Broth: (n) soup consisting of meat or vegetable chunks, and often rice, cooked in stock.
Although it may seem bewildering, it is one of my fondest memories.
I was hungry.
You see, as a fat man, I never allow myself to become hungry. The presence of food is the ushering in of appetite.
I’ve never been able to consider the consumption of calories to be nutrition for survival, but rather, a pleasure I grant myself in large quantities, to confirm that I have the power to relish what is available.
Bluntly, I’m never starved. I just eat.
On this particular occasion, though, I actually gained the pangs, the passion and the purpose to receive food.
My body was growing weaker and weaker, and threatened to shut down in protest over my abstinence from meals.
Yet there was a thirty-minute passage of time when I felt more alive than I had ever felt before. I needed something–and was fully aware that I was about to receive it.
I was really famished.
I sensed a yearning rather than a burning.
And when I sat down at the end of that half-an-hour, to steaming broth with floating pieces of carrot and rice, smelling of chicken, I will tell you it was probably the most delicious delicacy I have ever devoured.
It had fragrance, taste and promise.
I’ve often wondered why I can’t return to that same fervency of appreciation.
Because on that day, a bowl of broth tasted to me like heavenly manna.