XcrPt from "YKY2.0" CopyRight UmaUma0012
-------------"Destroy Before Reading" ------------------------------------------------
Status update: I am going through a bag of "kettle chips", I am methodically demolishing a 150g bag of "cheddar and Caerphilly" -whatever Caerphilly is- in which I am assured "absolutely NOTHING (is) artificial". Now there's a good one: "nothing artificial" -Sure there is! Last time I checked the garden, slices of fried potato rolled up in spices and coated in salt were nowhere to be seen, were they! "Nothing artificial" me erse... Anyhoo, mission underway.
First, tear open the bag. A delicious thrill of panic always accompanies this delicate operarion as, more often than, the said bag explodes and you gasp in mock alarm: Will the crips fly off in all directions? Will there be anything left? ...Yes, amusement and solace can be found in the most mundane.
I knew the outcome as soon as I grabbed the bag and so be it: Demolish, demolish away! Wolf down - gorge - fill. Lick dry and retch later. Methodical as can be, I shall follow the procedure, I will give in to the routine. The first step is discovery: I savour the crisps one by one, taking time to properly taste them and letting them dissolve on my tongue. Then I build a rhythm. From one at a time I move on to a couple pinched together, then a few more altogether. By three, by four, by what turns into a fistful, I shovel them in my mouth and embark on a quest to fill myself up. It's a losing battle, really: by now the taste buds have lost their sharpness. They need more to effect recognition, and even more to achieve satisfaction. The original tingle has gone and the threshold is receding ever further. A right avalanche of salt, that's what is needed. I must move on to the next imperative: satiation.
I gorge myself on salt and let the crisps crrrack under my teeth -this is the one crunching sound perfectly attuned to human jaw, I would argue: "crrrRRrack" -repeat and enjoy. I work through a hefty 150 grams of fried and refried goodness, making sure to lick my fingers at regular intervals for maximum enjoyment: let no grease go to waste, overdo it as overdo can. I even wash my fingers episodically, before plunging them back inside the sticky aluminium. Yes, I knew exactly how events would proceed as soon as they got underway. This one is a satisfying given: there is no stopping now, and no turning back till satiated emptiness.
You open them, you finish them. Saltiness calls for more of the same, I swich off and give in.
Halfway through the pack I inevitably reach for the fridge and extract a generic bottle of fizzy pop chemicals: "Whizzz", "Pops", "xtra", "Faz", "Blurp", "pFuit!" -whatever ingenuous name research groups have hoovered up millions to come up with. Ultimately though, brands shouldn't matter. This is a soda -it'll do the job. I grab the bottle from behind the celery sticks which I won't eat but keep buying and plop it on the table. I improve it with a dash of vodka, and a generous one too, to give it some bite. Liquid acid explosion calls in turn for oseophageal activation and I instantly need more of them salty treats. Crisps - drink, drink - crisps, crisps - more drink. Before I know it, it's time for a refill, and the kitchen cocktail gets a couple more dashes of vodka or whatever's at hand. It's a work in progress alright: a finger of this, a measure of that. Final taste? Unknown. In more ways than one, it's a very private recipe, and must never be divulged: as sensations degrade, so must the infernal mixture. It's getting sickly sweet now in fact, and probably on the wrong side of safety. The perfect accompaniment to crisps then -or is it the other way round. I remember Dolores off The Cranberries, how she said she once went through twelve bags of crisps... She got through twelve of them in one mad sitting, couldn't get enough. I understood her then, and I understand her now.
I pig myself.
I am looking for satiation.
I note the passing of time by the decrease in volume of the bag. I also note it by the swelling in my stomach.
Just as taste evolves, quality also takes a turn for the worst. Some might say that crisps get increasingly manky as you go down the pack but that would be soooo mistaken. What depressing disregard for what truly constitutes happiness this attitude would constitute. Crisps are meant to be a riot, they're meant to be a guilty pleasure -Down with this health obsession, "comfort food" wasn't invented to fill this purpose! Scraping the barrel, see: this is precisely when it gets to a whole new level of interesting.
What happens is all the good ones are gone when you reach the bottom. Lording it at the top and first to be dispatched were the least imperfectly formed crisps. It's only natural, see: it is their very shape that made them available above all others. Here comes the science bit now. With every rattle and shake, the contents of the bag reposition themselves and so the smaller crisps (the more accommodating ones one might say), they slip under their perfectly formed and undamaged betters. Those of inferior quality sink to the bottom like cereals do. At the base of your bag is where the crumbs will have ended. The crumbs, the broken bits. The least attractive and most unhealthy. I don't see it that way though; I'd say these ones are the very essence of crisps, with maximum badness concentration. These are the super oily in this symphony of oiliness, the ones the rest have sweated on. At the bottom is where true taste resides. The salty residues glued to the salty deposits, the apocalypse of the senses. There's no more need for subtlety here, it's time for OTT: lick up the dregs and just shiver... A bit like when you're having fish in a restaurant and they always give you some bleedin' lemon and you save it for a mighty Mother of God bite afterwards. ...Yikes.
The shards are getting smaller. By now they've turned to spikes, and turned to sparks. Soon enough they'll be mere flakes. Dust. Globules of vinegar. Salt level has gone beyond noticeable and oil has overcome any last semblance of texture -this is "No No" territory. Lick and suck. Taste buds have been forsaken some time ago along with dignity and I'm only interested in completing the mission. Finish the task to its bitter end and disappear the last crystals of salt. That's nearly it. I drain my glass and give the bag one last good shake: evil bits gather in a corner and I pour the corner into my gullet.
I hope noone's watching.
I know noone's watching me, alone in my flat on a Saturday night.
