man’s gotta eat
Every morning I immediately check my bank account upon waking up. The numbers determine my mood. I have 600 francs in my bank account, which I access through this shitty bank app. I use Walliser Kantonalbank, but the app is in French because they are the more civilized half of my natal canton. I went to Portugal twice last month, once for an academic conference I was not entitled to attend, and once for my dad‘s sixtieth birthday. He said he‘d pay me back for the tickets. I said it was fine, knowing it‘s a lot of money for a philosophy major. He insisted but hasn‘t paid yet. I spent a lot of money on drinks last Friday, and I also bought some shitty gems for some mobile game the kids love. I started playing it during the long train journeys to Geneva Airport.
I finally got closer to my old dealer‘s friend, I even added him on Snapchat. He can get me what I want, and cheaper than the last guy, who is also my friend and is often busy, and I hate coming across like the junkie I am when I‘m down to my last smokes. But I bought a lot of rice, so food won‘t be an issue. And look, I‘m not a buffoon. When I say rice, I‘m talking Japanese rice. I got the Furikake on deck, mirin, dashi, Ochazuke, all that shit. I know what I‘m doing. I have several packs of Iberian black pic cured ham in the fridge, which I bought at the Lidl in my home country. I even have some Mexican sauces I haven’t even opened yet, which I bought with my ex in Mexico two years ago. They are waiting for me in the cupboard, paired with a lonely Tamale I bought at Migros, still unsure of whether cooking it in the microwave is ok or not. I‘ll consult YouTube after writing this.
I have food from many places and many people. I remember people through food. I eat their souls and learn to cook the way they told me to unless I think they‘re wrong. I often remember the fights I‘d have over food and cooking. The vegan girlfriend who I kind of agreed with but was faced with a naive sous-chef that lacked the Marxist vocabulary to accurately pinpoint the bourgeois subtext of SOME animal rights activism. Or the Mexican girl who put sauce on everything and pissed me off. I never said anything, I just bottled it up, as I watched her throw that hot sauce on food I carefully patted, chopped, dried, seasoned, fried, reduced, slow-cooked, boiled, and steamed. It all had to taste like some habanero fuckfest, even the pistachios, and the vinaigrette, the Safran, and the sex. And then there was the girl who had to take a photo of every meal. I’ve never been less mad to be mad. After all, the eye also eats, as they say here. Can we eat now? Thank you.
