Planned, written and edited with a forty minute time limit using the following quotes as inspiration. 1. Food is our common ground.
2. There are people in the world so hungry, that God cannot appear to them except in the form of bread.
3. In our fast-forward culture, we have lost the art of eating well. Food is often little more than fuel to pour down the hatch while doing other stuff - surfing the Web, driving, walking along the street.
4. The day that hunger is eradicated from the earth, there will be the greatest spiritual explosion the world has ever known
Now there is a sight I haven't seen for a long, long time.
It’s a beautiful thing a finely cooked piece of meat is. With the application of a sprinkle of salt, a gentle grind of some black peppercorns, a drizzle of olive oil then four minutes on a searing hot pan can transform something so primitive into something decadent. An elegant main fit for even an apostular appetite at the last supper. Despite the presence of the immaculately presented silverware, the savage within me implores; your hands, use your hands!
The call is too strong to resist. I grip the tomahawk by the bone, lifting it from its bath of red juices and fatty run offs. I steady myself, just one bite. Savour it, this might be the last one ever. I’m in heaven. A torrent of flavours; salty, smokey, a whisper of spicey. An oral perichoresis that shouldn’t be of this earth. And don’t get me started on the sides.
Where a hearty steak is the main suspect, the humble, unassuming potato is its accomplice. Today, mashed. It’s not hard to get it right. Peel, water to the boil then wait. Don’t rush this part or you might get chunks, evidence of a job gone wrong that a jury will be quick to convict on. A splash of milk and a generous portion of butter. Balance with some salt and get angry with it. Beat them beyond recognition. Pummel them into something unrecognisable.
The end result: the plated starchy cloud I see in front of me. The fork this time, you’re not a monster. I advance the four silver spokes through the cloud sideways as though they were the gates of heaven opening, yearning me to advance. I rotate my wrist, scooping, then I indulge.
Then a bang at my cell door claws me back to reality. Warden says my time is up.