On Food and Writing

by melissakiefer

 MFA Residency is a tease.  The balmy nights swept me up in a romantic writing dream. There, I believe in the possibility of a tangible writing future. But he didn’t kiss me in the morning. He slipped away after a nine-night rendezvous.  And my lips twitch and tingle from the memory and from the lack. And I fall back into aching daydreams. Hungry. So I read. Hope a heap of words fall into me.       

I wish writing could be my familiar ritual. Like morning coffee. Cool grounds. Cold feet on kitchen floor. Spatter-sputter-soft hiss. Inhale. Sigh. Hot sip.   

Sip. Take, eat.

In order to create, you must feed yourself. Get your fill.

This week, my body wanted pretzels and peanut butter, so I gave my body want it wanted. Though we promised to quit eating out so much, we went to Texas Roadhouse with another couple because we need to make friends here. I chose salmon instead of my usual steak but also ate a baked potato and three cinnamon-buttered rolls. I ate carbs in fellowship. I watched as my new friend enjoyed every bite she ate which nourished the baby inside her. I ate a fresh peach over my sink as sweet juice dribbled down my chin. I made mashed potatoes because mashed potatoes remind me of my grandma.  I picked squash from our garden and fried it at husband’s request.  I broke nearly every rule. Hungry for a feast of food and words. Sinned against restrictions and obstructions. Held myself to a standard of grace and not perfection. I ate foods I marked forbidden.  And I saw that it was good.   

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