The food is wretched, and so are we. As of tomorrow, we won’t have a scrap of fat, butter or margarine.
We can’t eat fried potatoes for breakfast (which we’ve been doing to save on bread), so we’re having hot cereal instead,
and because Mrs. van D. thinks we’re starving, we bought some half-and-half.
Lunch today consists of mashed potatoes and pickled kale. This explains the precautionary measure with the handkerchief.
You wouldn’t believe how much kale can stink when it’s a few years old!
The kitchen smells like a mixture of spoiled plums, rotten eggs and brine.
Ugh, just the thought of having to eat that muck makes me want to throw up!
Besides that, our potatoes have contracted such strange diseases that one out of every two buckets of pommes de terre winds up in the garbage.
We entertain ourselves by trying to figure out which disease they’ve got,
and we’ve reached the conclusion that they suffer from cancer, smallpox and measles.
Honestly, being in hiding during the fourth year of the war is no picnic. If only the whole stinking mess were over!
To tell you the truth, the food wouldn’t matter so much to me if life here were more pleasant in other ways.
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