Food Porn

Here, try this. No, really- you'll love it, I promise. Seriously, it's like, insane how good this is. I added some coconut milk, lemongrass and extra ginger and I swear- I SWEAR- it's like, oh my god, I can't even tell you. Here, taste! Ruth thrust her hand out in front of James, the spoon dripping with some sort of thai inspired saucy creation of the day. James hated thai food, abhorred it, after 8 years of back to back undergrads where he subsisted on Ginger take out and bad hot pots almost every second night. But he loved Ruth, so it was something he sucked up and muscled through. Ruth lived to cook. She had more cookbooks than people had literature or socks and underwear combined. Food Porn, she called it. Every morning  Ruth would pore over a different book, planning out the evening or weekend special. Nothing made her happier than hours spent slaving over a hot stove, dicing tubers and weeds, soaking and sprouting and dehydrating all kinds of foul, or tasteless, it's-gotta-be-good-for-me plant based concoctions. James was struggling to keep up. What the hell was Irish Moss and why was he soaking it next to the flax milk in the fridge? But, he loved Ruth. He deeply, DEEPLY loved Ruth, for all her adventurous, plant based, compassionate, gaseous, gut wrenching experiments in cuisine, he loved her. Sure, he spent Wednesday nights inhaling every single fried item on JJ's pub menu, and Sunday afternoons with the ball team were really all about the fish and chips/nachos/wings/club sandwiches/three pints of Guinness after. Every now and then Ruth knocked it out of the park. The red lentil sweet potato curry with kale was actually palatable. Maybe it was the copious amounts of mango chutney James spooned over it all but it was the one dish he actually requested. Love's a funny thing. If you had asked James a year ago if he would ever see himself with a left of center vegan AR activist environmentalist with a penchant for road cycling and quilting he'd have choked on his big mac. Yet here they were, happier than pigs on a sanctuary and despite their differences in ethics and lifestyle and culinary proclivities, they got on like a house on fire. The sex was phenomenal. Vegans do taste better, James really had no arguments there. And so what if he couldn't drink pop in the house- kombucha kinda made him heady, in a good way. Love moves in a mysterious way, that's for damn sure.

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