Day 8. Many of our fondest memories are associated with food. Describe a memorable experience that took place while preparing or eating food.
By now, some of you know me.
Some of you know that I throw the Rock and Roll Foodathons. That I bought into and ran a taco shop down the shore and here in Philly. That I survived La Panarda twice now, with full intentions of doing it again this year. Some of you know how obsessed I am over fried chicken, the joy I find in the Maillard Reaction, how fascinated I am with the principles of emulsion.
But there were days before this. Days before I knew what a batonnet was, before I knew the difference between a French Chef's and a Santoku. Days when I roasted chicken thighs and ate them with toast. Days when I mixed Tostitos' Salsa con Queso with Old El Paso taco meat for nacho dip. They were days of folly, of a college-born need for both frugality and inane indulgence. Days we would pile into Adam's car and drive to Big Ed's in Matawan for all-you-can-eat ribs.
And in one such day was this moment. This moment of unbearable heaviness as I stared down at my sauce-stained plate, naked bones piled upon it in a sigil of failure and shame. The Russian slumped beside me, her eyes glassy with rib madness as she pawed helplessly at the bucket of garlicky, butter-drenched potato rolls before us. This moment where every movement was an agony of Sisyphusian degrees, from the flexing of my toes to the shifting of my eyes.
And in this moment, Pericles spoke. He spoke words across the chasm of the plastic checkerclothed table, words filtered now through over a decade of alcohol and memories.
"Raoul." He spoke my name like a period as he lifted a fresh rib from the communal plate between us, his visage tranquil as he considered the meaty monstrosity. I dragged my chin up from my chest to gaze upon him, my vision swimming, my lids laden with pork.
"There is a space in your stomach. One you don't know is there. Maybe you were going to put another garlic bread in it. Maybe you were saving room for dessert." His eyes moved to meet my mine, and in that moment, he looked through me. Deep in his amber irises was a wisdom, a solemn resolve, a knowledge that he knew my pain, knew my suffering. That he shared in it. That he had the strength to power through it, and that he would help me do the same.
"Find that space," he said. Each word beat against my fat-clogged heart until it throbbed once more on its own. "And stick a rib in there."
And to this day, I remember this moment. When my days are darkest, when I sit by myself in my house, unable to face the world in its furious glory, I remember this moment. When I think I am powerless, when I truly believe I have nothing left to give, I remember this moment. And I dig deep within myself, like I did that day. I push past the fear and horror, force through the doubt and the terror of consequence, and I find that space.
And I stick a rib in there.
By now, some of you know me.
Some of you know that I throw the Rock and Roll Foodathons. That I bought into and ran a taco shop down the shore and here in Philly. That I survived La Panarda twice now, with full intentions of doing it again this year. Some of you know how obsessed I am over fried chicken, the joy I find in the Maillard Reaction, how fascinated I am with the principles of emulsion.
But there were days before this. Days before I knew what a batonnet was, before I knew the difference between a French Chef's and a Santoku. Days when I roasted chicken thighs and ate them with toast. Days when I mixed Tostitos' Salsa con Queso with Old El Paso taco meat for nacho dip. They were days of folly, of a college-born need for both frugality and inane indulgence. Days we would pile into Adam's car and drive to Big Ed's in Matawan for all-you-can-eat ribs.
And in one such day was this moment. This moment of unbearable heaviness as I stared down at my sauce-stained plate, naked bones piled upon it in a sigil of failure and shame. The Russian slumped beside me, her eyes glassy with rib madness as she pawed helplessly at the bucket of garlicky, butter-drenched potato rolls before us. This moment where every movement was an agony of Sisyphusian degrees, from the flexing of my toes to the shifting of my eyes.
And in this moment, Pericles spoke. He spoke words across the chasm of the plastic checkerclothed table, words filtered now through over a decade of alcohol and memories.
"Raoul." He spoke my name like a period as he lifted a fresh rib from the communal plate between us, his visage tranquil as he considered the meaty monstrosity. I dragged my chin up from my chest to gaze upon him, my vision swimming, my lids laden with pork.
"There is a space in your stomach. One you don't know is there. Maybe you were going to put another garlic bread in it. Maybe you were saving room for dessert." His eyes moved to meet my mine, and in that moment, he looked through me. Deep in his amber irises was a wisdom, a solemn resolve, a knowledge that he knew my pain, knew my suffering. That he shared in it. That he had the strength to power through it, and that he would help me do the same.
"Find that space," he said. Each word beat against my fat-clogged heart until it throbbed once more on its own. "And stick a rib in there."
And to this day, I remember this moment. When my days are darkest, when I sit by myself in my house, unable to face the world in its furious glory, I remember this moment. When I think I am powerless, when I truly believe I have nothing left to give, I remember this moment. And I dig deep within myself, like I did that day. I push past the fear and horror, force through the doubt and the terror of consequence, and I find that space.
And I stick a rib in there.
A wise man is P-Dub. And it's fitting that this became one of your refrains. Stick a rib in there. Yep.
ReplyDeletethat's a hell of a rallying cry. i like it.
ReplyDelete