I have to say, that one of the most simple, yet also the greatest pleasures I know is eating with my hands. I'm not sure why the mush of meat against my fingers makes me content with life. Perhaps it's some carnal instinct, or the added sensory involvement. Whatever the case may be, every once in a while, I'll let my self indulge in this barbaric practice. I'll put together a plate of leftover meat and cold crumbling rice, a petite round of cheese, ripe dripping tomatoes, some sort of bread to soak up left over juices and to fill my stomach all the way. I'll make sure no one is around, preparing my meal in the depths of the night, or when everyone is away or occupied with matters more pressing than myself.
My hearty meal will be taken on the floor of the kitchen, cross-legged, with the refrigerator still open, so that I might easily help my self to seconds. Or, if people are likely to walk in on me in such a heavily trafficked place, I seclude myself within my dark-lit room, wrapped with blankets and shawls. I light smokey incense and wood-scented candles. In both the kitchen, and my bedroom, I tuck into my small feast with ravenous fervor. Fingers armed with long deft nails tear meat into bite-sized chunks, and are fed rapidly into my greedy, salivating maw. Before I allow myself to finish chewing the first bite I have the second ready. The exquisite lust for food takes me over, I do not pause in my meal to make conversation or turn the page of a book. My mind cannot be bothered by the distractions people so often partake in while eating, no this sort of meal demands every once of my attentions. Hungrily I'll suck sauces and crumbs from my finger-tips, assuring every last moral reaches my demanding stomach, pruning my fingers before the meal is even half consumed. Mindlessly I will combine the food on my plate, allowing my senses to experience their combination, searching always for some glorious combination.
I become someone and something other than myself. I am a loyal warrior, eating heartily after battle; I am some starving alley rat, fortunate enough to be granted a decent meal; I am a trader-woman, solemnly eating her provisions on the long trek back home. When I allow myself to throw to the wind all manners and societal expectations I experience food in a way I wish to always experience it. Close contact bringing alive a new dimension of texture, connecting me in a way no fork could with the food I stuff heartily into my expectant belly. One day, when I have no one around to tell me other-wise, I imagine I'll take more of my meals as a street-rat, or as a warrior. I'll let myself indulge in food behind my utensil's backs. And each meal that I finish, I will sit back, sucking the last few morsels from underneath my finger nails, happy, satisfied, and unconcerned with the rudeness of my savage tendencies.
My hearty meal will be taken on the floor of the kitchen, cross-legged, with the refrigerator still open, so that I might easily help my self to seconds. Or, if people are likely to walk in on me in such a heavily trafficked place, I seclude myself within my dark-lit room, wrapped with blankets and shawls. I light smokey incense and wood-scented candles. In both the kitchen, and my bedroom, I tuck into my small feast with ravenous fervor. Fingers armed with long deft nails tear meat into bite-sized chunks, and are fed rapidly into my greedy, salivating maw. Before I allow myself to finish chewing the first bite I have the second ready. The exquisite lust for food takes me over, I do not pause in my meal to make conversation or turn the page of a book. My mind cannot be bothered by the distractions people so often partake in while eating, no this sort of meal demands every once of my attentions. Hungrily I'll suck sauces and crumbs from my finger-tips, assuring every last moral reaches my demanding stomach, pruning my fingers before the meal is even half consumed. Mindlessly I will combine the food on my plate, allowing my senses to experience their combination, searching always for some glorious combination.
I become someone and something other than myself. I am a loyal warrior, eating heartily after battle; I am some starving alley rat, fortunate enough to be granted a decent meal; I am a trader-woman, solemnly eating her provisions on the long trek back home. When I allow myself to throw to the wind all manners and societal expectations I experience food in a way I wish to always experience it. Close contact bringing alive a new dimension of texture, connecting me in a way no fork could with the food I stuff heartily into my expectant belly. One day, when I have no one around to tell me other-wise, I imagine I'll take more of my meals as a street-rat, or as a warrior. I'll let myself indulge in food behind my utensil's backs. And each meal that I finish, I will sit back, sucking the last few morsels from underneath my finger nails, happy, satisfied, and unconcerned with the rudeness of my savage tendencies.
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