Irony's Kitchen

Two-week-old-potatoes slumping sadly into the bottom right-hand corner of the refrigerator, passing well into the ripe age of certified mush. On the adjacent rack sits an equally unsettling scene of neglected storages of rice and spaghetti. As I watch the play unfold before my eyes, the players themselves become vividly known to me and all at once I’m left to wonder if the food in my kitchen is trying to tell me something about my life, about who I am and what kind of person I’ve become. Somehow I can’t quite get the message so I come back for a viewing the next day and the next day, hoping that dramatic irony might surrender to the idea that an epiphany had by the main character might be slightly more interesting than silent food in waiting. But there is no audience and no money, and no show, and no chorus, and irony has never cared much for the destinies it has exploited.

I never get the queue and go on wondering if I might spend the rest of my life being jealous of the mundanely practical—yet strangely appealing—existence of modern kitchen appliances. I pat the fridge sincerely with a caress of adulation. Keep up the good work buddy. The steady hum of electric current running into its motor sends out gentle vibrations that enter my fingertips, absorbing its power into the center of my core—the power to keep up the keep up. Where’s my power cord? I wonder and fantasize about the narrow black one that might lay hidden beneath my clothing, protruding ever so subtly from the small in my back, right above the back of my pelvis. Plug me in. Drawing the cord from beneath my skin, in the late hours of the evening I could hook up to the city’s power grid and charge my batteries.

Food has only ever been part of my fuel, provided what necessary chemical processes are required to keep my blood flowing and my limbs swinging. Yet there remain faculties of an intangible nature which are expended, and whose fuel source is persistently elusive. When the batteries are low, plug in. When you’re hungry, eat. When you’re tired sleep. I wonder how one replenishes those more elusive sources of their being, and hope that mushy potatoes and aging carrots are enough to preserve me until irony decides to lift these blinders from my brow.

Matthew Rosario

American / Writer / Musician