I eat as one might paint: with a palette of flavors for my blank tongue—or for my blank palate, you could say. I mix and match, combining flavors and textures.
My food inhabits specific places on my plate, each element separate and waiting.
There are particular flavors and textures that I admire most, or rather, that float readily to the surface of my mind, vividly sensorial.
Onions come up over and over again:
Thin-sliced, nearly razor-thin, in a salad. (There are different flavors with different thicknesses.)
Minced in sizzling butter, the smell filling a home quickly, putting smiles on faces in distant rooms.
Diced with rough chopped cilantro topping stewed meat nestled in soft corn tortillas.
Sliced longitudinally, into thin crescent moons, slowly stirred in the pan until brown and sweet.
And then there’s all the rest, one set of flavors cascading over another:
Fresh crusty bread,
garlic oil,
creamy brie,
prosciutto.
Fresh hummus, warm pita.
Fried chicken, the crust crisp and fighting back, yielding to moistness.
Grilled bread, and while still hot, still barely manageable with your fingers, raw garlic rubbed deep into the crumb.
Macaroni and cheese, from scratch.
Vinegar-spiked beets with crumbly, tangy goat cheese.
Fresh tomatoes off the vine.
A certain earthiness, the taste of soil and sunshine.
A musty quality.
The sharp, peppery bite of arugula--"rocket," so say the Brits.
Small, sweet, briny mussels, bathed in garlic and white wine.
The crispy bits of cheese that melt to the bottom of my toaster tray.
Salty, very thin potato chips.
A poached egg.
The first runnings on buttered, crusty toast.
Something my friend's father turned me on to. Strange but good:
sharp cheddar,
thin slice of raw garlic,
dab of hot sauce.
Smoked meat sandwiches in Montreal. Soft rye. Sharp mustard.
Fragrant rice waiting for any number of curries.
The gentle snap of delicate papadoms between your tongue and the roof of your mouth, the toasted spice blooming.
Soft pretzels, crusted with rocky salt, dipped in strong mustard.
The cool satisfaction of beer to wash the salt and mustard away.
Garlic roasted in its skin with a bit of olive oil, salt, and pepper.
Good with toasted bread, but easy enough to eat like candy.
Strawberry ice cream, just melted a little, a viscous puddle at the mounded base. The central scoops soft and pliable.
Yum.
Even as a 16-year vegan, I can taste this post. :)
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