At last a book written just for me.
The day broke with sunlight this morning. And warmth even. Eating on the porch looking out over the Headlands, I actually felt pretty good. If I chew on the left side of my mouth, Cowgirl cottage cheese tasted like cottage cheese. A bit of tamale tasted tamale-like. I can drink Pellegrino water (I wonder if the carbonation pushes it toward alkaline and so boosts the pH in my mouth…).
I ate piki. I could taste that deep old corn taste. The piki came from Shungopovi. I thought of a woman making the thin batter and of her prayers. I thought of the man who grew the corn and the other man who burnt the salt bush to make the ash. I thought of the saltbush and the corn and the springs. I thought of the rock and the fire beneath the rock and the wood that fed the fire and the woman’s hand moving deftly across it. I thought of layer after layer after layer of infinitely thin batter being spread, lifted and folded. We call this food.
Afterwards I brushed and cleansed my mouth and still no mucusitis. I’m tired, but I’m still without sores or sore throat and I don’t know whom or what to thank for that. Perhaps the salt and bicarbonate of soda. Or perhaps the piki. Or perhaps all of you.
I think of all those things, sentient and otherwise, that create food, that create a community of health.