A Form Of Beauty

This WAS my story.

I love food.

When it is served to me, I like to look at it. If it is hot, I watch the steam. I observe its colors and texture. I let the smell of it reach my nose, breathing deeply, I use every part of my sense of smell. I feel the vapors in my throat. I feel the texture when I scoop it, cut it or poke it. I put it in my mouth and I feel it. I close my eyes and feel it more. I chew and taste it. I swallow and taste it again. I take a deep breath and re-observe. It is different at every point.

I like to eat it simple, in it's raw, basic ingredient form. I like to mix it together. I like to chop it up or leave it whole. I like to hear it sizzling or hear the yeast of the bread making it rise. I love to hear the water boiling. I cook with my ears, my eyes...all of my senses.

I like to put ketchup on it.

Food gives me joy like nothing else. When I am in despair I say, "Nothing makes me happy. Well, except for food."

When it is in my stomach, I feel content. Though sometimes I feel sickly. I love to eat healthy food, but I love to lust after what is unhealthy. Sweets in particular are my weakness.

But there is no word for me to describe a simple organic apple. Everything about it is good.

When I see someone beautiful, I use food to describe them. Their skin is soft like pumpkin ice cream. Their lips are a cross between canned peaches and marshmallows. I want to eat more.

I use food to help me remember. Red blood cells look like donuts. Muscle tissue looks like corned beef.

In the dead of winter, I cheer myself up by baking bread. Fresh baked bread. Need I say more?
Allergic Allergic
22-25, F
Feb 17, 2011