Love Bites: For the Hungry Girl

Over the stove, the night deep and dark outside, I say to you, "I think you were in my dream last night," remembering a fleshy substance at the corners of the morning. I peel down your skin, mash you up with garlic and some old sesame seeds. It's always this way, isn't it? You at dinner in the evenings, then floating around my head when I can't sleep; a gentle, purple image to cut through the noise. 

I used to visit restaurants just for you. To try you in a sticky, sweet sauce with rice, or piled high with olives and mint leaves. If I was having a particularly bleak day, I’d trail down to the supermarket and just sort of stand beside you on the shelf, hold out my hand. 

It’s weird, writing to you. This isn’t a euphemism for that other thing either, by the way; this is just real batshit crazy love for aubergine. This slinky purple vegetable that creeps about the corners of my mind and soaks up oil and salt in a way that no others can. Always something I can chop and roast and shape into exactly what I need. You’re not a person, you don’t have ulterior motives. You’re here to comfort. That’s all.

And isn't that what we’re all hungry for? Something to love us as fully and reliably as a vegetable that’s readily available to purchase and bring home in most shops. That doesn't ask questions. That tastes really good.  

You’re it; stirred into all of my noodles, mashed on top of toast, the backbone of my every pasta dish. I’ve grown tired of the courgettes and the roasted carrots, even pushed sweet potatoes and cauliflower out. It’s just us now, in my kitchen with the lights off and the door closed, a little bit of rosemary and garlic, some oil heating in the pan. Look at all this space. It’s all for you.