Greetings, fellow readers.
Today, it is glorious outside. It’s sunny and warm. All weekend it was sunny and warm, and when it’s really nice, I can’t remember why I ever feel depressed.
And yet, sometimes, I’m a little down.
A week or so ago, I was having one of those days. I’d had to pick myself up and brush myself off one-too-many times, you know?
I thought: “What’s the point? We just live and live and live and then die? Is that all?” I had the feeling that so much of our lives are posturing; so much joyless jockeying for position. Thinking about promotions and investments and careers and savings. Yuck.
So I did what many have done before me: I turned to the fridge.
Therein, I found a jar of pitted castelvetrano olives. I opened the jar, grabbed a handful (with my fingers!) and stuffed them into my mouth.
They were delicious.
A little crunchy, buttery yet tart. They tasted fresh and ripe, and contrasted nicely with the brine they’d been soaking in.
As I ate them, I thought: “God, life really is beautiful.”
I made myself a cheese plate, and let the boursin melt on my tongue. I thought about our flank steak, how much I love sweet chilled wine in the summer time, how it feels to lie on the beach next to Z, or how I feel when I’m in a cold room under warm sheets. French fries with mayonnaise, my first pastel de nata, the smell of a baby’s scalp. Basically – all the sensory pleasures.
Sometimes I catch myself chiding: we’re not to use food as a reward.
You know what? That’s bollocks.
Food is delicious, and it should be enjoyed. Those olives were a life-saver.
Epicurus, you are my friend!
