We make community in the kitchen cooking meals, swapping jokes, unwinding our days like a skein of yarn. Our threads tangle us all together as we take dinner, refabricating moments lived and weaving lovely lies for each other’s entertainment.
And sure, many of the stories are about sex. Or romantic love. And we compare good food to orgasms. But the bread that sustains us is this kneading of our fractured days into a narrative arc. The meat of our daily rituals consists of the social taking of food, so that we may converse, so we may tell tales.
We are the stories that we eat.