Food Stuff

                       Not Cheddar

He drove from his small town in the King Country

up to Hamilton in the late eighties

– or maybe it was 1990 –

to buy fancy food for some celebratory event.

Acting on a tip from a local he knew

who did stuff at the varsity,

he went into the Gouda Cheese Shop on Cambridge Road,

and later expressed amazement upon discovering

cheeses that weren’t cheddar.

Things – and he – have changed dramatically since then.

                      June Solstice 2013

I don’t know why I bought all that food.

At least I put the sandwich back in the chiller

before going to the checkout.

Food sustains life.

My existence hardly qualifies.

I don’t know why I bought all that food.

At least I put the sandwich back in the chiller.

I’m even starting to question buying the grog.

It does make my lifeless afternoons bearable,

but big fucking deal – it also gives me an appetite.

I wonder if the harm it does to my body

balances out the nutrition it tricks me into consuming.

I don’t know why I bought all that food.

At least I put the sandwich back in the chiller.

The fantasies that sustain my miserable existence

are even more pathetic than my everyday reality,

and my being pathetic disgusts me.

I should starve my pathetic self to death.

I don’t know why I bought all that food.

At least I put the sandwich back in the chiller.

                   Deciding Factor

As the spring warmed up,

despite the knowledge that doing so

would compromise my metabolism, ethics, and budget,

I felt the desire building within me

to go to BK

and load up on insane amounts of grease.

The budget factor, however,

was fortunately too compelling to ignore.

                      It Seemed Odd

It was a one-day paid gig

wrangling the passing public

whilst the crew of a feature movie –

I don’t feel comfortable calling them films anymore,

especially since they stopped manufacturing film –

were shooting on location

in Hamilton Gardens’

Japanese Garden of Contemplation,

one of my favourite spots in the city.

The movie was set in postwar Tokyo,

or so they told me.

I saw several Japanese actors,

one of whom looked like a young Emperor Hirohito,

and other actors, putatively American,

dressed in 1940s US military-officer uniforms.

One of the best things about movie work

is location catering.

Out of deference to the Japanese members of the cast,

the lunch buffet offered

rice, of course,

tofu slices topped with roasted pumpkin,

dumplings stuffed with I know not what meat,

those spicy marinated cucumber spears,

and other Japanese-y delights,

but it struck me as odd,

as I tucked into a crumbed boneless chicken breast,

that the buffet table had held no fish,

since the Japanese build most of their meals, as far as I know,

around fish and rice,

Japan has the highest per capita fish consumption in all of East Asia,

and it imports more fish

than any other country in the world.

    Unworthy Of Forgiveness?

I know that dairying

is a cruel and dirty industry,

and the bobby calves’ eyes haunt me,

but I can’t help loving

the taste and texture

of uncompromisingly

strong, crumbly cheese

in my mouth

from time to time.

I wish I were a better person,

but I’m not.

                   Ethnic Relishes

He lived his life for the sensuality of savouring

splendidly rich ethnic relishes

Sweet, tart, savoury, spicy, subtle, hot –

they all infused meaning

into his otherwise flat, meaningless life.

A well-rounded sort,

he also dabbled in luscious condiments and pickles.

He wallowed in them orally every day:

with medleys of sandwiches, sliced cold meats,

eggs, spuds, sausages, roasted asparagus,

ready-cooked chooks, and cheese and crackers;

he always pantried about two dozen jars,

each gleaming glass vessel containing a different relish,

and as soon as one went empty

he’d replace it with one accommodating some condiment

radically different to the one just exhausted.

He was on first-name basis

with every relish-vending retailer

he could find – except for the supermarkets,

which mostly carried just traditional English ones, anyway;

he was a member of three online relish-of-the-month clubs,

and spent his leisure hours

giving life to googled recipes

from exotic, far-away places and eras.

Following a relish recipe translated from

a six-thousand-year-old archaeological find

was for him a transcendent experience.

He never felt anxiety or significant sadness;

he was indeed a man,

if you’ll forgive the idiom,

who truly relished life.

                Sliced Mustard

She eased me silently from her life,

or at least that tiny part of it

she’d deigned to share with me,

I guess because I just didn’t cut the mustard.

But then, mustard is tricky stuff to cut.

Mustard plants might be easy enough,

but they’re not really ‘the mustard’

until people process them.

Cutting those tiny mustard seeds, though,

would require keen hand-eye coordination

and an exceedingly sharp knife.

I have neither.

I could maybe separate powdered mustard

into little piles, but that’s not really cutting it,

and too much of it would stick to the knife.

Now, prepared mustard,

whether hot English or mild American or Dijon

or Chinese or Bavarian or what-have-you,

how the fuck was I to cut that?

It keeps glooping back to where it had been

before I addressed it with my knife or scissors.

Of course, I could have spread the mustard

on a slice of toast and cut that,

or simply just cut the mustard from my diet,

but I didn’t.

Probably one other reason why

I just didn’t cut the mustard with her

is because I habitually think like that.

                               Milk In Your Coffee?

Pasteurised milk? It’s an outrage!

Yadda yadda yadda unnatural blah blah blah kills off vitamins

yadda blah blah ruins the taste yadda blah yadda hard to digest

Yadda blah huff and puff

Raw milk? You should never!

Yadda yadda yadda diseases blah blah blah hipster bullshit

yadda blah blah health risks yadda blah yadda hard to get

Yadda blah huff and puff

Cow’s milk? How could you!

Yadda yadda yadda cruelty blah blah blah dirty dairying

yadda blah blah cholesterol yadda blah yadda factory farming

Yadda blah huff and puff

Soy milk? You’re not one of them!

Yadda yadda yadda chemicals blah blah blah not real milk

yadda blah blah hormones yadda blah yadda monocropping

Yadda blah huff and puff

Coconut milk? Give me a break!

Yadda yadda yadda processing poisons blah blah blah guar gum

yadda blah blah too damn la-di-da yadda blah yadda FODMAP

Yadda blah huff and puff

Almond milk? Forget it!

Yadda yadda yadda additives blah blah blah the environment

yadda blah blah costs too much yadda blah yadda health risks

Yadda blah huff and puff

Cremora? You gotta be kidding!

Yadda yadda yadda chemicals blah blah blah made by evil corporation

yadda blah blah saturated fats yadda yadda blah encourages obesity

Yadda blah huff and puff

Baileys Irish Cream? Well, yeah.

                          Ambience

Attached to a featureless motel

across the four-lane from the city’s oldest mall,

the diner was called something like, ‘Waffle House’,

although probably not that exactly.

Its décor was all vinyl and formica,

in pastel hues of pink and baby blue.

Its cuisine was noteworthy for its Country Boy Special,

a breakfast featuring the best biscuits and gravy

I could remember ever having eaten.

I took Bess, an older woman whom I was dating,

there once to enjoy the house specialty.

Bess’s ex-husband had been a lawyer,

one of the top criminal defense attorneys in all of Texas,

and she’d often helped him entertain clients,

so she knew what she was talking about

when she surveyed the restaurant’s clientele and loudly said,

“Everybody in this place looks like they just got out of prison

or are about to go in.”