Food Glorious Food

Oh the joys of Anthony Bourdain. I am addicted. The man’s travel show is delicious, to say the least.

What is it about a snarky, sarcastic, self-declared gourmand that makes stomach-turning food adventures sexy? (I have one quibble, Tony, a true gourmand doesn’t smoke. Um, I believe it has something to do with a dulling of the olfactory sense. No that doesn’t mean I’m a puritanical bitch, I do enjoy an occasional puff but no chain indulgence for me. I want to truly taste what I’m slipping down my gullet.)

I’d give anything to do what he does; most of it, anyway. Break out the passport, belly up to the bar, go local. Brilliant. And to share insights about what makes us all human: we all eat. There is poetry in that notion. We share a common need: fuel. We share common habits: eating together. We share common communication: through our hospitality at the kitchen table. There is nothing that makes people feel more welcomed, nurtured, cared for and respected than an offering to break bread.

For me food is truly a sensual experience. That being said, it is a truthful experience. For some of us still indebted to our senses for a confirmation of universal truth (epistemic stuff, for me, only comes through experience), food is gloriously sating. I’m talking about ALL five senses here, not just taste.

Food stimulates every sense. Preparing food is a truly sensual act. We touch. We feel the textures of the ingredients, the steel of the knives, the wood of the rolling pin, the coarseness of the spices. We hear the sharpness of the chopping, the clatter of the whisk, the breaking of the eggs, the farting of the kneaded dough. We smell the tang of the pepper, the sex of ground nutmeg, the warm earthiness of roast nuts, the yeast of the cider. We see the molten of the tomatoes, the lapis of the blueberries, the summers day of the lemon, the verdure of the spinach, even the white froth of the cream adds color all its own. And taste. Taste. Where to begin? The last sense is the most orgasmic. I cannot do it justice.

Why this rapture about food? Why not? I took the time this evening to do a pizza from scratch. Dough left to rise in the late afternoon. Onions and mountains and mountains of mushrooms chopped before rolling out the punched-down dough. Pecorino grated. Artichoke hearts sliced and sprinkled. Simple. Almost too simple. And yet I groaned in pleasure with the first bite; my heart mourned an empty plate.

Food is life. Life is pleasure. Sometimes is takes small rituals like making a meal to remind us of this. Sometimes it requires sharing the simplest of thing with others to bond us for life. Sometimes it takes a meal to break down barriers. I’m glad I can get a weekly dose of Bourdain as a reminder.