Tuesday, August 18, 2009

#58 Food For Thought

I decided to write about food, but instead of lamenting the issues that surround food, I am going to play with my food. I love word games, scrabble and crossword puzzles, so I decided to try and use food as a figurative enhancer in story telling. Thanks to those who helped me figure out my metaphors, similes and hyperboles. And for those reading this, forgive me if this babble is like a meandering stream of thoughts. It's meant to entertain.

* There is a lot of figurative language in this babble, however, I've highlighted the relevant ones. You know, the ones that have to do with food.

In his book, The Guardian, author Nicholas Sparks uses so many amazing descriptive sentences, that I got the idea for a babble. One sentence that has stuck with me like bubble gum on carpet, goes like this: her eyes were so glazed she could have flavored a dozen donuts. I have never heard boredom described so visually and yummily. This got my creative juices going. I think food is a wonderful choice as an expressive resource. Not only can you use food to describe boredom, but food has been used amazingly well to describe other things, like manliness, as in "real men don't eat quiche." Well said, but I disagree. I know lots of men who eat quiche, although, they'd otherwise be described as "meat and potato men." Ooh, this is fun.

I recently heard a debate on a television program arguing that humans are the only tear-producing species. That got me thinking about all the tears I've shed and seen in my 47 years. The ones that first come to mind are those of my daughter when she was a toddler. Sometimes (ok, many times) when she didn't get her way, she would start to cry. I knew she was acting and those were just onion tears, but seeing them still broke my heart. Once, when Erica and I were in the park, she found a companion and off they went. While they were playing, Erica and this adorable red headed string bean had a long-winded gigglefest. The nanny, who I had seen there before, approached me. She told me that my daughter was so sweet that if you tasted her tears, you would think of honeydew. Isn't that sweet...and a bit weird? Honeydew?

I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I am a bit shoe crazy. Because of my cankles and thick stalk-like calves, it's very hard for me to find shoes that (I think) flatter my lower leg as well as boots that I can zipper... all the way up. A couple of years ago, I walked into an Aerosole shoe store and bought the most comfortable pair of sandals I'd ever owned - still to this day. I was able to traverse a flea market that spanned 5 miles in the oven heat of August, and it felt like I was literally walking on marshmallows the whole time. Meanwhile, my flip flop-wearing girlfriend ended up with a blister that could have rivaled any grape in season. Alas, I wish I had bought two pairs.

I don't know if you know this about me either, but my husband thinks I was a dog (as in canine, pooch, and, I'm sure, bitch) in my previous life. First of all, I am very sensitive to too much acoustic stimulation; as in the radio blaring, the top down on the car, listening to him talk on his cell phone and all the other noises that having the hood up and windows closed would disguise. However, my sensitivity to noise isn't my only dog-like quality. Like my Iggy, I have milky white teeth [ok, I embellish, but it sounds nice], but they are far from chiclet-like. Furthermore, I also I have a keen nose. It ain't a beauty, but I can walk into a room and immediately tell that the Camembert living under my sofa is probably a rank pair of sneakers belonging to one of my kids. Even in my sleep, my nose continues to work. Many years ago, I was in a deep sleep when I was woken up by the smell of what I thought was burnt wiring. I jumped out of bed and yelled fire. I was running down the hall when our dog ran up to me -- I almost passed out. During her last pee of the night, she had gotten herself skunked. There are no food metaphors that come close to describing that smell, but that smell rivals one of the worst odors I can think of, boiling brussel sprouts. Yup, that's a smell right up there with eau de skunk.

Of course I can't end this babble without metaphoring or throwing about some sex similes -- so here goes (forgive me, mom and dad). A lot of men wish they were hung like a horse, but I'm sure most would settle for a medium sized banana ... the shape works too. And, I never understood why men called their penises "meat". I mean their neck could be considered meat too considering I've been known to take a nibble or two. While doing my research, I came across a blog http://www.listy-loo.blogspot.com/ whose sole purpose is to make lists. In discussing the show The Vagina Monologues, the blog listed different names for the vagina. The kebab vagina jumped out at me. Say what? Kebab? It seems a number of her readers wondered about this too. While reading through the comments, I learned that in the United Kingdom, their gyros are called kebabs, and the writer of the comment surmised that the shape, warmth and dripping juices of the kebab... not taste or anything to do with being skewered, was where that name was coined. How's this sentence for kebab vagina... having sex with "Lola" feels like being wrapped in a warm, moist pita. One last thing: People should be happy, and what they do in the privacy of their own home (as long as both are agreeable) is their business. You know this sex thing is a mixed grill, a buffet and a smorgasbord for all to enjoy. Of course it goes without saying, I like mine with chocolate!!

Bon Appetit!

Quote of the Day: "The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to cheer somebody else up" Mark Twain


Skydiving Mama (a.k.a. Charlotte's Mom) said...

Yummy post, Bobbie! - featuring food and words, some of my favorite things! I'll be on the lookout for descriptive food metaphors in my weekend reading...

Anonymous said...

Cute. I have nothing really to add, other than to mention certain agricultural towns. Supposedly growing broccoli smells like farts, and a friend used to sing about her hometown "Smells like s*it, must be Salinas".

Anonymous said...

My sister used to live in York PA and when the wind blew towards her apartment complex, you could smell cow and all that went with it. P-U!