Mmmmmmmm

Pasta tastes so good I can wrap my mouth around it and taste it if I close my eyes. The same way I wrap my head around problems. The crumble of bread coinciding with a short, quick inhalation and my nostrils grow wider, driven by some unknown olfactory devil that wants to taste smell the same way I want to smell the moist, vapoury coquetry of food in order to be enticed by it. I want to let myself be enticed by it. The hungry drops of saliva that cling to my tongue, wanton like the richness of food, taste of sodden mozzarella even before I lift my fork. I feel cautious fingers, mere wisps of smell, caressing my cheek, drawing me to the table and they disappear like coy fourteen-year olds who turn red as soon as you lay eyes on them. The sauces that sound slurs of their own below my tongue, oh how it soothes my teeth to mash them, each silky thread that perishes in an ejaculation of song is a martyr to my hunger. And then there’s that instant when it teases my throat that itches to gulp it down for fear of losing it, it’s like waiting on the precipice of a cliff for the ground beneath you to crumble. The silent tinge of olive oil, ever stoic in her grace as passionate in her love for asparagus, and like the cruel villain I am, I rejoice in the weeping end of their affair, as they melt at the tip of my tongue. The swirling of wine in the glass brings to life reveries of a younger self swishing pastel in minuscule bottles, jubilant with the freedom to put red on paper. Again, my sense of smell is assaulted by this intoxicating unfamiliarity that begs me to plunge in and sin. I know nothing of wine, but I’m just happy it’s there. The cheese tries helplessly to cling on to bits of bread, forming long lines I lovingly tug and then cut with my teeth. Flecks of spice stick to my lips that I gratefully lick off. Baked potatoes saunter in on a pan, still sizzling they beckon me to them. The golden brown honey smeared exquisiteness can only be compared to the rich tans on the arms of the French women I gawk at when I abscond to Pondicherry! Add the bacon, my love. Add everything, by Jove! Salami, Pastrami, Pepperoni, mince, sausage, smoked ham, come one, come all. I kiss my fingers in between chomps as a tribute to the explosion of taste and joy that get my juices flowing. Every minute of a passionate meal consumed with zest, hangs around me like the mellow film of happiness that envelopes my being long after the plates have been cleared away. You’d think I smile for no reason, but I ooze contentment because I experience what Italians have put so fondly in words, dolce far niente –the joy of doing nothing at all!