eat me
don’t ask me what’s cooking.
i am the spam of the earth, the burnt bits of corned beef sticking persistently to your teflon-coated fryer. i am garlic, burning in butter, hissing out in a pan of pain.
i shrivel easily, like badly kneaded pastry. and in times that i don’t shrink, i bloat like batter– crunchy on the outside, empty on the inside.
i am junk food, artificial flavoring, monosodium glutamate, olestra, sodium nitrite, 210 milligrams of 3,4-methylenedioxymethamphetamine dissolved in 6 ounces of frozen orange juice ready to ease your pain and unleash your inner bitch.
i am the poster-boy for chemical adulteration, your food additive, your chosen carcinogen, the cotton in your candy whetting your addiction with stale plumes of sugar fumes, a fake form of sweetness: cyclamate, stevia, aspartame, saccharin…
i am the leftover lard that oozes out of your grease-fed porkchop dinner, coagulating faster than blood on the edges of your fridge-crisped microwave-ready plasticware.
i am mold and mildew, salmonellae, listeria, staphylococcus aureus, vibrio vunificus– often quiet, sometimes invisible, poised to seal your breath away by touch of tongue.
throw me away and still, i’ll remain. i’ll haunt you with the stink of a household legion: maggots, roaches, flies, mice. take your pick.
so don’t ask me what’s cooking.
just open your mouth.
and let me in.
