a still-life of avocado toast
in the same way keen artists paint fruit in bowls, writers must describe the scarce, simple joys of food.
it begins with a loaf of bread, encrusted: a blank slate with the barest tinge of sour. the base upon which all else stands. the messy incision of a bread knife whittling it to parts. a delicate crumb texture fallen to pieces. turn on the cast-iron hot enough to brand skin. watch the soft insides brown into armor. run along the hardened sides, as it bristles and crackles at the intrusion.
a drizzle of olive oil, then impale the eggshell and let the insides flow. no hesitation, only release. the sizzling gargle of first contact. life, denatured in real-time. imagine the strands of albumen uncoiling, then tangling to form pearly-whites around a scorched sun. lacy edges that dared to outrun the solar system. sunny side-up, smiling against the ironblack.
to eat an avocado is to destroy it entirely, wholly. pierce the leathery armor in half, hollow out the stubborn seed of its core. leave it bare, broken on the kitchen counter. metallic tines digging into smooth flesh, scooped and spliced. sage green smears on canvas, the cresting of imprecise waves.
toast cannot stand without embellishment. sprinkle of salt, briny as the sea that came before it. grind down peppercorns into a shyly-spiced snowfall. and only if the scales demand balance, add the sting of squeezed lemon.
devour it as much as it was meant to be savoured, slowly. feast upon the calculated layers; taste the simple harmonies when they sing out from the crowd. cut open the searing yolk. so satisfying to slice it apart, shot-through the drooling liquid center. marigold yellow dripping down the forearm.
