Historically, I’m a get me enough food to survive kind of guy. I find the healthiest, most filling meal that requires the least amount of brain power. I’m too large to consider cute recipes and garnishes.
Imagine going to the store and buying cilantro? There’s a war in Ukraine, the economy is teetering, and last year the president was almost assassinated. People are getting this garnish solely to put on their eggs? What the fuck.
There are 25 deviating thoughts and parallel universes between my initial desire and the moment I delicately place the cilantro across my eggs. Perhaps I don’t understand the satisfaction.
I am basic in the learned caveman sense, not the cheeseboard and sugary coffees sense.
I think Instagram is to blame for all the food pleasantries taking precedent in our nuanced lives. Aesthetic is Everything.
People buy cilantro. They do the cutesy sauces that require 20 minutes of prep. Then they eat and savor by a window with their sweet little knees tucked under their delicious rump. Yum.
I make plain eggs with salt, drink black coffee. Stretch my back. At night I cook up some vegetables and rice, pull rotisserie chicken off the bone like a Mongolian plainsman. Every once in a blue moon I’ll make a sauce.
It’s me just sassily dabbing in ingredients and tasting. It’s the fumes, the aesthetic wafting around me, umami! I have no idea what that means. I’d never be not hungry enough to stop and learn what umami means.
I wouldn’t go through an extra hour or prep work so I could sit tuck legged, take a pic, savor my food looking out the window. With my plants around. They’re indoor plants, watching outdoor plants, and also watching me eat with wilting jealousy.
I never used sauces; I found the most efficient way to feed myself when I was hungry. What is eating for? I’m a big fucking guy.
But there is value in using enough sauce. Using a variety. Throwing a sprinkle of cheese on top? Fuck me. I’ve only just begun this odyssey. Seeing the pleasureful experience in my mouth as important as the perfunctory task of feeding myself. Like a casual handjob while watching a mediocre movie. There is some intrigue, some spice to break up a mundane task.
Maybe I’m growing up. Or evolving. Salsa, a little cholula, avocado and cheese on my eggs makes me wake up like a deposed Mexican King. Or a surfer with a beautiful girlfriend.
4 eggs boiled, salt, I am a Soviet soldier. I am in the trenches of feeding, pooping, and sleeping. I am simply putting the sustenance in to fight another day, and my body responds in turn with tumultuous, military trumpets of gas. Slug my coffee, slam down those fucking eggs. I’ve told my body we are at war when we are simply sitting down to work from home.
I will start using enough sauce. I will not shy away from tickling my senses to remind myself that beauty can enter all my orifices. I will be here to greet it. Like savoring great sex, or a swim in a cold pond, or a bass line that sends tingles down your spine. Give your body messages that this corporeal slog is worth it. Let the caveman play with the fire. Use the sauces.
Wanderthoughts 