Ah, OK, it is, in fact, a dessicated rice noodle, from...last night?
Yes, last night, we all gathered, we made a meal.
Some of us made the meal. Some of us chatted with the elders and the guests. Some of us begged the children to stop running, keep the voices just a titch below a dull roar.
Some of us were tipsy, some chilly, those of us in the kitchen, sweaty, swigging, snacking. Serving. Eating last. Proud to watch the feast.
Happy, deeply happy at the silence of children putting food where the noise came from and satisfying their hunger.
While eating last - on my very second forkful, in fact - there was something, something that had to be fetched. From the car. Outside in the cold wind. Now.
I forget what it was. Diapers?
I strained to suppress a grumble, and just up and walked outside, bowl in hand, fork to mouth, step, step, eating and walking into the dark dinnerhour silence, into the sound of no engines running, smell of other kitchens exhausting, bending of all ears to the gusts, walking across the lawn with my meal, treating it like a trophy with Bonus Edible Filling, like what else could all the great Bowls and Cups and Plates and Jugs ever have been for?
Stopping for a few mouthfuls in the frost beneath the trees while this is considered.
Plus a couple bites utterly devoid of thought.
When you eat, just eat.
Just stand there in the dusting of snow, back to the wind, and eat.
And, retrieving whatever it was, diapers I think, or wipes, or stiff diapers and frozen wipes, from the car. Balancing dinner, and the smell of baby powder-infused, waste-catching paper/plastic, all the way back to teeming house and hot heart of hearth.
Satisfied.
Ah yes.
Wake up.
Video loop of fancy dental implants reprises its repulsive Before shots.
One foot brushes another and this worm of sweet memory is cast aside, upon the carpet of a waiting room. I am most certainly a grateful man, with clean blue suede uppers. And a sub-gingeval scraping just ahead.
