It’s midday, and my hunger feels luxurious: luxurious in its intensity and its incipient knowing.

So I’m sitting down with it.  I’m like a lover, asking my loved other, ‘where do you want to go?’ —and then waiting with no hurry.

Like a little child, my hunger is just pure raw desire.  It’s too hungry to tell me what it’s hungry for.

‘Eggs?’ I ask.  — ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Some of the leftover split pea soup?’ — ‘No!!’

‘…A glass of orange juice?’ ‘Yes! Exactly!  But more than just that…’

We wait.

Oh!  That basil from the farmer’s market yesterday morning.  With tomatoes, and onions, and butter, and cream… a soup.  Some of the sourdough alongside.  A salad with the last of the frisee and some pears, walnuts, and blue cheese.

Perfect.