The Palate or The Beauty of the Harvest

While doing some much needed deep cleaning, I came across this paper I had written for my Writing for Publication course at college.

12/8/2006
The Palate
Just yesterday, I had a conversation with a friend about food. We were discussing how the food must taste in Italy, for neither of us knew, but only assumed. I imagined rolling green hills, speckled with rows of wine grapes in the distance, and music, as I pictured hot steaming pizzas, with side dishes of fresh vegetables. I closed my eyes and thought of the creamy garlic risotto I had eaten not long ago and could almost taste again.

I opened my eyes and asked my friend if he has ever eaten food that was so good, he had to stop, put the fork down and wait, perhaps almost biting back tears? Blank eyes looked at me, and I became embarrassed for so carelessly exposing my appreciation for amazing food. “Are you kidding,” he said, “I just shovel it in, no time to think about it.” I realized he was not seeing the potential culinary experiences in Italy as I had been.

This conversation sharply reminds me of the culture I live in. Fast. No time to slow down and certainly no time to enjoy what is on our dinner plates. That is, if our dinner makes it to our plates at all.

In a recent movie, and perhaps one of my favorite, titled Mostly Martha, two chefs fall in love. Their romance blossoms over pots of soup, plates of spaghetti and red wine. A fabulous scene has the man knocking on the door of the woman’s house very late one night. Confused by his unexpected arrival, he assures her by saying he has “cooked for her.” In the next scene, surrounded by the glow of candle light (as required by all romancing and elegant dinners), she sits at the table blindfolded. He spoons the soup into her mouth very slowly, not sexually, but slowly, and she begins to name the ingredients, pausing between thoughts: tarragon…… (another taste)…garlic….(another taste)….bay…(he spoons another taste)…..chicken…..basil……and many other spices. Her intimate relationship with food allows her the ability to identify the most obscure ingredients: she is not shoveling it in; she is tasting it, enjoying it.

I confess to my friend who cannot remember what his food tastes like because he eats so fast, that I have almost actually bit back tears while eating, and I challenged him to eat slower, to taste each bite, and to let the food speak to him. Food is an art, and the chef artists. If we pass by Mozart’s music or Renoir’s paintings because we are in too much of a hurry, we miss some of the beauty of life. If we eat too fast, we miss the beauty of the harvest.

When Italy calls, I will answer, and I will compliment her culture by enjoying and tasting every bite that meets my lips.