I wonder if I will ever tire of being hand fed.
More and more I think less about the stone in my hand, and I believe articulating its presence here is a key reason. The key no longer in my mouth, and my no longer holding the trigger there. Heartbreak can be a contact reference and not the heart itself.
I have become confrontational. I like it. Without it you would not learn how to apologize and damn if everyone doesn’t owe me some discomfort. I can hand you the stone, too.
Christian and I had an amazing omakase meal of sushi the other night (at Royal) and it made me realize that despite whatever else we need to say about the men-only culture of expertise, or the Japanese culture of rarity, or the culinary culture of exclusivity: as a woman so deep in the vapors of masculine validation, being hand-fed by a man at the top of his game, is a profound delight.
And the key in my mouth has to nourish me if it is going to be delicious, so the stone becomes comfortable to the touch.