ON MY PLATE 04.29.2013

When I was 8 or 9, my friends and I would concoct various types of garlicky butter sauces to pour over our Newman’s Own popcorn. We’d microwave butter and garlic in those little green and gray ceramic ramekins, and then sprinkle spices and liquids on top. There must’ve been cheese. There was always cheese. I didn’t grow up with nutritional yeast and soy sauce like my friend who lived on High Street did; that came later. These ritual popcorn sauce experiments happened during the same time that I learned about the layered smells of my body. I became fascinated by them. I couldn’t quite believe that I was capable of something so animal, so adult, so earthy and salty. I remember eating one of our popcorn experiments while watching Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and realizing that my body smelled rich and yeasty. It was confusing, but I kind of liked it. Later, in sixth grade, Liza, our Sex-Ed teacher, would tell us about how much she loved the smell of her husband’s sweat. Everyone thought it was kind of gross. I thought it was kind of awesome. I wondered if my future husband would like the smell of me one day.

I remember eating the marrow out of a lamb chop bone with a tiny spoon. On that same plate, I stacked piles of teeth tracked artichoke leaves. I remember thinking they looked like flower petals from the deep damp earth. They were dirty flower petals marked with my little teeth collapsing onto a marrowless bone.

My plate changed during Thanksgiving of the year that I turned 11, because I decided to become a vegetarian. Mostly, because of the blondie with the bowl cut named Mo, who lived in that hill town called Rowe. He was so sporty and kind and wholesome. I think I really just wanted to embody something about him. He became my boyfriend. His brown haired twin brother was a vegetarian too. Once, that same Sex-Ed teacher, sent us home with a pamphlet about the intense power of young love, and how we should defend ourselves if anyone ever trivialized our young experiences as “puppy love.” I listened to Dire Straights and imagined what it might feel like to be a part of his family. I also imagined us having our own family one day. I told some people that I changed the look of my plate because of that blondie named Mo. But, I told most people, that I changed the look of my plate because during soft ball season, I ate too many fast food burgers and I was starting to feel unhealthy.

During the year when we got stoned after school and played Hacky Sack in Beacon Field, when we weren’t heating up Hot Mama’s Black Bean Dip with extra cumin and hot sauce, we were making Potato Buds. We dressed them up with sour cream and cream cheese and sometimes even a little squirt of ketchup on the edge of the bowl. I’m not proud of the squirt of ketchup or the brown box of bits, but I craved them, and they suited me in those moments. My parents never bought things like that, but Carla always had them in her house, so I begged my mom to buy them at Stop and Shop. Sometimes, when my mom refused, I asked Carla to bring her box over. That cardboard lip already pressed in, and the metal spout ready.They were naughty and artificial. They were rich and gooey. We ate them and she talked about her senior soccer player crush with the shaggy hair and the Polish last name. We ate them and I talked about the one who I could never seem to get with or get over, though we craved each other for years.

The night I fell in love with restaurants, I remember everything on my plate. There was oven roasted monkfish with caramelized fennel and cilantro goat cheese pesto. There was a Bruschetta with a ridiculous tapenade that I craved long after I left that place. There was my first experience with panna cotta and desert wine. This was my beginning of decadently dining alone and documenting every bite.

On my plate, I visualize each bite as an opportunity to make a wish, say a prayer, set an intention. If I swallow the sauerkraut, I’ll win the grant. I chew the yellow pepper, my Poppi’s cancer will go away. I swallow this strawberry, I will remember that thing I have been forgetting for months, that I’m convinced is the key to me figuring it all out. Perhaps, this is just an elaborate way of making meaning out of something that will eventually turn into shit. Perhaps, in the meantime, I prefer to make something beautiful with all the consumable, digestible bits.