food for thought

food as ritual

I’m forever grateful to the people who upload the menu onto Tripadvisor.
Even if it’s blurry, even when it’s poorly lit,
even then.

It brings me great comfort, knowing even the smallest details of my night ahead.
Whether I’ll get the salad or the soup, how much a bottle of Sauvignon is,
if the menus are laid on the table prior to my arrival
or if I’ll need to speak to a waiter.

Sometimes people upload pictures of the restaurant,
those are the true angels of this world.

I’ll know exactly where to sit and how to get there-
if it’s a small space with chair shuffling and mouthed sorries.
Worse still is when it’s more open,
and I’ll need to think about where to put my hands on the walk to sit down,
wet and awkward like a too-big umbrella.

What shoes I’ll wear, normally decided by where the restaurant is located on the street.
If I’ll walk to calm my nerves or have to get the bus.
I’ll check bus times and the stops nearby,
and I’ll get there a minimum ten minutes early
and stand outside for a while.

I can’t do an unreserved brunch, or a last-minute coffee date.
I’ll suggest places I’ve been before,
the ones with the diligent research done by the general public.

Often I don’t go at all.
That’s what’s best really,
a microwaved dinner for one.

food as a personal history

I picked at the waxy tablecloth, tearing off strips and laying them in my lap. I did it privately. The clock over the door was a circle and nothing more. The radio grumbled-Raidió na Gaeltachta, low and long-long enough for five strips and two drawings in the margins of the Connacht Tribune.

The instrumental meant it was over. It was time for the shop.

I rose slowly, for Mamó. She used her big stick to lever herself upright. Even then, her hand stayed on the table until it couldn’t, her arm stiffening behind her, leaving only the pointed yellow nail for balance. She moved as if time might notice her if she hurried. Or as if she didn’t care if it did. I shuffled beside her, copying slowness so it would have something to do.

We took a slow walk and a quick drive. I carried the stick. She pushed the cart. We filled the aisles, culprits of standstill traffic. Cornflakes. Dawn milk-always uneasy, sharing shelf space with her medicine. Everything strict, everything known.

The chips came last. She parked at the counter, talked, and the bags were handed over. No money. Only the leather-bound book, every item and quantity already waiting inside it. Then her book was signed.

Back home, the chips lost heat between the door and the table. The radio came back on. The white bag-soggy now-torn open at the barcode. Chips spilled onto the waxy cloth, heavy with salt and seasoning. They stung the tongue until the potato soothed it.

We ate together. We didn’t speak.

She was a big woman. She loved to eat.