Food is not the same.

Looking at this bowl of soup is undeniable that food does not taste the same.
At least to me.
It's not food anymore. It's the idea of a bowl of soup.

I wonder if it has anything to do with all the hearts broken and the empty bottles,
or endless nights in crowded bars, or all the books written by drunks all around me,
or maybe, just maybe, just maybe it has to do all with the headaches I gave my mother.

This bowl looks at me. Right at me. I swear it does.
Maybe just looking for answers, just like me.

The intimate ritual of preparing a dish tells me otherwise,
the music plays, the veggies wait and the meat marinates,
I humbly wait for the water to boil and expect the oven to find his right temperature.
Waiting, the moments I think about what the fuck is going on everywhere and
if we are really ready for another day.

The guy going wrong in a one way street and the lady carrying a black bag under the sun,
the kids worshiping dembow, holly men touching little kids, corrupt politicians and
arrogant teachers take my appetite aways faster then I can say gofio.

Maybe thats why. Are this things playing with my palate?
If they are, I'm screwed.

Tonight I'll cook again a healthy dish and can only hope that the dirt and carelessness
stay away from my tongue.

I work hard, I deserve a good meal once in a while.