How fast do you eat?
Not being nosey, just asking you what I ask myself. Our differences, I figure, matter less than our resemblance, if only we can dig there. Love is authorization to excavate. Peas in a pod, you and I: how else relate?
Dog-pal Henry and I, at dawn, eat prestissimo. This got me thinking. Why the rush? Neither has a deadline harrying, school bus or commute. Sure, we’re hungry after sleep, but that hungry?
For Henry, appetite may be determinative. He is not, like many creatures, eating defensively, as I used to in prep school, when favorite dishes vanished as if vacuumed. Puppies learn that approach to sustenance before they see: eat or die. Lucky Henry had fewer siblings than his mom nipples, so he’s cool on that front. Neither does scarcity scare him at home. If he doesn’t eat, I fuss like an overprotective parent: “Is everything OK, baby?” Observe me enhancing his kibble with nibbles, as if chef not chance were responsible for his indifference.
For me, breakfast and kitchen clean-up are obstacles to an empty page. Better slept, more pepped. Christmas morning again, I fidget to unwrap what Santa’s deposited during the night. Sure, I relish my breakfast cake and coffee, but as I do an overture to a favorite opera: those first notes of La Traviata haunt but think what’s coming! I anticipate neither insight nor delight – what will be will be – but novelty. Whatever’s on my mind will take me by surprise. Fishermen must feel this way – or prospectors.
In company, I eat, I hope, companionably. Disagreeable the diner who either gobbles or dawdles. When a guest, I congratulate the cook, no matter my opinion, unless my companion is too dear to delude. Ideally, consumption of comestibles coincides with conversation; if that’s impracticable, let the latter exceed the former. (When conversation simmers – and spirits pour – I’m too apt to gorge – and glug – with disquieting result. Jane sensibly urges temperance – to no avail.)
No ascetic, I love to eat – but I love to talk more. Food bores me until and unless we dive past the soup to the soul. I do not advocate such intrusions, which can lead to grief; they’re just what give me my jollies. Let food, dress, gossip, doctor anecdotes, weather remarks, streaming video tips precede, not preclude intimacy. Every adult has a story to tell, but mostly we hide.
Food sickens many. This is sad. The disease may be biological, psychological, both. I ache for anorexics as much as for the hippopotami waddling our supermarket’s wide aisles, bloated progeny in tow. Don’t buy that sugary cereal, I plead silently, or those artery-slicking snacks! And you, skinny, relax and sip, try not to be glum!
Growing up I was taught not what to eat but how. Politely. Punctually. Wipe lips and fold napkin after. Pass salt and pepper as a pair. Serve from the left, take from the right. Please and thank-you. Propriety confined conversation to interminable platitudes.
Decades of peace and prosperity have elevated food from interest to infatuation. Everyone eats to live; now many live to eat. What subject matter did food supplant? Religion? Civics? Survival? Human consciousness will always be chewing on something.
Slow eating – and slow cooking – have blossomed into a religion, with its orthodoxies, gurus, shrines, and sacred texts. Better fast than fast food! Chew before you swallow! I get it, endorse the impulse. But for me, masticate will never mean meditate. For my birthday Jane gave me – at my request – a foodie-grade wok. Dinners fresh, tasty, healthy – and fast? Color me glad.