Notes on a food love affair
Shutting my eyes to food porn
I love food. Maybe I will marry it, wise guy. Food and I have a relationship. One that’s built on appreciation, taste, and a compromise on my ideal weight.
Food porn is a phrase that’s never really tickled my fancy. I don’t wanna fuck my sandwich. Especially not a piping hot meatball Pharm.
Have I made sweet love to a Croque Madame before? Yes. Guilty as charged. It was beautiful. Not all wham, bam, cheese and ham. A good meal is not a one night stand. It stays with you like a love.
I watched a woman use her mouth to torture mashed potatoes in a way that was sadistic. The creamy white spuds splashed around her lips making a sloshing noise. She moaned and sighed. Shoving in enormous spoonfuls over and over. I tried to look away but I couldn’t. A food porn star whose career was at its peak. Did she know she was in public? Her eyes rolled back like when a shark sinks its teeth into flesh. After she finished, she let out a satisfied coo. She was probably faking it. I call bullshit on anyone who is so over the top about their enjoyment. No meal would ever truly satisfy her because each one is just another John.
I’m no angel. I’ve whored around in the past. Eating things that were not fit for a rabid raccoon. But I’ve grown up. I appreciate the care that’s gone into meals. The people that made them. The memories that rush in when I get a whiff of a good marinara.
