The Flavourless Abyss

So, at a general loss for anything particularly important to write about, I'm going to wax lyrical about  food you should never eat and why. There you go, direct and to the point. I will undoubtedly do this again, but at the moment, it is purely going to be Couscous, because the post is lengthy. The following post is generally true, but as with all memories and stories, some things change or are lost in the retelling. Some poetic license may be employed, but by the large, this is how I remember it:

Couscous*

 

Basically, couscous is a morally degrading, reprehensible food without any redeeming factors. It is usually almost flavourless, despite the best efforts of whoever is cooking it, it just absorbs spices and sauces like a void.  It has the texture of sand, which seems to stem largely from it's unquie resemblence to grains of rice that have been meticulously chopped in half, one at a time, by impoverished chinese workers on a production line. My hatred for this poor excuse for grub stems almost - but not entirely - exclusively from one of the most bizarre experiences I've had. And between fundie-school, gay cottaging, mercenary cockroach hunter, surrealist hangovers and five years retail, I've had some really bizarre experiences.

So imagine for one moment that you are a left-wing University student, interested in pretty much anything from Class Struggle though to Environmentalism and along to Queer Theory. Now imagine you have a general predisposition to  dislike couscous based on texture and flavour already. And I mean dislike, not hate. Hate comes later.

So you are invited to attend a demonstration by two Argentinian lesbians on Post-Pornography, during which I believe the general idea was to subvert the act of observing sex from being a social taboo enjoyed by teenagers furtively glancing at the top shelf and lonely men who sit in windowless boxes into something, well, not that. I'm not great with sexual politics but the general idea was (and is) that pornography is bad, but there are ways of making it good. Cue a Post Pornography Performance involving food, tea and coffee, a tarpaulin and two fisting lesbians who ejaculate onto the audience at the same time the poetry that they are reciting reaches a climax.

Alright, recap.

Two Argentinian lesbians have travelled to the UK for various reasons, one of which involves fisting each other whilst reciting poetry in English and Spanish with the eventual goal of squirting bodily fluid onto the audience. Food is provided.

Yeah.

Now, I was naturally curious. It has later been suggested that I merely went to watch the spectacle of two fisting lesbians. This is not case. Not only are there enough enthusiastic amatures in town to keep me busy until the stars themselves go cold and die, there is plenty of it on the internet. If I want fisting lesbians for any sort of gratification, I can go online and undoubtedly find some very easily. No, believe me or not, the spectacle of two fisting lesbians performing poetry in front of Leeds University staff and students before ejactulating onto the two front rows was more than enough to pique my curiousity without any particular lustful desires. So, donning my leather jacket - for it's waterproofing - and resolving to sit somewhere near the back, I set off.

When I arrived, I was greeted by two friends of mine who knew the scene a little better than me. About twenty of us were crammed into a room, the tarp was down, the lesbians were in place. The stage was set.

Only the time never came, no pun intended.

Turns out the fisting lesbians were not comfortable with ejaculating onto the audience due to the presence of two Argentinian journalists, who had, as far as I am aware, travelled to the UK with these girls with the express intention of reporting back to Argentina just how weird left-wing people are. Thus, they did not feel it was appropriate to give them what they wanted. So we got poetry instead. Funny as this may sound, but I'm actually quite relieved, being possessed of something similar to the feeling you get in school when everyone plays a prank on the teacher. To see it come off would be great, but to get caught in the act would result in banishment or death. The best result is that everyone settles down, a nice time is had by all, and no one gets squirted with lady-juice.

So the poetry rumbles on, and I'm not really getting all of it. After a brief spell, my friend drifts through an open door and beckons. Cautiously, I left the seat and entered. Inside was a simple kitchen, lined with tea, coffee, and as promised, food. I make a cup of tea and begin to cast my eyes over the delicacies.

Now, the first thing people might notice about left-wing events, at risk of being stereotypical, is that they almost always include purely vegetarian or vegan choices. I remain convinced that I'm the only carnivore at any event. So I wasn't too suprised not to find pork ribs or roasted steak, but instead, a vat of yellow couscous.

I've tried to like couscous, I really have. But there is something about it that just makes it unlikeable. You would cross the road to avoid it, or twitch the curtains if it loitered outside. People would make jokes about it when it wasn't around. Couscous would be last to be picked for the team.

I begin to nibble cautiously. The poetry continues outside.

Suddenly, the door is flung open and in walks an older man, round face and belly, grey hair, Queen's English and too much enthusiasm. He's come all the way from York to see some pretty graphic poetry, but far from being disappointed, he's far too cheerful. And he is blocking the door.

"Hello!" He bellows, "I'm Ron, how are you doing?" We shake hands. Ron begins to shovel food into his mouth with all the conviction and enthusiasm of someone who hasn't eaten for eight days. During the course of the conversation, Ron expresses just how much he is delighted by the performance and turnout. Nervous attempts to disengage from the now impending disaster that will be this conversation are politely ignored. He advances, cutting off my retreat, wegding me into a corner as he begins to make tea.

"I'm a little disappointed that they didn't do the whole performance," he admits, flecks of couscous going everywhere, "but I can't say that I blame them."

"No." It's about all I can manage.

"Are you enjoying yourself? You should be enjoying yourself. From Leeds are you? I'm from York. It's great in Leeds. Very strong community."

I nod. The couscous in my mouth has turned to sand. Maybe it was always sand. I don't know.

"Will you be coming to the performance later?" He continues, butchering some lettuce. "I can't, I'm afraid. Got to catch the train back to York. It promises to be fantastic, though, you know?"

I think I'm frozen.

"Anyway, pretty darn good as it is," he comments. I artfully dogde swipes and grabs at food and milk that are situated behind me, and finally manage to twist round to get to the door.

"Have you tried any couscous?" He asks, "Bloody marvellous stuff, it is. So full of flavour, don't' you think? Here" he hands me a plate, "Have some more. Go on, dig in."

Terrified, I grasp a plate containing mainly lettuce and a big mound of couscous. I spin, grabbing the door, making some excuses and exiting back into the main room. The show is over. One of the girls passes, nodding a greeting. I'm feeling somewhat traumatised. My other friend, who is not trapped in the kitchen with Ron, pops up.

"They're going to do the actual show at a pub tonight, if you want to come?" 

I shake my head, slowly, unable to talk because of all the flavourless detrius that is in my mouth.

"Fair enough," He continues, "What have you got there?"

I swallow. It feels like wet sand sliding down the inside of my throat. There is the vaugest promise of eastern spice, before it is lost forever to something that lies between risotto and broken glass.

"Couscous." I reply, holding out the plate, "You can have it."

*From the Website "Cooking with Consciousness". Which is adviseable. Cooking with consciousness is better than cooking whilst unconscious, as it decreases the chance of your kitchen burning down with you inside it.