jolly green and pear shaped, but never giant

and what lovely sensual morsel might that cryptic message line be referring to?

nothing other than that silken, sensual, simple fruit, the AVOCADO. lusciousness hardly does justice as a word to capture the buttery unctuousness of a perfectly ripened slice, dice, or chunk of avocado, as it glides over your lips, coating them with a moisturizing balm, even more emollient than wiping a slab of waxy, gluey chapstick across kiss-battered lips. (and how i love having kiss-battered lips..an inconspicuous little grazing of my tongue over shards of torn, parched lip skin and i am flooded full throttle with intensely visceral memories of our lips sensually, teasingly, tauntingly, bitingly, passionately dancing for hours on end (or so it seemed). kissing. kissing. kissing. love love love kissing.

ok, back on task, kissing reverie aside, avocado slathered lips, a salve for kiss-battered lips?

so, after a long passionate night of lip dancing, and a case of freshly kiss-battered lips, my companion and i enjoyed a late and lingering lunch, both of us independently ordering dishes prominently featuring the humble green fruit. the fact that the restaurant was Mexican, might have contributed to the abundance of avocado-themed items gracing the menu, but speaking for myself, i was delighted to have the silken fatty spread coat my tender lips, healing my skin, while nourishing my body and spirit (well, not sure i can credit the avocados for that, as that one ought to be credited to my very centered, present, and reassuring dining companion).

my companion ordered the avocado citrus salad, brimming with fruits of all sorts, with firmer textures contrasting with the creamy softness of the avocado. i didn't taste it, only watched him enjoy, so i can't comment much on the flavor of his salad, pictured below:

I am honestly not sure how delectable his salad was, but given our blissed out state, just about anything short of a cardboard box would have tasted good!

As for me, my kiss-battered lips, fluttery tummy, and blissed out soul craved its fix of avocado x2. Opting for Chicken Tortialla soup (adorned with dices of the delectable green fruit) and a romaine salad tousled, like my hair, with sweet, crunchy jicama, (out of season) tomatoes, and lush, ripe, perfect, slices of heavenly avocado. the only standout amid the otherwise vapid flavors of the salad was the uber soft, pale green slices my fork made a bee-line for.

i confess that the soup was lackluster; viscous, flat and lacking the vibrant and piquant flavors and smooth texture of a really fine rendition of tortilla soup. having not a drop of mexican blood in my gringa body, i can still offer up a tastier version of the famed soup, but as i am fond of saying, 'sometimes it's just NOT ABOUT THE FOOD,' and that sunday afternoon was one of those times. the food was just there; needed sustenance.

Shockingly, for 2 foodies we never lapsed into a dialog, no less a critique of our dishes, something i can't resist 99.9% of the time. Instead, the sensual focus was interpersonal this time, rather than gastronomic. My salad, like my soup was uninspired, the dressing thin and limp, aching for a dose of cumin and a jolt of smoky chipotle, but my companion MORE than made up for what the food lacked on every relevant dimension and then some.

the highlight of my meal was the humble avocado, and the highlight of my experience was my companion, spicy, deep, and oh so soulful (and more), totally unlike our meals.

ciao for now,

jade.

sweet and succulent

Perched atop a large branch at the top my uber sensual food tree iS? Yes, you guessed it -the humble little bilvalve, THE OYSTER. The oyster oozes sensuality, a siren singing from the sea, beckoning us to her. Of course, such sensual beckoning can be sensed from the little critters ONLY in their most pristine state (raw and yes, primal). Once adulterated by a quick roll in the crumbs as a prelude to a boiling lard bath, or Rockefellered and smothered in viscous sauciness, the humble little bivalve's sensuality evaporates as instantly as steam gushing forth from a whistling tea kettle.

Oysters even SOUND sensual...the long ohhhyyy sound, drawn out expectantly on the tongue, almost breathy, igniting the fire before they have been decorously plated before your eyes. Ordering them from a wait person initiates the food foreplay, anticipation building slowly, appetite whetting, palate teasing, inciting hunger for their imminent arrival. Finally, a dozen or half a dozen swim their way over to you, resting gently on a bed of soft, crushed ice, surrounded by dainty lemon slices and petite saucers ladled with the classic oyster bar trifecta: the tart migonette, the biting horseradish, and the blazingly crimson, but otherwise uninspired cocktail sauce.

Glistening in briny liquid pools, nestled in opalescent shells, the oysters scream succulence and like human anatomy, no two oysters look exactly alike...each one unique in size, shape, color, and liquidity. They sit before you, teasing and tauting your senses. You take them in, look them up and down, breathe in their fresh, fragrant scent of the sea. One by one you, you peruse the offerings, your eyes lingering and evaluating each tender morsel; Mana for the Foodie Gods, which one will be first, the chosen one? Is it smaller? Bigger? Juicier? Drier? Plumper? Pinker? Greyer? Thiner? Silkier? than her sisters? So much temptation.

You can hold back no longer, your fingers migrate to the plate, gently, gingerly you grasp the chosen one - -then, a sprinkling of citrus, a dash of the red stuff - the roughness of the shell grazes your lower lip ever so slightly, noticing the rough texture of the shell, in stark contrast to the slipperiness of its jewel. You tip the shell back just a few degrees, sending the sweet pink meat sliding forth from its encasement, landing squarely on your tongue. Your mouth, bathing in briny liquor, the scent of the sea wafting upwards, the texture on your tongue, silky soft, naked, slippery, succulent. A little bite from your teeth releases another squirt of the sea into your mouth, filling it with contrasting tastes and textures (e.g., sweet, salty, smooth, rubbery) as your teeth and tongue tangle with the soft flesh, devouring it, savoring the feel of it all as it glides its way down effortlessly. Repeat (x 5 or 11). By now you have surely enjoyed one or more GastroGasms. I know I have!

The oysters must be fresh (remember to heed the oyster R's in your seafood calendar). As for me, it's January (an R month) and my own memories are fresh and vivid, having been treated to a divine sampling of oysters this weekend, consumed at sunset, with a spicy champagne, overlooking the pacific ocean as waves gently pounded the shore, the golden sun slipping gently into the horizon, a bright pink orchid trail emblazoning the darkening sky. Oysters, teasing the palate, champagne bubbles tickling the tongue in a sensual GastroGasmic dance.

Losing My GastroGasmic Virginity

My nascent awareness that food and sex collide harkens back just a few years - - well, actually more than a few years, when as a 17-year old ingenue, I departed sleepy suburban stomping grounds to begin my maiden voyage - -freshman year at a large, urban university on the eastern seaboard. I was on my way. I had finally arrived! Time for life as an adult at the Big U! Anxious to cut the parental cord and begin cutting my teeth, my freshman year along with requisite freshman 15 was ushered in before my meager belongings had even been carted up to the closet inauspiciously called a ‘dorm room’

“The Towers,” two non-descript, dirt-colored, towering edifices lining a city block on a busy urban thoroughfare would be calling itself home to throngs of eager freshman piling their larder onto hotel style push carts dragged along by weekend warrior dads instead of neatly attired bellcaps in their starched uniforms. Organized chaos ensued as excited newbies and their frenzied parents bravely navigated the choppy waters of college moving day. Emotions ran high, even higher than all the gear stacked on the movable carts. Before long, mascara streaked Moms and sweaty Dads tore themselves away from newly liberated teenaged offspring, climbing back in their station wagons (yes, this was before the days of gas guzzling SUV’s) to make the drive back to suburbia in their new roles as empty nesters.

Before unpacking my steamer trunk and putting away my belongings, i encountered my first collision with the food-sex nexus, lassoing my attention like a skilled wrangler perched atop his muscular mare. At street level, commercial enterprises occupied the space in the freshman dorms, guaranteeing midnight marauding freshman an arsenal of perpetually available munchies to suck down as solace and distraction as they burned the midnight oil, jacked up on impressive amounts of caffeine and sugar. One of the ground floor tenants was a convenience store type place with the usual suspects of uninspired junk food for sale. Nothing wholesome, nothing inventive, and nothing inviting; just a veritable array of generic edibles and potables to satisfy late night cravings. But the other establishment, a gourmet bakeshop catered to a more refined, perhaps more prurient palate, owing to the specialty of the house: CHOCOLATE ORGASMS!!

My innocent 17- year old mind (and body) could barely contain itself, giggling inside and out at the notion of equating a simple chocolate baked morsel with monumental sexual satisfaction, a merger of which I knew much about the former, but almost nothing about the latter. Chocolate Orgasms, intense fudgy little brownie bites that exploded in your mouth, coating it, filling it with waves of ooey, gooey, chocoately goodness. My first GastroGasm, and I had yet to lose my virginity (that took about 3 more months and is a tale for another time, and probably another space).

I lost my Gastrogasmic virginity to a Chocolate Orgasm!! With several extraordinary fudgy bites the genesis of my fascination with food and dining as transcendent, even sexualized bliss was born.