Anderson’s Pea Soup (part II)

I’m gonna drive this story home if it kills me.  This is a microcosm of my life, a test.  If I can find the focus and the discipline and the muscle to round third base, and pound the crunchy red dirt at full, gritty throttle, slide into home plate with a dramatic and maybe even dangerous WOOSH, a leaping trail of fire and a robust cloud of smoke, then certainly, I am qualified and capable of living the life of my dreams, which is, of course to be a wildly successful, inspiring and life altering and rich author.

That said, without further ado, take my hand and let me lead you amiably back into the enchanted land of Anderson’s Pea Soup.  (Mykael told me on the phone last night that it’s offially called “anderson’s SPLIT pea soup”, but I prefer anderson’s pea soup, because it sounds cheaper and slightly more barfy, but in a fun way like a fat farm summer camp… which this place might just be on par with.  I’ll let you know for sure when I officially visit one, hopefully in 2009.)

I wanted to be hungry.  Not because anything on the menu spoke to me, but because eating is such a lovely activity to engage in.  Everything else conveniently disappears, and all that remains is hard core, immediate, substantial sensuality.  Take a steaming bowl of pea soup for example~ green like a pureed bowl of swampy emeralds.  Thick, perfectly warm, maybe even hot, which makes the plot a little thicker (like pea soup that has been primordially bubbling on the stove top with the lid off, turning to a thicker slime by the moment, as it perpetually sends out courageous steam scouts in search of the heaven that just MIGHT exist in that skyward after life.)  Maybe you have a giant spoon.  It could be so big, that when your piping hot green bliss has been blown on enough times, it will fill your mouth entirely with a thick, sexy, ham-dazzled universe of warm, comforting thickness.  Blowing on hot soup is sexy.  What better way to get that luscious someone so uncontrollably aroused that they can only bend you over the kitchen table, grab you by the hair, rip your skirt up and your panties down (just to your mid thighs), and fuck your brains out just like that, and then lick your hungry lips and proceed to blow gentle as whispers on a shamelessly humungous spoon full of Anderson Pea Soup.  (It’s not just pea soup, it’s a way of life)

(I just cracked myself up so hard, here in the café, that I had to take another parenthi-cation, to articulate something profound and amazing.  Thru my writing, I feel deep intimacy with myself.  Sometimes I get really frustrated when I try to figure out how to “love myself”…it’s not an endeavor that is “thinker friendly”.  When I try to use my mind to conceive of the nitty gritty hows of self love, the image that usually shows up is a tiny marble (oh, okay, let’s just say it’s an oversized soup-pea!) falling thru a bottomless vertical maze.  Sometimes it bumps up against an edge or a wall, and sometimes it is freefalling thru vast, empty blackness… meaning it’s orientation is either the indifference of the great void, or it is a temporarily existing edge of confrontation, agitation, fear, or maybe even some here today, gone tomorrow messenger of worldly love.)  But THRU THE ACT OF WRITING, I can know myself, in a tangible way, in the moment!  As I laughed out loud, I was filled with a feeling of satiation, like spending quality time with a steadfast old friend!)

I could go on and on about the sensuality of food, (and I reserve the right to at an alternate time and place in linguistic space…) but like one of my yoga teachers, Noah Maze likes to remind his students~  When you look into ANYthing deep enough, you can see EVERYthing!  So let the culinary sensuality of Anderson’s pea soup speak volumes of the heavenly slice that it is to enjoy food.  Oh, except while we’re on the subject, and since I didn’t get to live it in real time, because I wasn’t hungry, because I had previously partaken of one of Beverly Lazzeri’s home baked blueberry muffins (slathered in salty, smooth peanut butter, but PLEASE don’t let HER catch wind of this, because for some reason, amongst the Lazzeris, it is sacrelige to put nut butter on muffins… Don’t ask me WHY, because in MY world, nut butter is an essential addition~ it balances out the carb rush, and makes it a meal that can actually sustain me until lunch time, rather than just send me back to bed at nine am, and back to the [pea soup] kitchen by ten thirty… but I digress) (do you REALLY digress Athena?… because according to my calculations, I smell a regression coming on.  How can you bring up the subject of PEANUT BUTTER, without at least throwing down some quick but still mad props to the far-out psychadelia of this legumular ally???  All I will say is that sometimes, in the throes of a typical meandering, moving sidewalk riding, day dream breathing slice of life, I find myself inexplicably moved by some high and mystic force, into the kitchen.  I come to with the open peanut butter jar in my hand, raised to my eagerly sniffing, hypnotized, maybe even salivating shnoz, the warm, dizzying, earthy perfume giving me a wild, psychotic orgasm right there on the perpetually soiled linoleum.  Peanut butter should be king.  The scent of peanut butter spreads its self unabashedly across the entire dimension of scent with just the most modest little whiff…)

(Okay, and then let’s just allow me to give that most honorable of sensual mention to the iceberg lettuce side salad that never was, but really should have been, by some twisted strain of fate… You can riff on iceberg as fervently as you want, but just know that I know that you do know in your heart of hearts, that when push comes to shove, and the sensuality of the pale green poster child of crispness’s quintessential worth comes into question, you’d be there in an INSTANT to bale this cheap and nutritionally void food friend of the fifties house wife generation out of jail, or accept a collect call from the watery, light in the loafers, sorry substitute for a bowling ball… am I right?  Okay, I’ll just speak for myself, since it makes me wanna puke when other people put sweeping generalizations into my mouth.  I renounced the wet-est dream of a would be vegetable for years, when I discovered the concept of vitamins actually existing in FOOD and not just in hard to swallow little clumps living in indigenous bottled tribes.  I followed in Patricia Bragg’s footsteps, as a heath crusader~ and I got a quarter of a lifetime supply of the over rated privilege to poo-poo iceberg lettuce.  I didn’t even consider it a FOOD.  I denied it’s existence entirely, the way an atheist does, God.  But then I got “comfortable with me”, “grew up a bit”, and rediscovered the innate perfection of this very unnecessary but wildly experiential head of cool crunch.  One bite transports me right to the thunderous base of a heavily cascading waterfall.  Its viscous crunch is like the perpetual pounding of water falling onto its self from great heights.  And the slightly embarrassing truth is that I don’t even know for sure what the honest nutritional value of this highly controversial rebel rousing cruch fest really IS… I could google it once and for all…but I’d rather live enshrouded in mundane mysteries such as this)

So, like I said, back in the covered wagon days, a couple of long winded and pointless paragraphs ago, I WANTED to be hungry.  But I wasn’t.

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