Frail ari

At staff meal the other day, all a bit drunk and on our phones, Abby got up, chicken sandwich in hand and said fuck-I’m-just-eating-for-fun-now-aren’t-I. I looked up and said don’t-we-only-eat-for-fun? Sitting next to me was Brendan Pang the guy that went on MasterChef and now has one million followers on Instagram and is literally so DL gay: “Yeah, don’t we?” 

We only cook now when we have mouths to feed. Food’s lust is pragmatized when you live in share house or are paying high rent that you can’t afford because your exploitative and greedy hospitality boss cuts you after every rush. 

The last time food was fun was last week when I got so high I had to walk to the IGA and eat all my pickles up Victoria street. I’m still grieving the KFC Krusher, especially the Strawberry flavour. And Watermelon reigns superior over mango every season and everyday of the week by the way. 

Food seems militant sometimes these days. Even when I haven’t eaten breakfast and I go to work, I feel no hunger. And when I watch my guests eating what they pay obnoxious amounts for, it feels like a performance, or an object of consumption. I’m not sure where my pleasure went. Though, I’m sure my body is so sore after giving hospitality all weekend.  Isn’t that some stupid bourgeoise succumbing. For some reason my ribs hurt? I’m only 4 weeks into 21. My fake intimacy has given all my pleasure away. 

In my family’s home, every week my mum made sure there was so much food all the time and the fruit bowl was always full. She would go pick out a fish that she’d watch die in front of her and cook it with soy, mirin, vinegar, ginger, and spring onions cut so fine that they curled at their ends. When I was little, I’ve realised now, she didn’t let us eat certain chips, only because she didn’t like them. It’s kind of cringe that I have to outsource my Chinese-ness like a performance now. 

The only way that the Fun Family says I love you is through what’s on the table. I’ve been eating my intimacy my whole life, only to shit it out later. Ha Ha. Sometimes when they’re arguing over the intimacy, I think about what would happen if we just put ourselves on the table for consumption. And what would happen if one day I sat in Dad’s seat and not mine? What would happen if I put the knife before the fork and the fork after the spoon when resetting for mains? And sometimes I think about how white people who can only eat rice with soy and don’t finish every grain might as well say I hate you. 

But what am I eating off the table? What intimacies of mine does food hide? When I’m no longer hungry, sometimes I roll my food around between my thumb and my index; that feels intimate. When I’m in my bed and never want to leave, and my body is sore, and there’s three cups of tea on my bedside table, and I’ve orgasmed three times wishing for some sex with a breakfast in bed at the end, I understand my intimacy. But food has always been something to get out of bed for, so whenever will the performance end and the rapture start?

I know that when I’m hungry there’s too much open space and unresolved intimacy in my stomach, so I will pulse and breathe and hope into the next best flavour. Hoping that hunger will be my next thing. Maybe I’ll try on eating for purposes of fun. I’m hoping to find my first place soon. Let me know if you see it around.