with your mashed potatoes lovingly washed and scrubbed, peeled and carved, chopped, boiled, salted, mixed with a little mayonaise and a little sour creram and lot of genuine butter, the wooden spoon that mashes, always a wooden spoon, the creamy white color beneath the pure white steam in the dark green bowl on the table, the creamy-lumpy texture of the potatoies on my plate, the earthy smell, the buttery taste, mixing around,

with the gravy made with flour and the grease left over from the chicken, a brownish yellowish brownish yellow, flecks of pepper, rolling over the potatoes and running between the lumps and pooling in the crevices and running off the side under the chicken leg and the thigh and the breast and the wing,

and the peas, stunning green, coated with more butter and salt, individual balls, collected on my fork, I contemplate the collection as I bite them, roll one or two betwen my lips, mash the green stuff, almost firm, mostly mush, scrape the bits and pulp off my teeth with my tongue then suck it back and swallow

cold milk harsh against my warmth mouth, residue left on lips that I lick off, almost sour nearly sweet, a throaty mucousy flavor taste, filming the roof of my mouth and the back of my throat, wetting it

for the fluffy biscuit, a browner white than the chicken flesh or potatoes or milk, scoop up stray peas and puddle of gravy and smears of potatoes, one hand holding it and pinching it on the edge for the heat, I can taste the heat inside the biscuit, feel the grit of the flour in the biscuit's bottom and the rough texture of the biscuit's top dents the soft roof of my mouth and scratches the back of my throat,

to be soothed with another swallow of milk and cram another leg of chicken in my teeth and scoop potatoes peas gravy butter on top the fork,

jam it in while I'm still chewing the chicken,

another bite of biscuit,

more milk to wash it down,

My stomach bulges and I love you.

and I love bacon and eggs and hashbrowns, pancakes with syrup and sausage links and breakfast burritoes, biscuits and gravy, omelettes, cheese danishes. Ham on whole wheat and bowls of tomato soup and french fries, sanchos from Grande's and hamburgers with onions and french fries, Snickers bars, cans of cold coke, peanuts. Meatloaf and baked potatoes and peas in cheese, roast beef and boiled carrots and shrimp fried rice, spaghetti in meat sauce, cabbage, corn on the cob. I love graham crackers and donuts and bagels, mashed potatoes and hot dogs and pretzel sticks, zwieback and beef jerky and chocolate drops. And I love you. I love the way you cook chicken paprikash and whiskey steak and german potato salad, I love your spatzels and your gyros and your fettucinni alfredo, your banana boat suprise. I love you and your sopapillas and your pork stir fry and your Yankee pot roast,

I eat everything you give me, I eat the pork and beans with pieces of hot dog cut up into it, add chili sauce, eat it with a plastic fork and wipe the gravy off my lips with the back of my had, I eat the macaroni and cheese made out of a box with diced spam mixed in, scoop up the macaroni and the spam with a great big spoon and lick the cheese off the back of it, the rice and sliced summer sausage mixed with green beans and cold tomato soup in a bowl, the texture of rice and and sausage, bean and soup in between my teeth and under my tongue, I eat the tuna fish and cream of mushroom soup and egg noodles mixed togther with onions and shredded carrots, it is cold from the refrigerator but slides down bit after bit, I eat all of these mixtures, melanges, menages, these stews, cassseroles, I eat them and I want to eat more,

there's stuff on my chin, on lips and cheeks, it's on my hands, wiped on my chest, there's food under my fingernails and between my fingers, drying on my jaw. I don't need the spoon and fork, I don't need my hands, I'll put my face on the plate,

a baked potato heated to popping in the microwave and ripped open with a knife and stuffed with butter and sourcream and chives and bacon bits and sitting on a plate and waiting to be swallowed whole, cheeks stretching, tongue burning, throat choking, eyes watering. A ceaser-chicken wrap made of romaine lettuce and parmesan cheese and chopped grilled chicken and blood-red tomatoes and oil and vinegar and pureed anchovies and salt and pepper and olive oil garlic cloves raw eggs worcester sauce lemon, pancit noodles fresh cabbage, carrots celerey, snow peas, beans ketchup, onions sauteed, shrimps, pork, chicken, beef, soy sauce, salt, sugar, noodles, medium thin or fat, made of rice, long, straight round, until

the chemicals in the mash in my stomach transmorgrifies into a heroin rush hitting my brain cells like a million endorphine packages and the master of ceremonies is set to high but its not eough so I hit the local super M for suzi q's and twinkies ho-ho's ding dongs snowballs icecream in all the flavors mint chocolate chip strawberry rasberry and all the funky monk chunky cherry garcia chuby hubby flavors, but salt isn't where its supposed to be so planter's peanuts and fritos tostitoes lays baked lays bar b q lays move over to the aisle where the cans of green beans baked beans refried beans and open the cans with a hatchet a sledgehammer smear everything on the floor roll around in a mud of sliced peaches and pears and the cereal from boxes of raisin bran oatmeal flour sugar boxes of baking powder I don't care anymore laundry detergent fabric softener shampoo a crash as all the bottle of spices fall over and me flailing in the broken glas mixing my me with the powders and liquids and soups and soaps and stuff and stuff and eating and eating and eating. if I eat it twice is it still food?