Eat Your Wrapper

In a world where convenience and excess have damaged the Earth, I find minimalism refreshing.

In my meals, I find minimalism in the form of a translucent sheet made from only rice flour and water.

I buy rice wrappers in packs of thirty. They rest on my counter indefinitely or until I'm ready to use them. I pull one out, wet it in a bowl of water, and lay it on a plate. I layer strawberries, avocado, basil, and sweet pea shoots in the center. I fold the ends over first, then the left side, then the right, wrapping it around to form a tight roll.

I bring them to the beach. We munch them, sitting on our towels. When we're finished with our lunch, we have no Styrofoam box or paper sandwich wrapper to lug across the sand to the trashcan.

They're light, pretty packages that keep their contents crisp, even overnight.

Varying The Innards

One day, I might slice up bananas and smear on Nutella for my kids and hope (maybe in vain) that they'll forgo trading dollars for crinkly bags of potato chips and standing in line for big plates of French fries.

Last night, I filled them with the last scraps of leftover barbecue tofu and coleslaw, which otherwise would have wasted away in the fridge only to be then tossed in the trash. Standing at the counter, I dipped them in sweet red chili sauce and devoured them.

Freed from the stove, from the power required to heat it, from meat and its impact on the Earth, from the thud of something less perfect in my belly, and potentially even years down the road, from health problems and expenses, I felt full yet light.