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Reviewed by Brian St. Pierre, MS, RD and Helen Kollias, PhD
It’s like my thoughts were under a pile of garbage.
On a Friday night, as my husband and I tried to figure out where to eat, a typical conversation would go like this:
Me: Do you want to go to that restaurant?
Him: What restaurant?
Me: I can’t think of the name. We’ve eaten there before. It’s that place with the peanut shells on the floor? It’s next to… You know… It’s on that road where we used to take the dog to the vet. Do you know the one I’m talking about??
It was as if certain details got lost in a pile of sludge in the deep recesses of my brain. Then, hours later, the details would escape, and I’d shout into an empty room…
“Texas…