My response to turbulence in airplanes disturbs other passengers.
It’s not what you probably think. I don’t go white-knuckled or green-faced or breathless or limp. I don’t jabber or skulk or pray. The opposite, really—though my response may be born of the same awe. When I see from my window the tremoring of wing tips, when I hear the rattling of loose luggage overhead, I laugh. The more violent the tremor, the louder the rattle, the harder I laugh. Come now, I think. Is that all you’ve got?
Readers, I’ve been struggling for a while with the question of where this site is going.
Struggling because I have found, as you may have noticed, that I no longer wish to write only about food. Every loved subject must have its own made-up language, a rich set of secret signifiers. This is where the trouble comes for me: food has become everyone’s language. It is omnipresent, the story of our time. It is said that everything worth writing has already been written. I’m beginning to suspect that everything worth writing about food has already been written twice.
