Pasta. Especially zucchini and ham (and, it
goes without saying, cream). It’s like my demon.
Some sort of sensual and translucent creature, sneakily peering at you from under a canopy of apparent healthiness. She hides below the word zucchini, hinting at some measure of vegetable lightness. And she gets you.
Some sort of sensual and translucent creature, sneakily peering at you from under a canopy of apparent healthiness. She hides below the word zucchini, hinting at some measure of vegetable lightness. And she gets you.
I imagine that every person has their own tempting demon, and for those who often use the word diet along with sighs and sobs, demons are beings of many colours but, even more, many flavours. Fluffy skirted meringue woman, flirty Americans with the scent of bacon, delicious chocolate-ladies from the tropics. I talk about female figures because, let’s be honest, male personifications of food wouldn’t be this alluring.
Healthy bespectacled radishes and beefy steaks, tops.
Well, my mother’s pasta is the goddess of
first courses, and every time she cooks it, it’s enough to feed a
moderately sized orchestra. And every blessed time I look at it with
more lust than you could find in three volumes of 50
Shades.
The obvious result is that, forkful after forkful, each one followed by five minutes of Don’t do it!, I end up scoffing down a bathtub of it.
The obvious result is that, forkful after forkful, each one followed by five minutes of Don’t do it!, I end up scoffing down a bathtub of it.
That’s why two evenings ago, to my own great surprise, I only ate one serving.
Without saying anything I went away leaving the goddess on her bridal bed. Of course, she didn’t like it. Her. Used as she was to giving herself just to disappear among regrets, leaving you wanting, she couldn’t just be ignored that easily.
This must be why, after that evening, she took to reappearing: more and more abundant, with increasingly alluring sauces and gravies, brushing up against the ladle in the pan. Even this morning I found her there as I opened the fridge. Zucchini and ham. I let the phone ring.
I think now she’ll be gathering all her cheeseleader friends to invite me to something like a sexy sleepover.
But that’s how you deal with jerks. You don’t
call them back.
Hang out with them if it’s the case, don’t be antisocial. When they’ll wink at a second, tastier serving, to be consumed when the table is cleared and you’re alone in the kitchen… go away. Say you left your computer on.
That other evening I didn’t need to think about it, to make an effort. It’s the knowledge that I don’t need that jerk. My succubus won’t have me.
I don’t think we’ll ever really be friends. She’ll keep courting me because I told her no, and she’ll stop only if I fall for it again. But I’m fabulous now, bitch.
Hang out with them if it’s the case, don’t be antisocial. When they’ll wink at a second, tastier serving, to be consumed when the table is cleared and you’re alone in the kitchen… go away. Say you left your computer on.
That other evening I didn’t need to think about it, to make an effort. It’s the knowledge that I don’t need that jerk. My succubus won’t have me.
I don’t think we’ll ever really be friends. She’ll keep courting me because I told her no, and she’ll stop only if I fall for it again. But I’m fabulous now, bitch.
For now, (left)over and out.
Moon [-1.6]
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