I wrote this short text today whilst on my morning commute at 6:30 in the morning. To get you in the proper context and mood, I suggest you first listen (not just read, I mean listen) to
read her work, DEAR DICK #1. I made the mistake of pressing play right before hopping on the train, and suddenly, I needed to do something about it.If you ever see anyone on the commuter train writing away in a notebook, don’t assume she is finalising a presentation for work.
Photo by Aaron Thomas on Unsplash
My house is one where food is a form of communication. I was fortunate enough to fall head over heels for a man for whom food is so much more than just fuel. It’s both inherited culture and creative outlet.
He revels among pots and pans. His fetish store is one that is in the town centre filled with Le Creuset cast iron skillets, and he scrolls down the Kitchen Aid website with the eager look of a teenager eying his first Playboy.
We have a collection of cookbooks that he consults as if they contain the word of God. He kneads dough with loving care that reminds me of our doings in our conjugal bed.
When whipping up a quick lunch, I will go for hummus and avocado. He will need two pans and at least five ingredients (the bread and the olive oil do not count). He takes his time in the kitchen, and, much like his foreplay, it is always oh so worth it.
The first time I went grocery shopping with him, we weren’t even dating. I watched him inspect the tomatoes, take in the scent of the lemons and inspect the size, shape and consistency of the avocados. It was all so sensual I had to look away to avoid my mind wondering how he would hold and inspect my body. My mouth watering as he weighed the cantaloupes with his big hands; my gut in a knot as he picked fresh basil. There was a vague jab of jealousy when he chatted away with the girl gutting the fish, all the time wondering what it would be like if I were one of the ingredients in his life. Not the cherry on top, but the actual flour.
Watching this man in the kitchen is watching art in the making. His agile hands stir, turn, peel and cut.
I will look up from my book, lying on the kitchen sofa I convinced him we needed to have, awakened to the real world by the scents of his concoctions. I observe him camouflaged by the wooden spoons, spatulas, peelers, whisks, sheers and strainers. I look on, following his every move while he drums with the chef’s knife to the rhythm of the music playing in the background.
I make my move and pounce on him. We make love on the floor, glazing our skin with lemon rind and bread crumbs. The breeze from the open window gently mixes our sweat and breath with za’atar, oregano, and prosecco.
Once filled with each other, I set the table while he serves the first course.
Lust shared by lovers who know each other’s weaknesses and meanness is one of the seven wonders of the world. To remind me of this, I like to read this poem by Vicent Andrés I Estellés, a poet from my homeland. It is written in Valenciano (a dialectical variant of Catalán). A translation follows.
Els Amants Vicent Andrés i Estellés (1924-1993)
La carn vol carn (Ausiàs March)
No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres.
Feroçment ens amàvem del matí a la nit.
Tot ho recorde mentre vas estenent la roba.
Han passat anys, molts anys; han passat moltes coses.
De sobte encara em pren aquell vent o l’amor
i rodolem per terra entre abraços i besos.
No comprenem l’amor com un costum amable
com un costum pacífic de compliment i teles
(i que ens perdone el cast senyor López-Picó).
Es desperta, de sobte, com un vell huracà,
i ens tomba en terra els dos, ens ajunta, ens empeny.
Jo desitjava, a voltes, un amor educat
i en marxa el tocadiscos, negligentment besant-te,
ara un muscle i després el peçó d’una orella.
El nostre amor és un amor brusc i salvatge,
i tenim l’enyorança amarga de la terra,
d’anar a rebolcons entre besos i arraps.
Que voleu que hi faça! Elemental, ja ho sé.
Ignorem el Petrarca i ignorem moltes coses.
Les Estances de Riba i les Rimas de Bécquer.
Després, tombats en terra de qualsevol manera,
comprenem que som bàrbars, i que això no deu ser,
que no estem en l’edat, i tot això i allò.
No hi havia a València dos amants com nosaltres,
car d’amants com nosaltres en són parits ben pocs.Lovers Vicent Andrés i Estellés (1924-1993)
Flesh craves flesh (Ausiàs March)
Never were there in València two lovers like us. We loved ferociously, from morn 'til night. I recall everything, as you hang out the clothes. Years have passed, many years: many things have happened. Suddenly that wind, or love, seizes me still And we roll on the ground amidst embraces and kisses. We do not know love as a loving custom, As a quiet custom of politeness and finery (And may the chaste López-Picó pardon us). Love, it awakens suddenly, like an old hurricane, It throws us to the ground, it joins us together, Squeezing us tightly. Sometimes I desired a courteous love, With the gramophone on, kissing you idly, Now a shoulder, next an ear lobe. Our love is a brusque and savage love And we feel a bitter yearning for the earth, Of rolling upside down amidst kisses and clutches. I'll say it clear. Primal, ... I know it. We ignore Petrarch's work, we ignore many things. The stanzas of Riba, the rhymes of Bécquer. Afterwards, lying somehow on the ground, We realise that we are barbarous, that this may not be, We are not in the right age, and this and that.
Never were there in València two lovers like us, Lovers like us are just not born!
Translation by Jack H. Smith, Professor Emeritus at the University at Albany, NY
This is fire 🔥 and food as aphrodisiacs what a novel restaurant idea!
Im happy to provide dat Deelishus writing prompt. I hope you listened to me on HIGH VOLUME so errbody could enjoy 😁. Preshate da shoutout.