Chow
/This is my only working pen. Odd noises are emerging from the OC transpo ventilation system. It leaves me short of breath. I have learned that if you are travelling to an event that is important to you, make sure you are the driver. There are too many variables that are out of your control when you are a passenger. I was stood up by the carpool that I arranged to go home. Maybe they found somebody cooler than me. My commute thus far:
Biking: Approximately two hours
Waiting: Approximately one and a half hours
Busing: Approximately one hour, and counting
I feel like a man of winter journey. My clothing layering has no allowance for cold air and my backpack has perfect space optimization. It feels more like a tumour than a sac that is separate from me. The most pivotal sac that I packed today was my stomach. One three litre pot of soulful seafood chowder, shared with John, a progressive man.
“There’s so much of it,” he said whenever we ate, or walked in on an environment that was brimming with nature. John added ingredients to the soup without regret or theme in mind. John added a banana to our soup; fried with a sugar coating. John also added an oat energy bar to the chowder. Current ingredient list:
- One can of tuna
- One perch fillet the size of my foot (size 11 ½)
- Two packages of instantaneous ramen, simulated chicken flavour
- One can of coconut milk
- Pinch of basil
- Pinch of sun-dried tomatoes
- Salt, pepper
- Fried banana
- Oat energy bar
- Water
I eat some. A room is built within the dimensions of taste. Walls of coconut milk envelop all other pointer tastes with a paternal creaminess. The floor is made of pepper; black and hot enough that you have to constantly shift your feet back and forth so as not to get burned. Flopping writhing fishy tastes flounder in the centre. The fish dance freely, swimming, leaving behind trails of animal tastes. They are brown and alive. At this point sriracha is added; a whip enshrouded with lava, disregarding the private space of all other tastes as it bites the walls, the windows, the flowers. The banana and dissolved sugars from the oat energy bar follow you whenever you bite. Tracking you in an unfamiliar forest; faster than you. The sweetness hits you with low-dosage tranquilizer darts. Your feet begin to drag, you are getting full, and maybe sleeping on this log would be a good idea.
“Jack… It’s flooding my mouth with—“
“I know,” I said.
“I’m there too.”
Jack Lytle
Jack is a professional writer in training, but already is a seasoned unprofessional cook. He enjoys both activities equally, though one satisfies his soul, the other his stomach.
