food speaks to me


“Try pouring it over biscuits!” says the can in my cupboard.
“Get the hell away from me,” I respond.

“Dietary supplement,” says the can of purple fruit juice and caffeine that I drank to wake up.
“Liar!” I tell it.

“Here I am,” said the container of yogurt that was starting to smell a little ripe. I had gotten off the bus and purchased it for breakfast on my way to work. I put it in my bag and forgot about it until 2:45 p.m.
“Don’t worry about lack of refrigeration for seven hours,” I replied, “I’ll eat you anyway.” (It’s kind of like the Runaway Bunny, isn’t it?)

“… an aromatic marriage of rich exotic spices…” said the box in the freezer.
“You’re just a pretentious frozen dinner,” I yelled. “No better than a soy burger. Get out of this kitchen and never come back.” I’m bitter about Indian meals that think they’re special.

I won’t bore you with more of my conversations with food. It’s time to go talk to the dishes.


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