Diet ode to my ancestors
Guggering potatoes. You heard that right? It’s not googling.
Dad is telling me about a method for planting the crop, what he grew up doing.
I never did that on FarmVille back in the day.
My father made use of his hands. Dirtied them, felt the soil.
Out of respect for my forebearers, I’m no longer eating chips, crisps, or fries.
I only want potatoes in their purest preparations.
Acceptable forms of spuds:
Boiled
Mashed
Baked
Roasted
Bread
Boxty
Bog
I want to age like a bog body.
Thousands of years of preservation, but now.
Figured out a small yearly ritual.
On the last day of winter I’ll dunk my head into the acidic water of Connacht.
On the first day of spring I’ll return for a touch up.
Won’t need tretinoin again, nor rose water.
Just annual dips and daily peat spritzes.
100% dark chocolate or poison
A rumor went around that I tried to poison someone once.
I offered them a piece of 100% dark chocolate and they
had a conniption when they ate it.
Foolish of me, really, as I know building up a tolerance is necessary.
70% this week, 85% next, 90% the following, and so on.
Diligent training of the palate.
If you don’t believe me, check the directions on the wrapping of
Lindt’s EXCELLENCE bars.
Hast du Feuer?
A good rite of passage in Berlin is being asked “Hast du Feuer?” on Admiralbrücke. Ideally by a looker with a gleam in their eye. Yes of course you have fire. You hand over a lighter from your mini bum bag. He lights up with the heat you gave him. Calms with the flame you lent. Thanks you in a foreign accent. Maybe he’ll invite you to The Club™ or he’ll walk away down the canal and leave you tormented wondering what would’ve happened if you exchanged numbers.
