Jan 26, 2014 Teaching and Learning
Little Straw Folk is my myth of a creation-vs.-creator domination game. I was in a spell when I wrote the words and composed the music. I truly felt like a conduit.
Jan 26, 2014 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Essays: On Books, Art, Literary Appreciation and so on
Meditations on Food
©By Vijaya Sundaram
January 26th, 2014
I want to talk about food today.
Food is to live for, isn’t it?
Consider its texture. It’s crunchy, it’s crackly, it’s squishy, it’s pulpy, it’s juicy, it’s munchy, it’s crisp, it’s burnt, it’s caramelized, it’s boiled, it’s sauteed, it’s roasted and fried. It’s baked, it’s broiled, it’s raw, it’s oiled. And it’s barbecued, an elegant, but barbaric practice. (I mean, would you like to be seared and singed, burnt and bruised over hot coals? I hear you say, “No, but I like my food that way! Now, move aside, while I gnaw hungrily at this former-animal-turned-grilled-thing!”)
Consider its shapes. It’s square, or rectangular, and round or oval, or triangular or purse-shaped. It’s shapeless, disk-shaped, sometimes encased in glowing red (pomegranates), or translucent white (lemons), sometimes lumpy and pendulous (jackfruit) sometimes star-shaped (star-fruit). It’s chunky, it’s stringy, it’s beady, it’s linked, it’s cylindrical and semi-spherical and it takes the shape you wish it to be.
Consider the egg. It’s yellow in the middle and white around, which I hate, but then I think of the sun, and it makes sense. I may not want to eat it, but I respect it for what it could be — a possible chicken, descendant of a dinosaur. I become a hypocrite when I eat it in its disguised form in cakes or pancakes, or muffins or cupcakes, or pudding or flan. It’s okay when it’s in quiche (I cannot stand it sometimes) or in latkes (yum!)
Consider fruit. Made to hold the future of the race of whatever tree from which it bends, pendant and pregnant, the casing for the seed, the womb within which the seed or seeds will send forth future seeds, and they, their seeds, the fruit we covet lies just beyond our reach, taunting, tempting, trembling lest we sink our teeth into its juicy flesh. (Gosh! I feel positively brutal when I eat the poor, hapless fruits I love. Of course, I do so lovingly, giving thanks for each exquisitely satisfying, sensual bite.) Consider the deep orange of the Alphonso mango, its lovely paisley shape, its juice the apotheosis of richness, herald of early summer, its pulpy ambrosia running down between one’s fingers, as one closes ones eyes, and licks each finger in an ecstasy of greed and pleasure. Consider the pomegranate, its ruby-rich, glowing red jewels surrounded by protective, beautiful, red, inedible skin. Seed after pearly seed dies between our teeth, while the transparent blood of the fruit stains our hands and tongue. Consider the jackfruit, so lumpy and ugly on the outside, so velvety and pendulous and multi-fruited on the inside. Dip one of those (de-pitted, of course) in golden honey from Kerala, raise it to your mouth, bite into it, let the nectar flow down your throat, and close your eyes. You are one with the gods. Consider the purple bleeding jamun of Pune and other cities in Maharashtra. Another ungainly-looking fruit at first glance, but then, pop one, de-pitted or not, into your mouth, and sigh in bliss as purple tartness flows down your throat. (Take care to spit out the seed, of course!). Consider the fig, whose sweetness and million-seeded flesh makes me think that it was the original fruit of temptation in the fanciful Garden of Eden. It is a fruit that speaks of forbidden things. Then, there is the koyyapazham, known as the guava, the seetaphal, or custard apple, and the pearly, water-filled palm fruit known in Tamil as nongu, otherwise known by Maharashtrians as tadgole, so translucent, so rich and yielding to the tongue, whispering of sensual pleasures. And of course, there’s the watermelon, and gleaming purple, red and green grapes, the many faces of the apple and the orange, plus the kiwi, the plum, the apricot, the peach … all gifts from the gods, but not really for us — just for the tree’s own self-generation and for the earth. Unfortunately for the tree and the earth, but fortunately for us, we got there first.
Consider the vegetable. So many kinds, so dewy, tender, rich, succulent, fresh, squashy, snippy, crisp with water and flavor, so leafy, so root-flavored, so tear-inducing, so satisfying to cut into and release their various fragrances! Arrayed before my mind’s eye are ripe tomatoes and emerald-green ones, russet, white, yellow and red potatoes, crunchy bright green beans, peas whose green skin is so easily removed, the bitter karela, the curmudgeonly but divine eggplant, whose exterior tempts, but whose interior demands more work, the humble cabbage whose smell once released and allowed to escape, makes any vegetable better, especially with grated coconuts, green peas, talchukottal and shredded carrots, rich green spinach and cucumbers laden with water and tight, bright skin encasing it. Broccoli (which George H.W. Bush petulantly disdained, revealing even more of his lack of good sense), cauliflower, kale, lettuce, carrots, beets, radishes, onions (so many types of onions — pearl, baby onions, red onions, brown onions, green onions, shallots, scallions, leeks, each of whose flavors creates an entirely different dish when one is substituted for another)! Oh, and so many, many varieties of peppers, and green and red chillies!
Consider taste. Syrup-sweet, honeyed, sugar-crisp, lemon-sour, tamarind-lip-curling-sour, lime-tongue-tingling sour, spring-fresh minty-ness, basil-so-holy, parsley-sprigged, coriander-maddening, spicy with curcumin, spicy with capsaicin, spicy with pepper, spicy with mixed, ground masala, mouth-freshening cardamom, throat-soothing cloves, fragrant cinnamon, face-twisting bitter-gourd, nose-wrinkling asafoetida… all of these call to us, and offer themselves up to our ravenous appetite for a departure from daily-ness.
Consider all the different cuisines of the world. All the different grains, the heavenly baked breads that give up their essence when cracked open by rough, loving hands, the simmering, spiced stews, the creamy, or sour, or tart, or cumin-seed-imbued sauces, the flaky and crisp dishes served up in so many guises. I do, and it pleases me. I cannot say I am brave enough to try them all, but I like reading about them. That’s what turns me on, more than the food itself might. Charles Lamb, when he wrote about roast pig and crackling, made me desire that hitherto repellent-sounding food. Even Enid Blyton, when she describes tomatoes and tongue, sausage and pudding, makes me hungry. When a mystery writer like Sue Grafton indulges in a sensual description of whatever her private detective, Kinsey Millhone, desires in terms of food, it makes me want to snarf up that quarter-pounder (disgusting though it really is to my eyes, nose and mind) and bite into fries crisped in deep fat — fortunately for me, I’m a vegetarian, so I won’t ever taste the quarter-pounder, and I steer clear of French fries in real life! Not quite in the same vein, but still vicariously, I read Ruth Reichl’s description of sushi (which I’ll never eat), described in such loving, ecstatic, sensuality that it makes me almost moan, I close my eyes and swoon with pleasure, imagining it all. When she describes some exquisite French or Italian dish, I am almost jealous, because I know I shall never, ever bring myself to taste it, because it’s almost invariably non-vegetarian food that she rhapsodizes over! (Damn it!)
Still, all those descriptions make me feel part of the culture of tasting it.
Words can do that.
Who cares for the real thing, when words can make it all better? Words, enticing waiters all, carrying trays beautifully balanced with fragrant dishes, take a message to my hungry mind, as I wait, poised at a table set for one, with a tender rose in a small glass vase in front of me, and a single, rose-shaped candle in a crystal bowl of water, bringing to my mind’s palate an experience which cannot be matched by the real thing, while Persian or Turkish classical music plays in the background, and censers waft perfume into the air, and silken curtains billow in a world that can be so much more real (and much less messy) than this one!
On the other hand, I do like to eat. So, all you vegetables and fruits, all you delicacies and dishes that are made for the likes of me, tremble, for I shall come for you all! And all you textures and tastes, you colors and aromas, you finger-friendly, tongue-delighting treats awaiting me in my future, I draw ever closer to you, for I love you all!
_____________________________ The End __________________________________
Tags: aromas of food, cuisines, delicacies, essay on food, Food, senses, sensory pleasure in food, textures of food, words as reality