Waving Not Drowning

"Courtney, hurry up- just ring the bell and hold up the box. Come on, honey, we have half the street left to do and Daddy's going to be home any minute expecting dinner to be ready. Don't be shy, the Martins bought 3 boxes last year. They're home, honey-see the light on in the living room?" Susan gestures by jerking her head repeatedly to the left. She looks like she's having a small seizure or suffers from a spastic tic. The pressure. The picture window has the drapes halfway drawn. She knows everyone's ignoring the bell. Becky Lo and her Tiger Mom did a wide sweep of the neighbourhood last night and early this morning. Who pimps out Thin Mints before work? Su's just pissed she didn't think of it. Damn Girl Guide cookies. They're going to be the ruin of her. Last year she was on the hook for 15 boxes. They're like crack; she can't keep them in the house and there was a quota Courtney wasn't meeting. Not good. Courtney is not a peop...

This is an incredible moment of panic. Opening up the freezer and not finding the stash of emergency chocolate. The really expensive kind, too. Fair trade, organic, chips of mint, maybe coconut, she can't remember. It was a spontaneous purchase for occasions just like this one. She knows better. Stay away from the computer. Flashing across her screen. His face. The date. The announcement. Probably as close as she'll ever come to skydiving without a parachute. She imagines that this is what it feels like. Her vision blurs, she feels her pulse pound through the veins in her neck like a torture porn movie, and waits for her heart to explode. Any second now. This is it. Old ghosts. Living in her psyche. Lining her fascia, sheathing her entire body. Tiny tubular webbing filled with fluid, stretching and undulating, tightening, seizing, creating adhesions. Blocks. Sticking patterns. She needs to break it down before it hardens into more scar tissue around her heart. Again. Months of ...

Chickpea chocolate chip cookies, black bean brownies. Beans in sweets. Gus is terrifically confused. His mom thinks he can't tell the difference but Gus has the most discerning palate any 6 year old could hope for. Plus he saw her throw the can of beans into the food processor. This week it's beans. He can tell because he's been farting like a demon. Mom gets angry with him then the corner of her mouth curls up and he can tell she's just pretend angry. Every time Gus feels like he has to let one go he makes a bigger deal about it, trying to get his mom to laugh. Most of the time he's a winner. Lately though it's growing tired. After 8 straight days of lentil burgers and loaves and burritos and chilis no wonder. Last month it was tofu. That lasted a week. Deep fried it was fine but any other way it was a spongey, tasteless mash. Well ok, the scrambled egg like thing was good but that's cause she dumped salsa all over it. He doesn't get it, this constant b...

Should she or shouldn't she. This is the debate raging in Gemma's head. Unreasonably loud and quite combative for an inside voice. Like two angry lawyers duking it out in between her ears. She tries to focus, tune into her rational self, the side of her that can big picture it, think of the long term effects. The sleepless nights, logey mornings, the bloating and gassiness, maybe even cramping and nausea. What fun. It's just a piece of cake. A quadruple decker strawberry shortcake with a cheesecake bottom drizzled in a caramel crunch with pirouline crackers on the side. Ridiculous, she knows this. She wouldn't have to eat it all; she could have a bite. Or two or five or who the hell is she kidding. Gemma would inhale it in one sitting. Unbuckle her belt, untuck her t shirt, lean back in her chair and let it all hang out. At what point did she become Homer Simpson, she wonders. Yet she can't say no. At least not without playing this scene out over and over in her hea...

Frozen cherries burn and thaw out in her mouth, dissolving into a fibrous, silky pulp, temporarily numbing the tip of her tongue. Blackberries aren't as enjoyable. Riddled with tight, hard seeds that weave their way in between her teeth, hiding in wait only to be painstakingly extricated hours later. Pomegranate seeds pop like mini explosions of tangy sweetness, tart and addictive. But the wild blueberries make the difference. Mellow, comforting, perfectly defined on her palate, blueberries are the bridge between the ambrosial cherries and astringent blackberries. A sea of indigo drips from her tongue, her fingers and thumbs ink-stained. Nails are tinged blue from digging through mounds of frozen fruit. Mouthful after mouthful sending spasms of pleasurable pain throughout her body. The intial shock of brain freeze blooms into complete satiety of her taste buds. So many sensations overlapping, so satisfying. She has no sense of delayed gratification, the bowl is almost completely em...

Richard is frantically plugging everything in, praying for super charging abilities. He's scouring the house for candles and supplies, wishing he had gone grocery shopping instead of a long meander in the beltline this morning. He'd heard about the upcoming storm but like everyone, grossly underestimated exactly how torrential things would become. The highways are flooded, all the softball games tonight were cancelled because the diamonds are pools, which doesn't bode well for next week's tournament. What a disaster- walking behind three teenagers on the way to get some tissue- it was on sale for 69 cents this week- he overheard them say, why does the sky look apocalyptic? Then he saw it: the blackened heavy ceiling, ominous, threatening, terrifying. He half expected to see demons leaping from cloud to cloud, arms outstretched, like childhood nightmare versions of caspar's satanic twin. Now the radio says another storm cell is expected within the hour. So much to do...

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, i...

She's allowed one more cookie. One more, not two or three, god forbid four- that would be the end of the world as Sharron knows it. It's a very big deal with her mom, controlling Sharron's cookie intake. Some call her big boned but really she is heavy, overweight for a young girl, what in the old days they would call husky. Sharron is completely obsessed with cookies. Peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies to be exact, fresh from the oven, when they're almost too hot to eat without scorching off the roof of your mouth. Sharron peels one off the parchment and juggles it back and forth between her fingertips hand to hand, blowing on it until it's just the right temperature then she closes her eyes, inhales the nutty sweet chocolatey smell, and busts out in a grin from ear to ear. She tries to measure her bites- four is ideal but sometimes she gets greedy and inhales an entire cookie in two, or on a rare occasion, one and a half. She can't help it: the...

All Anthony wanted was a few bananas and some peanut butter. His kingdom for Nutella but he wasn't hedging his bets. He was slow going, still half in the bag from last night's commiseration session with Isabelle gnashing and wailing about Kev's new girlfriend. Anthony gets it, he does. Lord knows she put up with the Great Heartbreak of 'o8 with him. A solid year of despair and self loathing. Surviving the war. They forgot to get breakfast fixings and it's going on noon. His stomach was beyond rumbling, it was a full blown orchestra with kettle drums pounding. It's a fine line between nausea and hunger. He realizes the sound isn't emanating from his intestines but rattling the windows from College Street below. Christ almighty, the Resurrection parade. Thousands of devout Catholics lined up 5 bodies deep, celebrating the Easter holy days. For six blocks police cordoned off both sides of the street and locked down traffic. He'd never get out his front door...

First guy I like turns out to be a murderer. Not a good sign. I mean, it's not like I knew beforehand or anything- that would make me an idiot, right? That's the problem these days. There's no re-con. I mean, how do you check people out? You can google them, sure, but if some dude's got a regular name, a common, everyday, dime a dozen name, then you're inundated with thousands of hits and links and pages and pictures and...it's too much. Sharon sighs then takes a bite of her double dark chocolate cake pop smothered in strawberry icing and a long pull of her fancy coffee drink slathered in whipped cream. Jenna is convinced all that sugar is going to make Sharon crazy. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs crazy. Every day it's the same thing, some cake on a stick or elaborate french pastry and a ginormous whipped cream coffee. That's a $10 snack right there. Jenna's no idea how Shar pays for it all but who's she to judge. If it keeps her head screwed on straight...

Oh, how I loved you, every single piece of you. I ached for you, dreamt of you, reveled in the way you smelled and tasted and delighted me. I became transfixed by the thought of having you, if only for a moment. The rush, the sensation of an overwhelming eruption of taste and satisfaction. Umami. Dripping down my fingers, spilling from the sides of my mouth, licking my lips, sucking every last morsel from my fingers. Then it all went wrong. The pain. Sleepless nights, doubled over, rocking like a child in the fetal position, knowing, deep down, that it was over. It had to be, for my own good. I kept trying to dip back in, just a taste; a friend with benefits, every now and then, trying desperately to convince myself it wasn't as destructive as it was. But I knew. My body was telling me- I had to let go. Walk away, kill my cravings. For you, your soft, sticky, sweet and chewy, cinnamony, lightly iced goodness. Oh gluten, you devil in my belly, why did it have to end like this? I thi...