I made an avocado soup for supper last night. Sounds good for a light, summer meal, doesn’t it? The individual ingredients were pretty yummy. There’s a garnish of chopped shrimp, cilantro, lemon rind, olive oil, and cracked pepper. Queso fresco to give the soup a tangy edge. Lovely. Having eaten half of my soup, I turned to my husband and asked him what he thought of the soup. Usually silence on his part is a sign that he’s enjoying himself, busy eating. At my question, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” he said. “I like it and I don’t like it.” We regarded our bowls and listened to our stomachs. Which were confused. Mine told me that it liked feeling full and not being hungry, but it wasn’t quite sure that it wanted to retain its contents. My stomach was confused. My mouth told me that the soup was interesting as a texture. My tongue asked for a glass of water. My body told me not to move a muscle, just sit there and it would try to get over the soup. While I was listening to the various aspects of my corporeal being, I wondered what impulse made people eat things. Apart from the obvious: hunger, habit, and deep-seated emotinal need. At some level, we’re curious experimenters. Remember those mayonnaise and sugar sandwiches on Wonder Bread you ate as a child? My soup was a lot like that, an experiment that was fun and messy to put together. Very messy. The cuisinart leaked all over the place, chicken broth streaming onto my bare feet. Which promptly became obects of fascination for my dog. Anyway. The occasional encounter with an ambiguous bowl of avocado soup can remind us not to take food for granted. (Toast, for example, is a great friend to a stomach in distress.) I feel much more aware of my body, the biological reality, the sensitivity to…input. I have a tendency to live in my head. Last night, I explored a whole other part of me. If you want the recipe, just let me know.

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