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.
