We’ve all heard, or maybe uttered, the phrase, “the spice of life.” It’s that one thing which makes life worth living.
Perhaps it was following a twelve-course tasting at one of those crisp, white napkin establishments; you know, the ones where you practically have to be invited because reservations aren’t accepted, and each dish comes with its own narrative. The ones where prices don’t exist, because they don’t need to exist. The gastronomic delights arrive fluidly as variable states of matter— some skeletons of recognizable ingredients, now bewitching solids and liquids that remind you what falling in love feels like; and gases that trigger warm, childhood memories.
It’s the kind of experience that makes anyone a seasoned gourmand for an evening. Or a lifetime.
Or, maybe it was after tasting the best sweet cream gelato known to man on the streets of Roma. Or, last Monday’s urban picnic of Whole Foods’ finest, where you scored the first helping of jerk chicken in their hot food bar, unadulterated by the neighboring mac n’ cheese. A feat like that is long-awaited and almost never achieved; for within that brown, biodegradable box lies the aleph— this infinitesimal point in space that contains all other spaces, which, by supernatural forces will transport you from the concrete jungle to the vegetal islands in just a few, swift, fervent bites.
Whatever your fancy, eating with gusto is the spice of life, and perhaps the most pleasing and beautiful experience one can create, share, or do.
Note: This post was first drafted in early 2016, shortly after my travels to Italy. I've updated it to reflect my current sentiments.