Brine of the Earth

Someone declared that there are 7 basic needs to survive

There are only two that exist to me

1. Love

2. Sustenance

Everything falls into place

There is an element of food and of sharing food with someone you have grown to love (in whatever way) that evokes something…primordial…instinctual…sensual.

And because I have no one to share that inherent hunger with, a hunger for food that awakens the senses, a hunger for another’s touch…you sometimes find yourself wondering…is it fish or meat or pasta I crave? Is it the warmth of the bread beyond the crust? Or is it is full, sumptuous mouth on mine?

Truffles, enoki, chanterelle, portabella, shiitake, oyster, trompette royal, hen of the woods. The terrestrial opulence of the thick taste on my tongue curls my toes the way they do when I’m half clothed, lying, waiting for him and his scent. Wondering how or why taste and smell are connected.

To Dine with him

To watch him eat with such grace

Like a calligraphist

Lissome fingers that balance and caress

To smell the smoke from the corners of his mouth

My father’s words echo

“I never could understand how chefs are able to smoke. It effects the flavor palate, the taste buds, taste becomes muted and dull, like watching black and white TV.”

He kissed me once in the wash of streetlamps and told me he smelled and tasted a hint of truffle right below my left nostril, hovering above the bow of my lip.

To drink with him. Delicate Silhouettes of wine glasses like spider webs after rain. I told him

“Wine glasses are men and wine are women. The glass embodies the more delicate fluid, the flowery, fruity, impregnated, pungent juices of a woman. But the male, the body, releases, brings out her hidden, discrete, barely perceptible secrets that make her unique from the others, blossoms her.

And that night he poured sweet wine from his mouth to mine, with the same eloquence in the way he ate.

Did not

Spill

A

Single

Drop