October 8, 2009

My relationship with Georgi has been built on a series of rituals. He is the ritualistic sort. He has morning routines and night routines and routines for pretty much all parts of the day. He is systematic and rarely throws caution to the wind. Last night he left his work pants draped over the sofa's arm. Seeing this in the AM, halfway through his morning ritual of eating fruit, and before his gym ritual, he stood flabbergasted that he did not properly put away the pants the night before. Maybe I am rubbing off on him.

We view ourselves as a team. A special, private club that only allows us to be become members. We get this joke and none of you even know there is a joke. It's like that. And we have built a relationship, which was first a friendship, about rituals. Spin class every Monday and Friday at 6AM. Breakfasts at Cafe Cluny. Sunday night TV dates. Saturday morning outside jogs. Operas/Concerts/Plays. And of course food preparation.

We both love food and we have adopted this diet where we eat the same things every day. Whether breakfast or dinner the same basic idea, though the items we consume change a bit from morning to night. Lots of raw fruits and veggies. He prefers apples and bananas. I like peaches and berries. He made me appreciate cherries. So much. Lean meats, hams and turkeys. He opts for hummus while I adore tapenade. I will eat a pile of raw nuts and he'll have pita or bread. Raw beets, shredded cabbage, persian cucumbers, celery, jicama, carrots. I like the vegetables more than he does. He eats more meat. But I have gotten him to embrace the avocado. And of course there is the Bulgarian feta, something that I have become obsessed with. Like milk in my house growing up, it is always in the fridge. I will buy a block of it myself when low.

So we cut and clean and prepare these plates of raw veggies and fruits, lean meats, nuts and basic breads, and cheese. Sometimes fifteen different things on a plate. And we crack pepper and drizzle olive oil and balsamic and we eat, sometimes with our hands, until we're full. When not shit and synthetic foods, you can consume a lot. And we're pigs.

Some nights, like tonight, he's not there when I pick out the food. He's also not there to question whether I seriously want to eat 20 radishes. But, regardless of the peace in the vegetable aisle, it is not the same. I pile the plate with food. Raw beets and olives and feta and turkey and avocado. Texture, color, taste perfect. And I eat. And think only of him and how even this, a most basic task, is soaked in malaise. Not even my first love, food, can calm my appetite.