Thoughts on fermentation.
I have the munchies.
I’d hoped there might be some dinner leftovers tucked away, perhaps in the crisper, but it seemed my housemates had already got to it (I’d heard footsteps shuffling in a blue lily haze toward the kitchen about 40 minutes earlier).
While my ‘ingredients-only’ household is enviable during daylight-infused hours of sobriety, the rogue vegetables and multiple raw blocks of tofu are frankly, devastating right now.
Let’s run through my options:
Old tofu (raw),
An entire jar of dijon mustard with a single spoonful taken out of it because I had got really, really desperate and tried that once,
Almost empty yoghurt container,
Wobbly carrot,
Unclaimed beer bottle,
Back-of-the-fridge container, unsure of contents.
I reach for the yoghurt, grab a bowl from the drying rack and pour a couple of globs in with a splash of soy milk. I hazily remember seeing this recipe online 2-maybe-3 months ago. I scoop out the mixture with two fingers, using the dim window reflection to guide this rare moment of self care.
I feel like Nara Smith.
Except, we’re the same age and I am high in my kitchen on a Tuesday night and the mixture is too runny and soy-dairy tears are dripping down over my eyes, dribbling down my nose and into my mouth.
I need to have a shower.
I return to the fridge and take the now-claimed beer bottle out.
Our hot water takes too long to warm up so now I am standing naked in my bathroom cupping my hands to my face to stop the mask from trailing its way down my neck and chest, but it still oozes through the gaps in my crooked fingers and plops onto the floor.
I will probably forget to clean it up.
I reach a hesitant elbow out under the water (it’s not worth the risk to move my hands), and am greeted by a comfortable temperature – albeit, slightly lukewarm.
The water pushes the silky yoghurt mixture down my shoulders and trails down my arms to swirl down the drain. The soy milk has sort of clotted now, and I have to step back to avoid it getting stuck between my toes.
My beer is sitting on the toilet seat, so I reach over and crack it open.
Freud says that the id is the unconscious and irrational part of the personality, driven by our unconscious bodily needs, impulses and desires. As Freud does, he also says the id is especially linked to aggression and sex.
I wonder if Freud would be concerned about the unconscious impulses I seem to find myself having, but then I remember that Freud probably never had a shower beer so, honestly, what would he know?
While I’d hoped the food-adjacent facemask would help with the munchies, it seems my hunger was beginning to rapidly ferment (Freud would say this is the preconscious mind). I push the remaining soy clots down the drain with my big toe and try not to gag, before heading to my room to put my slippers and pyjama shirt on and return to the kitchen, hoping something in the fridge will be more appealing than my last visit.
So here I am, pussy out in the kitchen at 11:47pm, my left knee aching (I’d squat down too fast), and I am trying my luck with the back-of the fridge container.
The smell of gochujang hits my nose immediately.
I wonder to myself whether kimchi ever really goes off, but I’ve left my phone in my room and the thought of walking back, googling ‘can kimchi go off’ and then returning to squat half-naked in front of the fridge was overwhelming.
I decide to apply some deductive reasoning instead (read: justify my laziness):
→ If kimchi is made through a process of fermentation then surely this 2-maybe-3-month-old container of kimchi will actually be a deeper, more complex culinary experience.
I put my entire hand in the container, but only use my thumb, index, and middle finger to pick it up, mentally justifying this action with “two fingers to close the fridge with”,
Like I couldn’t have just used my other hand.
I take a bit of the kimchi
– “fuck, that’s good.”
I take another bite of kimchi, not realising I’d needed this until now. I make a mental note to thank my friend for leaving her kimchi here after a potluck some months ago the minute I get back to my bed.
It’s much more likely this thought will be just another one lost to the smoke.
I take another bite and wish I could choose which thought would curl into the air and evaporate as I exhale, burning away with each flick of my lighter.
I wonder whether the brine puddling behind my eyes is salty enough.
I wonder if it tastes like gochujang and fish sauce.
I take another bite and try to squeeze it from my mind,
Think about this instead:
Whoever decided to invent fermentation was a fucking genius, as per below:
Kombucha
Miso
Pickles
Yoghurt
Sour cream
Beer
These are as many as I can think of because, as it tends to, the smoke has clambered its way out of the whimpering joint I left in my clog-shaped ashtray, crawling into my ear and stealing my ability to focus on any one topic for longer than six listable points.
I take another bite.
There’s gochujang under my nails and in the small cuts where I’ve torn at the skin with my teeth.
I’d like to shake the hand of the person who figured out what yeast was capable of, and hope they didn’t notice the gochujang-stained cuticles and the hangnails that smell vaguely like fermented garlic.
It’s unfortunate though, because as soon as the word enters my mind I regret it. Now I’m just thinking about yeast infections and that is a highly unappetising thing to think about when I’m squatting half naked in front of the fridge scooping kimchi out of the container with my bare hands.
A thought begins to pickle: start wearing pants to bed.
Probably won’t.
I think that ‘probably’ holds almost too much certaintainty. It lounges across the grooves of the first three letters and taps its fingers against my tongue and teeth.
If I’d known what was in this back-of-the-fridge container I would have probably thrown it out during my daylight-infused hours of sobriety. Freud would say that’s my preconcious mind, but I think it was my id – unconsciously I knew I’d probably desire this kimchi at some point.
‘Probably’ has a sometimes unfortunate habit of brewing until it becomes certain; until I reach into my briney eyes and pluck out those sour, acidic thoughts that have been fermenting for 2-maybe-3-years with my thumb, middle and index finger.
Those thoughts will probably never taste as good as back-of-the-fridge kimchi.
I close the container with my two clean fingers and watch my thoughts curl up inside, tucking themselves under their blankets of wilted cabbage. I stand and close the door with my dirty fingers.
The gochujang will have crusted over, leaving flaky handprints to greet me, when I return to squat in front of the fridge the next morning –
– pants on.