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  • A long time ago, when computer was not at every home and every note was taken by pen, I copied to my mom's notebook for recipes some few news to improve our exhaustive act of chewing and swallowing. After some weeks I had the idea of asking mom a help to cook that. She said: "I don't want to cook what you wrote. Your caligraphy is too spiky and makes me feel I'm cooking pricks!"

    Okay. Eating "It" and "it" and "IT" day after day was also "that', I thought. But as I was never a foodie and have learnt to eat for being alive, I let the matter for the unpredictable future when mom would like pricks, or decided for my goodness that she could re-write the recipe with her own nicer letter.

    I remember it because one of these last days someone told once more that meals are communion (ahh... Easter time!). It's biblical and for sure meals are included in the most important rituals of all human cultures. Well, nobody is that expert cooker in my family home. My dad once was asked by my mom if the meal was good and he, finishing the dinner, told with his absent-mind, "I don't know".

    My family split away but I think, today, there was a sui generis communion in our family.

    It was not about food. It was us, together. Nowadays the importance of meals are watched by a restrict angle, I think. Guided by the discourse of "the ritual" to have food, the pleasure of preparing and tasting, drinking and talking many times gives open way to have a rouse with Prometheus' liver for pure pleasure-seekers. Some unuseful gather of flesh with no wisdom, in the purest exercise of willing and desiring, but never satisfying.

    Then, last year I came back to South and we got reunited where my family loves to taste my mom's strange meals, having fun and laughing. I could become one of the first voodoo dolls for my brother, who's still learning acupuncture. My dad and our seven cats having just joy to be together, while I was somehow so happy to feel I was missed by my family... I would serve my dears with my body presence, to be pricked by my brother, to be smelled by my mom and the cats all together, to be watched by my dad a last moment before he go back away to Rio, and I go to the wishful calling of my dear Leo.

    My liver was being purged. I was having a moment of rest.
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