Yesterday I shared my horror at discovering that the guvvy is mucking about with the food supply again–this time in the form of “GMO” giantized salmon.
At the very moment of that writing, a fillet of what looked to be perfectly normal Atlantic salmon reposed in my fridge. I purchased this, mind you, before I had any idea that Frankensalmon could be even now glaring at me through the fish counter window.
After reading the GMO fish article I reflected a moment, then decided not to pitch it based on its petite proportions. After all, I am petite (?).
So this evening I decided to eat it, despite the fact that I was not at all hungry. I have been struggling with this damn depression for many months now, which has ruined my appetite and made me even more petite. But I gathered my resolve. I must eat if I am to have strength to fight this monkey off my back, right?
So I took a pack of this yummy gluten free rice ramen, which tastes like cardboard soaked in hot pee. A nice piece of fresh salmon will flavorize it, right?
Removing the fillet from its brown paper wrapping, I inspected it for signs of illegitimacy. There were none. I smelled it. It smelled like fresh salmon.
Atina, my now-20-month-old Belgian Malinois, was driving me crazy humping her fleece blanket. She does that. Often. She is a sex-crazed teenager.
So, to get her mind off of humping for two minutes, I cut a strip of raw salmon skin into tiny bits, made her sit and look deeeply into my eyes, and handed her a bit of salmon.
You would think that any dog would be in ecstatic transports, being the lucky recipient of a piece of salmon, no?
Atina rolled it around on her palate, gave it a cursory chew, and spit it out on the floor with a look that said, “Awww, wadja do THAT for?”
“Girl,” says I, “You have just become the Royal Tasteress.”
I threw the rest of that fucking fish in the freezer, to be disposed of next time I go to the dump.
I really think this is a sign that after our Thanksgiving duck I need to become a better vegetarian.
My main problem is motivation. No, wait. My main problem is that I’m too fucking depressed to care whether I eat or not. It’s a vicious cycle, because the less I eat, the more my nutrition suffers, my body falls apart, my brain doesn’t work right, and everything sucks more.
If I had a lovely dark skinned South Indian kitchen staff cooking for me, I bet I’d eat. There is nothing that will make my senses happier than dosai (a crepe made out of lentil paste) filled with spiced potatoes, with sambar (a piquant soup served with dosai and related dishes), coconut/green chili chutney, tamarind chutney, and slurping it up gloriously with the hands.
I think of my beautiful brown friends in South India who fed me so lovingly, and begged me to stop crying because it was making them sad. But I couldn’t stop crying because no one had ever been so kind to me before.
One woman in particular touches my heart to its core.
She is a big woman in a culture that values petiteness, and she feels this acutely. Also she is very dark, and Indian women are obsessed with trying to make themselves fair.
I think she is the most beautiful woman in the world. When she wraps you up in her soft-strong hug, chuckling from somewhere in her soul, you feel embraced by the Cosmic Mother.
When she confided her sadnesses to me, I said, only half joking, “Oh my dear, you are so beautiful, can I come and live at your house?”
She looked very seriously and long, her deep brown eyes into my mood-ring blue hazel ones, and said,
Unlike myself, who live in a tin can with a bathroom in it, my friend lives in a mud hut with no bathroom in it. Cooking is done over an open fire. Panthers, tigers, snakes and rabid domestic animals are the local hazards, not counting the men. My friend’s husband beat her because she miscarried her baby, then he left her for another girl.
I have to think of her more. A large part of me wishes I hadn’t left. Another, larger piece of me wants to go back and find her. I would learn how to cook dosai, iddlies, vadas, biryani…anything to make those deep brown eyes light up.
But no salmon.
I don’t believe my friend has tasted salmon.