I'll tell you what happens to me. You can figure out what to call this condition. I have to admit I love being frugal. I don't want a bed with fancy decorations or clothes that come from expensive chests — clothes that have been pressed and polished until they shine. I want simple, cheap things that don't need special care to store or wear. For food, I don't want meals that need armies of servants to prepare and present, or dishes that must be ordered days ahead and served by many hands. I want something simple and easy to get. Nothing exotic or expensive. Something you can find anywhere in the world. Food that won't burden your wallet or your body — and won't make you sick coming back up the way it went down.
I will tell you what befalls me, you must find out the name of the disease. I have to confess the greatest possible love of thrift: I do not care for a bed with gorgeous hangings, nor for clothes brought out of a chest, or pressed under weights and made glossy by frequent manglings, but for common and cheap ones, that require no care either to keep them or to put them on. For food I do not want what needs whole troops of servants to prepare it and admire it, nor what is ordered many days before and served up by many hands, but something handy and easily come at, with nothing far-fetched or costly about it, to be had in every part of the world, burdensome neither to one's fortune nor one's body, not likely to go out of the body by the same path by which it came in.