Raw food. In the last ten days since I began this raw journey, everybody I’ve talked about it with has an opinion. Those in the know, who have tried it, the choir so to speak, are all supportive and yeah! Others’ opinions range from carefully neutral to openly skeptical.

One friend called raw food ‘celibacy for the palate.’ At first, my response to that was along the lines of, “You haven’t had a good raw meal, obviously!” because oh my my, I suffer from no lack of yumminess. I’m equipped! I have the cookbooks, the dehydrator, the food processor, the blender, the seed grinder, and I’m using them all to good effect. And having fun, too.

But l’m starting to get what he meant by that. There’s an addictive quality to the comfort foods, the melting cheeses, the breads and cooked grains, sauces thickened with flour, meats, processed foods. Those foods provide a kind of throatgasmic satisfaction of a different order than the kinds of deliciosity I am now discovering.

Celibacy is not quite the right word for this way of eating, however. If food is sex, then cooked comfort foods are porn, and this is the real deal. My body loves me while I eat this way. It responds (so quickly!) with more energy, clearer skin and clearer senses. And that love is reciprocated, more and more. We have some work to do on our relationship still, my body and me; I sit at the computer far too long at a stretch without stretching or moving and I’m terribly hooked on any and all means of distraction from the visceral experience of this now, this moment, my breath, my self.
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