Maybe not me, but my writing. I think. Hell, maybe it is me.
Broccoli rabe, kalamata olives, vinegar, hot peppers, capers, just about any type of cheese–the stinkier the better. I’ve never tasted anchovies. When I was younger, no one I knew ate them, and by the time I realized they were probably a food I’d enjoy, I was long a vegetarian.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m a “foodie,” there are plenty of basic, simple comfort foods that make my list. Oatmeal with tons of salt and butter, cheetos, pb&j. Yes, peanut butter–the real kind–no additives. I don’t know about your house, but in my house we go through gallons of it. Nothing says comfort like a sammich. Mrs Fringe <3 bread. But if I had to choose my two favorite sandwiches, one would be a lightly toasted extra sharp Irish white cheddar with sour pickle slices on sourdough, and the other would be chèvre, kalamata olives, fresh dill and sliced cucumbers on baguette.
Like anything else, these foods are only good if they’re fresh and prepared well. Same with writing, words and stories.
I enjoy strong flavors, strong opinions, strong words. Things that make my tongue and my brain tingle. Not everyone agrees, not on their plates and not on their book shelves.
Not everyone likes the same books I do, the same authors. Not everyone *gasp* enjoys my stories. But those that do, really do. Kind of like those that have a taste for broccoli rabe. It doesn’t mean it’s a “flavor” that’s inherently bad or good, individual tastes vary. It occurs to me as I type, this might be seen as a cryptic message about rejections. Nope. Still waiting, haven’t heard yay or nay on the fulls that are out. Just flagellating myself while I wait. Umm, I mean, thinking. Just thinking.
It’s Friday, Friday Night Madness tonight. Fatigue is coming over, we’ll have dinner, one beer each, and laugh. Art Child will show him her latest sketches. We’ll cluck and tear up and sniffle a bit as I give him the update on Big Senile Dog (kidneys–I’m waiting on more test results), and he’ll fill me in on the rapidly declining health of his Big Senile Dog, and then I’ll read him the next couple of chapters in Astonishing–it’s become our irregular routine.
You’re welcome to join us. I’m thinking basic pasta tonight. I make a mean puttanesca sauce–no anchovies. If you don’t like it, I can order a pizza. If you don’t like pizza, well. Maybe Art Child will share her Easter chocolate.