Breakfast

The potatoes in the pan were slick with oil and crusty on one side, worm-like onions laid on top of each thick slice. I picked one out of the searing hot pan and watched as my fingers turned pink at the touch of the potato slab. I blew on it fiercely, hoping to cool it off because entrance to my mouth was imminent and approaching quickly. The roof of my mouth burned slightly upon the potato's entrance but the crisp outside matched with the fibrous mushy inside turned into a pulp on my tongue with barely any chewing.

The first time I burned the roof of my mouth I was four years old. Dad used to pick me up from pre-school to go on "dates" with me. We'd go home or to McDonald's for lunch and then to a movie or the Science Museum. I forget sometimes the effort my father invested in me and the time he spent to ensure I felt loved and supported. I burned my tongue on one of our "dates" eating homemade macaroni and cheese at the same kitchen table we eat at every night. It was an uncomfortable and foreign feeling that I never wanted repeated. Much to my dismay, it happens about once a month, more frequently when I purchase coffee from a coffee shop. The brown syrupy liquid is always so enticing, steam snaking off the top and the promise of a sugary bottom, but also extremely hot. Heated to a temperature beyond that of a normal household coffee maker, coffee shop coffee almost always burns my mouth and it is always my fault for impressing eagerness on the cup pressed to my mouth.

Oil ran down between my fingers, onto the webbing of skin that earlier today had pressed down hard on a mat to keep me from slipping during "down-dog." My tongue reached out to lick the orange-ish oil and it made me think of sweat, collecting on my upper lip. The salty, oily liquid infused with paprika had a similar taste to sweat that beads down to my lips on particularly hot days.

My feet padded across the carpet in our kitchen to the green and blue granite counter top. I pressed the red button which turned on the T.V. and searched for "Law and Order." I have recently become a "Law and Order" addict, thanks to my sisters. There is something carnal and completely luring about watching a show that includes surprise, wits, and crime-solving. It becomes rote after a while, but it still feels engaging rather than mind-numbing. In a milky-white bowl there are strawberries perched on top of one another, a small pile of green heads and seedy red faces. I pluck one from the top of the pile, a medium-sized one. The large ones intimidate me with their promise of juice running down my chin and the small berries always seem to be a bit tart for my liking. It's like Goldilocks and the Three Bears. I found one that was "just right" and pulled off the green leaves and popped it into my mouth. I felt it burst between my teeth, the seeds falling off their skin and the flesh turning to juice.

Eating, especially when starved, is an intimate, romantic act with ones-self. It can be private and luxurious, like taking a bubble bath with candles. Just a few tastes is all it takes for satisfaction.