I was with my aunts and some boys, men, artists. We were at a dinner party in a house made of stone, with great big stone stair cases. The house was huge, but because of the stone and the stairs and open spaces there were not many rooms or economy of space. To the left of the foyer was a row of red velvet dining chairs. This was the washroom, north of that was the kitchen, within full view. Past the foyer was the living room or parlour, where everyone else was congregated -- except for the man who owned the house, who was in the kitchen. He was tall and thin, with black hair and a mustache, and was wearing a three piece suit.
I sat on a chair in the washroom, taking my socks off and putting them back on again. People came by and chatted with me. The man asked me if I had a job, and I said no, I couldn't get one. I blamed my aunt and people like her, who had three. Occasionally I remembered an email my old roommate had sent me, which I hadn't replied to yet. She had invited me to a dinner party as well. I imagined it was to show off the kind of people she lived with. I felt guilty for not responding.
When dinner was served, I sat at the far corner of a long stone table. My chair was too short for the table, so I sat with it up to my chest. We were brought plates with a half quarter slice of what looked like some kind of loose quinoa pie, with an arugala and tomato salad, and roasted orange peppers. Inside the slice of pie was a single nut, an almond, surrounded by a flavour that transported you as you chewed it. Made you feel, told a story.
Second course came, and it was the same dish as before. But as you ate the nut, it told another part of the story. Plate after plate came, and I ate and ate. Too full to finish each plate. I was in my own world, and in my glee. Finally someone else understood how food could be, how flavours could be used to touch the soul. Someone else spoke my language. In my mind's eye I got a glimpse of the titles of the food, and how each person started on a different chapter, how each of us was eating a different chapter in the circular story. As I came to the last dish, the story became less dark. I liked the dark and soulful experiencing, in comparison it was if my plate was covered in whipped cream.
I could not finish the dish. I was stuffed, exhausted. The man took my plate, and said, you are the last one to finish, and you've never finished a full plate. I said nothing. I wanted to tell him how much I had loved the experience, but thought others loved it more. That it didn't need to be said.
The dinner party jumped up, and said, oh, our taxi is here. It was rude to leave so soon after eating, but my family has no manners. As I put on my shoes, my aunt leaned down to me and said, nobody likes California Narrative. The style of eating was called California Narrative.
I said nothing. I wondered if they thought they had been eating plate after plate of quinoa pie, if they did not speak the language.
I sat on a chair in the washroom, taking my socks off and putting them back on again. People came by and chatted with me. The man asked me if I had a job, and I said no, I couldn't get one. I blamed my aunt and people like her, who had three. Occasionally I remembered an email my old roommate had sent me, which I hadn't replied to yet. She had invited me to a dinner party as well. I imagined it was to show off the kind of people she lived with. I felt guilty for not responding.
When dinner was served, I sat at the far corner of a long stone table. My chair was too short for the table, so I sat with it up to my chest. We were brought plates with a half quarter slice of what looked like some kind of loose quinoa pie, with an arugala and tomato salad, and roasted orange peppers. Inside the slice of pie was a single nut, an almond, surrounded by a flavour that transported you as you chewed it. Made you feel, told a story.
Second course came, and it was the same dish as before. But as you ate the nut, it told another part of the story. Plate after plate came, and I ate and ate. Too full to finish each plate. I was in my own world, and in my glee. Finally someone else understood how food could be, how flavours could be used to touch the soul. Someone else spoke my language. In my mind's eye I got a glimpse of the titles of the food, and how each person started on a different chapter, how each of us was eating a different chapter in the circular story. As I came to the last dish, the story became less dark. I liked the dark and soulful experiencing, in comparison it was if my plate was covered in whipped cream.
I could not finish the dish. I was stuffed, exhausted. The man took my plate, and said, you are the last one to finish, and you've never finished a full plate. I said nothing. I wanted to tell him how much I had loved the experience, but thought others loved it more. That it didn't need to be said.
The dinner party jumped up, and said, oh, our taxi is here. It was rude to leave so soon after eating, but my family has no manners. As I put on my shoes, my aunt leaned down to me and said, nobody likes California Narrative. The style of eating was called California Narrative.
I said nothing. I wondered if they thought they had been eating plate after plate of quinoa pie, if they did not speak the language.
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