Friday, May 12, 2006

Poetry Friday – the Word is “KNUCKLE”

Chunk O Funk chose an absolutely fascinating and thought-provoking word for this week’s Poetry Friday/Group Blogging Masturbation exercise.


My first thought was actually pretty dirty but, lo and behold and ta-da, none of my posts today are particularly dirty...I have no idea why. I have three contributions today: the start of a story, a Free Write, and a recipe. Please, someone do a dirty one...PLEASE!

Feel free to use this word in your blogging today, in any way you choose…poetry, haiku, limerick, photo, audio post, porn, spirograph art, whatever floats yer boat, piques your interest, or gives you that tingly feeling ‘down there’.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

J’aurais Toujours Faim De Toi

I’m always hungry.
Let me rephrase that.
I’m never NOT hungry.

Most folks have a little switch that connects their stomach to their brain, so that when they eat a meal, the stomach gives the brain a high sign and yells, “Hey! I’m full!”

Not me.

I mean, I have one, a switch like that, but it’s permanently stuck in the ‘On’ position, the oh-my-god-I’m-starving position.

I’ve tried drugs. Prescriptions, I mean. They were supposed to tell my gut that I was constantly full. All they did was make me throw up, give me headaches, and cause my leg hair to fall out. Leg hair. Fall. Out. Now if THAT’S not the weirdest side effect ever…just my leg hair, in these weird patches, like flesh crop-circles. My legs are my best feature, at least I think so, and I threw those damn pills in the toilet.

I can’t explain the feeling of constant hunger. It’s like a burning hole in your belly, sucking the joy and life from your arms and legs, spinning your head. It’s like being shackled and constantly pawing the ground for a hacksaw or a razor, and you’d gladly cut your limbs off just so you stop feeling pain. It’s like being attacked by a swarm of bees, jabbing and stinging, and you just want to get away, dammit, get AWAY, and you can’t move from the tar that’s sticking your feet to the ground.

I’ve never known a time when I felt full. Even as a kid, I was constantly pulling open the refrigerator door or raiding a cupboard for more, more, and more. My mom used to make two bottles for me when I was a baby, every time, I’d suck down both and cry for more. She’d do this rocking thing, my belly over her knee, pressing hard, that would tide me over to the next feeding. Why she didn’t give me away or throw me in the river near our house, I’ll never know. I must have been a handful, but she just smiled and pressed her own belly with her knuckles. It wasn’t until I got older that I knew she was holding in her own hunger, pushing the pain back, feeling her backbone from the front, pushing like she was trying to stop a train…doing something…anything…to keep the growling wolf at bay.

I ate the strangest crap.

I ate an entire tub of frozen Cool-Whip standing in front of the big chest freezer.

I took a loaf of bread and made peanut butter and butter sandwiches and used every slice, even the ends. I ate them all in one sitting.

Dumped a box of cornstarch into a bowl, mixed it with milk, and ate it like cereal.

I once took a half-empty can of Crisco, dumped in a bunch of confectioners sugar, some cream, some chocolate chips, a banana, strawberry jam, and three spoons of caramel syrup. I stirred it up with my hands in that tin can, scraping the sides, rolling the oily goodness into something resembling ice cream, and ate it by the handful. This was when Crisco cans had to be opened with a can opener, and it wasn’t until my knuckles started stinging that I realized with every bite, I was digging my flesh into the sharp sides of the can while eating and eating, not aware of the pain at all, just aware of the next lump of sugar, the next smooth mouthful, the next hope that my belly would stop roiling and churning for fulfillment. Mom bandaged my hands and threw away the can, all the while saying, “I know it hurts, baby, I know.”

It wasn’t my hands she was talking about.

Because I watched her as she pressed her knuckles into the fabric of her blouse, pressing, hard, so hard I thought she would cry, but she didn’t. And neither did I.

Five Minute Free Write

Such an underappreciated body part, the knuckle, known more for fighting than for loving. Except when it comes to ring-wearing, and the gold band being carefully maneuvered over knuckles to the resting place at the base. In college I used my knuckles for rapping on doors and doing ‘wonder twin powers…activate!’ with my close friends. And actually for fighting. Karate class. Mr. Ng. One semester. I wore my best friend’s judo uniform. Mr. Ng put us through painful, wonderful hell, and I loved him for it. After the first week, he’d start warm-ups by making us do push-ups on our knuckles. It was uncomfortable at first, but then as the weeks went by, there was a strength and power that came from it. We were paired up with the same person each class, and my partner was this tall, lanky, shy guy with the most incredible dimples I”ve ever seen. We’d do knuckle pushups side-by-side, then Mr. Ng would make us do stretching exercises, our arms and legs, I would stand with my back against my wall with my hands out and lift one leg towards my face, my partner put his hands on my thigh, my calf, and would push the leg up with me, then switch legs, smiling with that look that said, ‘You’re so vulnerable right now, with your girlhood exposed like that, but my momma taught me to be a gentleman and instead of touching you ‘down there’ when you’re spread eagle, I’m just gonna smile like this, the way I know you like it.’ The class

A Recipe
My mom used to eat pigs knuckles. I don’t know how or why she did, but it always grossed me out. I typed “pigs knuckles” into a search engine this morning and found this recipe. I won’t ever make it, but I would definitely try it if YOU ordered it. I do so love pork rinds, and this isn’t too far a stretch.

Deep-Fried Pigs’ Knuckles (Crispy Pata)

1 pig knuckle, about 2 lbs.
4 cups water
1 bay leaf
1 T. salt
oil for frying (enough to cover)
Salt and pepper to taste
½ c. vinegar
3 cloves mashed garlic

Boil pig knuckle in water. Add bay leaf and salt. Cook until tender. Drain and deep fry in hot oil until skin is crispy. Season with salt and pepper. Combine vinegar and garlic to make a sauce and dip pig knuckle in sauce.


At 6:18 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

i found this website of yours by typing in pigs knuckle.i eat picgs knuckle once but it was not cooked well and the mud secretions that build up in the hoofs squirted out and tasted like sweat


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