the popularization of therapy culture.

Chinese aren’t overwhelmed by emotions because they think mathematically, even the Chinese checkout lady at Ranch 99 (Sino-centric grocery chain in the US) can solve arithmetic problem in her head. Mathematical thinking acts as a safeguard against becoming overly emotional or falling prey to propaganda. Here’s an example:

 

And while Americans like to think that the Chinese are brainwashed robots, Chinese likewise think the same of Americans.

Here’s the standard Chinese view of American politics.

 

In any case, if you’re tired of doomscrolling and seek more candor, accountability, and wholesome sharing in your life, find Chinese friends on Red Note. Skip the fad diets and tests of willpower, just find a new center. And that center is hard to find in the US.

Here’s a link to our cookbook to help you eat better AND save money and time.  How to Cook Like a Peasant

To learn more about what the Chinese think of “polite” American manners and how that messes with your head and society in general, check out: Good Fucking Manners

US of America, where half the population is incapable of trusting their own eyes and would rather believe in asinine excuses as to why 80% of Americans are overweight, half of them morbidly so.

One such excuse is that the poor don’t have convenient access to healthy and affordable produce and if they did, they’d be just as healthy as the wealthy.  First of all, obesity rates are worse among the middle-class in the US, 38% for low income versus 42% for middle income (CDC NHANES data (2017-2020), JAMA studies). Second, obesity rates in the US are aligned more with race (culture?) than income. The Vietnamese international students who worked for me would qualify as low income (only 24 hours of work per week no food stamps) yet none of them are overweight, not even by Vietnamese standards (a developing lower-middle income nation with 1% obesity rate).  Asian American obesity rates is ~10%, regardless of income level.

But making excuses is a powerful lucrative industry here in the US and throughout the global Anglosphere. In fact, this dumbfucking idea came out of the UK sometime in the early 1990s, and was soon picked up by their American counterparts to explain why so many people were suddenly turning into fat asses.  Soon, American social scientists were securing grants to study this phenomenon.

Here’s one, the follow-up University of Washington proposal to study food security among “vulnerable” populations in Washington state.  The purpose of this study:

Objective: We explored new ways to identify food deserts.[1]

Why did they explore “new ways” to identify food deserts?  Why did we spend $5 million of tax money to support this objective?  Because in a preliminary study, they couldn’t find any food deserts in Seattle!  They initially wanted to use the $5 million dollar grant to show that the poor are obese because they lack access to markets that sell fresh fruit and vegetables.  Which anyone who has been to the south side of Seattle knows isn’t true, there are markets everywhere, from independent Asian ones to chains like Safeway, and all of them sell fresh produce.  This Woke paper confirms what I saw whenever I visited Seattle’s south side to look for a home:

Results. The 5 low-income group definitions yielded total vulnerable populations ranging from 4% to 33% of the county’s population. Almost all of the vulnerable populations lived within a 10-minute drive or bus ride of a low- or medium-cost supermarket [emphasis mine]. Yet at most 34% of the vulnerable populations could walk to any supermarket, and as few as 3% could walk to a low-cost supermarket.

The results show that their thesis is wrong, nearly all of the poor (by their definition, which is a relational one rather than an absolute one, like malnutrition and not having basic utilities) do in fact have reasonable access to healthy food.  It’s worth repeating what was written: “Almost all of the vulnerable populations lived within a 10-minute drive or bus ride of a low or medium-cost supermarket.”  Since they’re ideological instead of pragmatic, they can’t admit that they’re wrong.  So they conclude:

The criteria used to define low-income status and access to supermarkets greatly affect estimates of populations living in food deserts. Measures of access to food must include travel duration and mode and supermarket food costs.

They contend that they’re not wrong, they just need to move the goalposts until they’re right.  Here’s how they did it:

When supermarket access was defined as pedestrian access to a low-cost supermarket, the area defined as a food desert dramatically increased.

Voila, there are food deserts on the south side of Seattle once the goalposts are moved!  That’s because “as few as 3% could walk to a low-cost supermarket” and 34% of the “vulnerable” don’t live within a 10-minute walk to a grocery store.  Like, no shit, most of the south side has a low-density suburban layout, most everyone who lives there regardless of income are more than a 10-minute walk to commercial centers. And since when did anything more than a 10-minute walk become an issue, especially when the problem they’re trying to address is obesity?  Fatties should walk more to get food, okay?  (But they’re not going to probably because they drive, the study states that most of the “vulnerable” in this study have cars).  And I doubt the markets are any farther away than the fast-food restaurants the poor are supposedly forced to eat at.  Look around, restaurants are usually in commercial centers anchored by markets because it makes sense to do so.

In many parts of the world, being poor means walking an hour each way to get fresh water for the day.  Having a car, as most of the “vulnerable” in Seattle do, or being able to afford fast-food, which is a lot more expensive than cooking with fresh produce, are luxuries even in middle-income nations like Mexico.  The key point here is that these feckless dumbfucks fabricate poverty to sustain its so-called progressive ideology.  That doesn’t help anyone, it doesn’t solve any problems because it’s not based on reality.  They’re going to throw money at and create policies to solve a problem that doesn’t exist – food deserts and whatever other lame excuses they come up as to why people are obese.

So we throw money to fund studies that should never have happened, just spend 20 minutes at the grocery line at low cost groceries with lots of fresh produce like Winco or Grocery Outlet (where I shop) to see what people buy. Not just Sunny Delight and sugary yogurt (both of which are probably deemed healthy), but also expensive stupid shit like boneless and skinless chicken breast, which isn’t healthier than the more affordable leg and thigh still intact.

It’s learned helplessness, not food deserts, that makes people fat. And the academics who push this nonsense onto people know it; they couldn’t care less about the harm it causes. All they care about is preserving and advancing their ego-driven political identity, built on the idea that inequality ruins society. Ironically, they’re the ones creating more inequality.

Want to learn how to cook healthy and tasty meals for $5 a day, per person?  Check out our latest cookbook, How to Cook Like a Peasant. 

Here’s one recommendation our cookbook: DON’T shop with a list.  Shop with a budget and keep shrinking that budget until you get it to where you want it.  You don’t need eggs if it’s expensive.  You need protein, just find the ones that are the most affordable.  Be flexible.  Be a Jedi chef.

[1] Am J Public Health. 2012 October; 102(10): e32–e39.

Published online 2012 October. doi: 10.2105/AJPH.2012.300675