Sometimes I make food and when I eat it I have no idea how I made it taste so good. That sounds ridiculous, but it's true. I was eating lunch I made today; garlic, onion, rice noodles, broccoli.. simple enough. Some chilies my roommate picked in Croatia, a piece of danish rye I learned to make in Copenhagen.. maybe that's it. What a multicultural lunch.
My boyfriend is a chef. He runs a restaurant in downtown Austin, very hoity-toity (do people still use that?). It's Italian. When he cooks for me it's literally like eating art. Ha, imagine putting a painting in your mouth and it's gone. I feel like that it kind of, actually. He has devoted his whole life to this art, and in an hour I eat it all. How rude. I would be mortified if he ate my teapot that is sitting on the table.
Maybe it's the ultimate art. Food transcends generations, certainly. It makes people happy. It torments. It's interesting that it's kind of a language everyone is willing to speak, the same guy who is making racial jokes at the dinner table could easily have had taco's for lunch and udon for dinner. Food is so easily accepted. Certainly more so then religion, cultural dress, even more then architecture.. or art for that matter.
No comments:
Post a Comment