It is funny the things that run through your mind when you're sitting in your underpants in front of a pair of strangers. - David Sedaris

Like anyone nostalgic for a time he didn't live through, I chose to weed out the little inconveniences: polio, say, or the thought of eating stewed squirrel. The world was simply grander back then, somehow more civilized, and nicer to look at.

"What's wrong?" he said. "I'll tell you what's wrong: you're killing us."
"But I thought that's what you wanted?"
"We did," my mother wept, "but not this way."
It hadn't occurred to me until that moment, but I seemed to have come full circle. What started as a dodge had inadvertently become my life's work, an irony I never could have appreciated had my extraordinary parents not put me through Princeton.

For as long as I can remember, my father saved. He saves money, he saves disfigured sticks that resemble disfigured celebrities, and most of all, he saves food. Cherry tomatoes, sausage biscuits, the olives plucked from other people's martinis — he hides these things in strange places until they are rotten. And then he eats them.