Life of a Peach
There’s always an egg. But that is solitary, reflective. Think I’ll make the effort and do the eggplant. Remo grew it, and he was born with an eggplant in his mouth, well nearly, (he’s Sicilian), and he’s hungering for it, but he’s not here. I can’t let it rot.
There’s just the sound of the fan now, not the whirring of an overhead fan, which I would quite like- it’s electric – but a sound like some big tank farm engine warming up. Like what you hear outside a fish mart, with a thousand freezers heating up the atmosphere, but on a smaller scale. If you listen, it’s deafening, if you don’t listen, you don’t hear it. Sizzling eggplant will suffocate it. Or music. I’ll just turn something on in my head, and, really, it’ll go.
You’ve got to be hungry to cook for yourself, otherwise why bother?
You may as well just have a glass of wine and stare into the sunset until the cold, or dive-bombing mosquitoes, make you come inside. The fire in winter does the same thing. You just stare into it until your eyelids close, then totter off to bed. The food will still be there in the morning. Uncooked. That’s the irony of it, the food doesn’t need to be eaten. It’s you who have the need.