Breaking Fast in March
I know I'm coming alive again when I start thinking about writing about food, and the way it marks my life. And it says something else that I'm writing this in public, not tucked away behind a wall, just a cut.
I don't remember much, just laughing about the way neither curry turned out well, in spite of being part of our respective repertoires. I laughed the most, a combination of fire burning over my mouth and all the way down my esophagus, and tension, and relaxation both at once. A laugh that was at once a sneeze, and a coping mechanism, like breathing and really thinking about it.
Was it the curry or the laughter, or the wine? All or none, or just a random throw of the dice. Quién sabe? I surely don't. I remember very little, but one thing stands out with brilliant clarity.
I remember you sitting on my lap, looking down at me and saying "But I don't know who you are, or what you want," and instead of answering the questions in that statement, I laughed again and said, "Well at least I have one over on you there."
Then I remember the way the alcohol on our breaths collided like storm fronts when we kissed, even after we'd brushed our teeth, and I remember thinking, surprised, that we must be a bit drunk after all. And then everything disappeared in wild fucking panic, and for a few seconds at a time, repeated over and over, I actually thought maybe I'd finally done something truly stupid.
Now that we've cooked together a few times, I have realized that there's always something: oil that boils over around the flame of a gas stove, too much hot chili, too much salt. I know I'm accident prone and easily distracted, but I'm not sure what your excuse is.
Me, I'm still thinking about who I am and what I want, and I know that what I always want, is to be fed. I've always had a greedy soul.
I don't remember much, just laughing about the way neither curry turned out well, in spite of being part of our respective repertoires. I laughed the most, a combination of fire burning over my mouth and all the way down my esophagus, and tension, and relaxation both at once. A laugh that was at once a sneeze, and a coping mechanism, like breathing and really thinking about it.
Was it the curry or the laughter, or the wine? All or none, or just a random throw of the dice. Quién sabe? I surely don't. I remember very little, but one thing stands out with brilliant clarity.
I remember you sitting on my lap, looking down at me and saying "But I don't know who you are, or what you want," and instead of answering the questions in that statement, I laughed again and said, "Well at least I have one over on you there."
Then I remember the way the alcohol on our breaths collided like storm fronts when we kissed, even after we'd brushed our teeth, and I remember thinking, surprised, that we must be a bit drunk after all. And then everything disappeared in wild fucking panic, and for a few seconds at a time, repeated over and over, I actually thought maybe I'd finally done something truly stupid.
Now that we've cooked together a few times, I have realized that there's always something: oil that boils over around the flame of a gas stove, too much hot chili, too much salt. I know I'm accident prone and easily distracted, but I'm not sure what your excuse is.
Me, I'm still thinking about who I am and what I want, and I know that what I always want, is to be fed. I've always had a greedy soul.