Sushi And Me Through The Looking Glass
Imagine going to a Japanese restaurant and immediately being given a warm wet cloth to clean your hands, suddenly focusing on how important hands truly are, holding on to potentially anything the world contains, including bacteria. A part of the self that instinctively touch the corporeal: handling, opening, closing, rotating, jerking, cajoling “things” to reveal secrets the brain interprets.
Ordering an array of sushi – various unmemorable raw fish, appetizingly presented on a platter with sweet intoxicating ginger and green mustard – sending waves of physical sensation through my sinus awaiting that first bite. Soy sauce, the Japanese cultural equivalent to Ketchup, prominently heads every table, next to a glass of Sapporo while Japanese music play softly in the background. Then, anticipating imminent appeasement of my appetite while reaching for the chop sticks, imagine my astonishment at finding only one. What a bewildering prospect!
“Perhaps a mistake has been made,” I thought.
“How could this be?”
“A bit curious, though it actually makes sense,” I rationalized, raising my glass confidently and declaring, “Bon Appetit!” then sipping Sapporo.
“But only if things come in ones.”
I agreed, smiling to my self sitting on the opposite side of the table comfortably eating sushi using one chopstick.