I am told I should write about food. As if enacting my superego, all my friends that know about my blogging insist I should write about food. As if to say 'enjoy, write, enjoy, write, enjoy, write ...' (you get the idea).
Yet I have always found this task precisely very difficult. I have often thought I would love to be a 'food writer', to write occasionally about food in a way that shows fidelity to food, to the ritual of making, and sharing, and to the erotic economy of that ritual. But I always seem to fall back from it.
Why is this? What is it about writing about food in particular that I find so difficult? This, one might say, is my symptom: the gap between who I think I am and who I am able to show I am. And with food, this gap is like an aching chasm, accusing, beligerent. I want to be the bon viveur, the open, serene and endlessly magnanimous creature hat can spread itself across endless plains of hostility and indifference; but I am too small-minded for that. I am peevish too. Food, and the gifting of food, is probably a way of ameliorating the worse excesses of my rather tricky personality. It's too close, to dear, too raw to be something that can be discoursed.. and yet here I go again.
Ah the agony of self-knowledge and the joys of self-forgetting!!
Go on: have another roast potato (roasted in goose fat of course).