Figs

8.8.06

I bought some figs today, perhaps my favorite fruit, close tie with persimmons, papayas and mangoes and noted how differently they taste from the ones I had in Mexico. Not better or worse, just different. I wonder if it had to due with their ripeness, or the minerals in the soil where they grow, or the altitude or my level of hunger at the time of eating them, or the position in which they were eaten, solo, standing, sitting, or amongst others. When I think about the process of eating, of putting something in your mouth, experiencing it with your tongue, your teeth, your taste buds, your smell, why isn't every experience the same, if all your body parts remain constant? When Proust wrote about his Madelines, he answered that question, for the sensual experience of eating is so often linked with the circumstances surrounding the act.

Yet, in every experience we are a new person, having sloughed off old cells, being in the process of generating new ones all the time. When we eat, we not only take in vitamins, minerals, calories, carbohydrates, proteins, fats and water, but we imbue the process with hunger, desire, need for solace, aleviation of boredeom, distraction from pain or solitude, anger at neglect, joy in shared experiences, satiety of bodily needs. Eating is rarely just about eating. A fig is never just a fig. And nourishment a many faceted thing.

I love watching people eat and in my work, ask people to take note of how they feed themselves. Is it in a rush, in front of a TV, alone, with parties, pressured by spouses or in-laws to add more to the plate, absent mindedly while playing a video game? I was constantly hungry in MX from walking so much, up and down hills and losing everything almost as quickly as I digested it, but loved the opportunity to try new combinations of known flavors. Oatmeal "soup" in the morning with sliced apples, salads with jicama and pineapple, sopas with new pastas and different vegetables, salsas and pico de gallo, the freshest of tortillas, enchiladas and even re-fried beans; all foods I eschew back home. Was it the fact of someone else preparing all this for me and at hours I'm not used to? Or was it that part of living in a new place is eating as the locals do and that adds a certain delight that's missing back home with exactly the same foods? A corn cob is a corn cob is a corn cob, until you sprinkle it with chile, salt and limon, spear it with a wooden stick and eat it wandering along narrow streets, listening to minstrels and the hew and cry of students in search of a party.

We have lost so much of our sensual enjoyment of food in this country, with our busy schedules and the predominance of "fast food" outlets. I see so many obese children and my heart breaks to think of the dice stacked against their ever having a normal relationship with food, given the families they come from, their genes and this environment saturated with junk and soda. Yet, despite the quantity of food people are eating, many report not even tasting what they eat, when asked to slow down and discern the flavors they're inhaling. What does this say about our culture, supposedly the epitome of Western Civilization, if we can't taste the food we eat, don't have time for our moments in the sun, won't open our eyes to the gentle curve of a shadow on our porch?

When I think of some of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, they are the whorl of a young palm frond, the sea anemone under azure waters, the round precious rump of a baby's behind, the sunrise over a calm ocean, a perfect peach. Some of man's creations come close: our temples, some bridges, an artificial hip joint, a love letter. But that which comes from a tiny seed, hidden deep within the purple-white flesh of a fig, for example, is an amazement to me, that genetic code which creates over and over again in nature's perfect experiment. Tiny miracles which require only a bit of soil, water and sun to turn into elegant morsels of food. No wonder they cost $4.99 a pound!

Here's an assignment I would enjoy as a travel writer: tasting one particular food all around the world, where it grows or is raised naturally and where it is imported. How it is prepared or harvested, where it lies in the food chain of a nation, what literature it has fostered or been featured in or art it has inspired. What wars were fought over its abundance or dearth. If we could approach each meal as if it were our last, or first, how we might savor it and refuse to ever eat again anything wrapped in plastic, served on styrofoam or colored puce.