Cucina Stellata · Story & letters

They say that curiosity is a perilous snare, that it leads man into abysses from which he may no longer rise. Such words are born from that same hypocritical world that will not admit the importance of eating; yet there is no feast, civil nor religious, at which cloth is not laid and revelers do not strive to gorge themselves in the greatest of fashions.

Therefore I say: always choose, as your raw material, things of the finest sort - for these will make an impression. It seems to me that if such precious fruit, born of elsewhere, is as rare as I believe, it ought to cost as much as, if not more than, truffles.

But one must be cautious with hope and ardor, for already in our silent prayers lie sorrows hidden.

...Under the grace of God it repulses me so, yet such insatiable appetite remains.

Such banquets make me feel unrefined in both stove and palate alike.

I find myself astounded by delights and excellence beyond comprehension. My most flavoursome longings entirely satiated, I could not say where I was once the last morsel had passed my lips. The chair gone, the cutlery vanished, I found myself enraptured by the colors contrived within the tight darkness of my eyelids. The intoxication was such as to deserve some labor, to satisfy every curiosity and rekindle both the fire and furnace of my desires. I feel driven to once more put myself to work and plunge as a diver might into deep waters, into the quest for all that is good and fair.

I often maintain that one should not return to food save when the stomach cries for it, yet I inherited from nature that most ungovernable of erotic instincts. Such baseness was nigh the ruin of my health and all besides, and yet if man did not crave food, or feel the stirrings of desire, the human race would meet its end forthwith. Thus I offer myself to our longevity once more. Pots and lids, spread wide your legs. Inundate me with casseroles, wild scents, sautés, and braids of garlic—for I have already returned among you!

I tremble now with anticipation, barely able to keep my finger from running along my mustache, eager to spread the vestal remnants of flavor over my wantsome lips.

Neither sweet, nor bitter, nor sour, nor salty; perhaps rather a sensation, an alluring shiver running through the seams of both mouth and throat. Slithery and unfathomable, it leaves in its wake but the vivid echo of an aftertaste that never ebbs nor pales.

Describe it I cannot, for there exists no words that could define it.

Yet again, I see before me the pulsing of a light, sighing like distant entrails, and such ecstasy that my hands no longer seek to grasp nor to hold.

Now awoken from what felt akin to a dream, I find my tongue wandering amongst my teeth; a pillager of ancient ruins, seeking a flavorsome trove hitherto unbeknownst to man, a bounty of indulgence we had never dared hope to savor. A shadow, unlike the budding tongues of this world have ever seen. And as I feast upon it, so too it feasts upon me.

Its presence alone mars all others, infecting the ingredients in warped copulation, and bearing flavors just as twisted. Flavors that no man would dare to try. Indeed, none but those who have freed themselves from the dogma of culinary tradition, so that they may become the intrepid samplers of otherworldly delights. A painter discovering a new color, a new terrifying shade that in truth had always lain neglected in the corner of our eyes, blackened and atrophied, immature, and ill-prepared for wonder and agony both.

If broth is the hay of man, then this must be the hay of angels and devils, orcs, mazapégul, magalassi and marmàcule, as one may only find in myths.

I feel my stomach clenching its teeth, pleading, full of ardor to be fed the feed of beasts. Hunger calls to me, and unmistakable are the words of its ancient tongue. The palate cries, and my entrails join the chorus, the bile too in its acrid ebb and flow, discordant among the tongue's shrieking buds, their notes clear and sharp.

Yet as pleasure fades, a longing takes its place. One so desperate, fierce, and unstoppable, that as it rises from my very entrails it teaches me compassion for those base and carnal creatures who live by the flesh and its lusts.

The nature of taste hides sequestered within it such obscure laws as I had dared not imagine! With each bite, I feel the very fiber of my being squirm as if to discern a modicum of sense from this new intrusion, for this meat belongs not to God's Earth, nor can its flavor be judged unto the standards of any mortal being. Such is its power, that nigh a single morsel is enough to blind the soul and purge the mind. Now as the light grows ever closer, all other sustenance loses its virtues. Wine becomes water, bread turns into ash, and even the air itself seems pregnant with but the faintest of stenches.

Nothing can wash this shadow from my tongue, as if a novel way to perceive the world has been foisted upon me—twisted and forbidden. And now, crouched in the seclusion of this damp, dark night, with throat parched and a stomach too swift to hunger, what frightens me most is the part of my being that still yearns for another taste.

Woe and sorrow! Lost is my fortune! Damned be, o hideous swamp, o rancid bog, o godless land that was once my cradle! Have you no mercy for your children? By your whim all spoils before long, the cloying grip of decay sparing not even the sweetest of ambrosias. Never have you allowed abundance, and for this I name you cursed! Cursed!

How many hours has it been? One? Two? Or perhaps a little more... It is enough to know that not a night has passed, and yet the meat sinks into putrid fermentation, rotting as it peels, writhing and wallowing in its cruel stench. A slave to my palate, I had paid no mind to the endeavor of preservation. How could I?

Now the scales fall from my eyes and I see my house, damned as it truly is, and how God looks down upon this Earth with malevolent eyes.

May luck smile upon me.

By her grace, mayhaps this putrid change in both appearance and scent could be a portent of refinement. Such is the case for liquors, cheeses and seasoned meats, that on occasion rot can elevate a taste rather than spoil it.

This time, upon eating, I felt as though enveloped in summer afternoon, wandering among the hot, twisted paths of a flowering garden, ripe with the fragrance and color of reverie. And therein, basking in its immensity, it seemed to me as though the whole of my life passed before my eyes.

An arch of ivies with dentate leaves opened unto a canyon passage. On I walked, shade interlaced by a tangle of golden membrane where luster dripped through the branches. And beneath the trees to my left, an endless carpet of blooming throatwort.

As the breeze softly tasted my skin, I heard the cries of rock doves harking from the woodland's innards, accompanied in symphony by a creek's gastric gurgle in a digestive delight. The ground too was so fully bloomed that I could not but take a step without crushing the abundant yet delicate petals underfoot.

So sweet was the air and so lush the leaves in their dewy enzymatic sheen that I could scarcely contain my awe. Thick bushes covered the path, a narrow opening offering the only way onwards. I dared enter and came out the other side drenched and unseemly, as a babe might fresh from the womb.

As with all things, this too has left my side. A hapless victim of cruel vengeance, I may never return to that heavenly garden.

But how can a man bid farewell to such blissful fields after having once laid eyes on them?

Strangely, I feel a new energy within me, rushing downward, journeying inside my flesh and enveloped in soft wadding.

It would seem that I, myself, have changed. Thus, it seems the solution is as simple as it is horrifying. Would it not be reasonable to assume that I have become another link in the metabolic chain, that which finds the solace in the most repugnant of excrement?

What foul disgrace! What was once nectar has become acrid, pungent, and violently shallow, a pale imitation of the divinity it once boasted.

Perhaps, having been diluted much too far, all that was good and noble has been forever lost. Or maybe yet, could it be that its virtues fell prey to the stomach, and in turn to the flesh it fed?

I have no choice but to face this daring quandary with the utmost fortitude.

I must say I find myself rightly astonished by how little my cheek truly mattered. Removing it barely gave my brow reason to twitch nor my eyes to water, yet through this misty veil they flicker with ferocity, as fire does claim the last of the summer's hay. And behind them, my soul lies parched and scorched, like earth cracked by such an oppressive heat that even the memory of moisture is drained before it can form into drops.

And I burn too, as one that has stared too long at the sun is unable to find respite in the night's shade, sweltering from flames that no tear could ever quench.

My strength wanes, but the majesty of that succulent delight yet lingers.

I shall make the most of what little time I have left, for much more worrisome than the prospect of ruin is that of remembering a pleasure found and then lost.

I ask you now, deliver me from this peril, this parting of euphorias. Deliver me from joining the ranks of Tiresias, who knew only the fleeting bliss of womanhood, of Lucifer, who once bathed in God's splendor, or Faustus, whose lust for knowledge carried its own sentence.

God, Devil, Spirit, all that you may be, I beg of thee allow me this final mercy and garnish the lukewarm soup of my life with one last droplet of oil.

Here we go again with the fancy prose. Reading your letter was a struggle and a half.

So you're back begging for work? Did you forget all those times you went home covered in bruises? The whole crew hates you. I thought beating that into you would be enough, but apparently not.

I know you're good at the stove, trust me. But honestly, you're a few bricks shy of a load, and we don't have time for know-it-alls here. You're always acting like you own the place and you can't take a joke. Do you fancy yourself the King's personal chef or something? Well, we aren't looking for no "artistes" here. I need humble cooks to feed those hungry from working the fields. I can't deal with you and I can't deal with your antics. You think we have time to be watching out for rolling pins like they were sticks of dynamite every time you're in a bad mood? If you can't serve people, you can't serve dishes. At the end of the day, inns have more use for mules than they do for peacocks.

Mother,

I must reiterate myself, for you seem to yet cling onto futile hopes: I shall not be attending my father's funeral, and nor would I be convinced to do so for any form of reimbursement. He was and is nobody to me. Not a single toenail of his legacy lives on in me, and for this I praise the Lord. On the day he died, my broth simmered as it does, and the breeze blew as it always has. We now have one fewer devil trespassing in this world, and you know this better than anyone. Let those whom it may please to do so shed tears for a boorish drunkard whose only talent was handling a hoe. I, however, have no such sorrow to offer.

Instead I shall partake in celebration. I will rejoice as that coffin lowers as though it were Saint Rufillo's Day, for I will finally have a say in the management of my own home. These walls have been treated so poorly, as if they were nothing more than a beast to be worked to the bone, whereas I would see those stones polished into jewels. And yet, it was I who must be the one to leave?

To return to that place shall be my vengeance, although perhaps I should have burned it down all the same, condemning every last beam and memory to ash, for that is all you deserved for abandoning me like the lowest of low underfoot. I was born your child, for fate gave me no choice, and from that I have become my own man, for again there was no alternative. Waste no time begging for pity, as one may not give that which he has never received.

May good fortune be with you, dear Mother, and may worms be with the dead.

Until we next meet.

Brother-in-law,

Simply thinking about you is enough to fill my very soul with disgust, but I find myself forced to write to you once again.

I don't know whether you suffer from simple audacity or pure shamelessness, but it matters not. Coming into another's home, howling like a dog and throwing around words like so many stones is an unforgivable trespass. A mistake that, mark my words, I will not let you commit again. I am not usually prone to anger, but my blood can still boil, and my soul may yet turn vicious when someone dares to offend those I hold dear.

Already warned, again you return, screaming about your alleged dominion over her. Let me be clear: women are not things to be owned and stored away like jars in a cupboard, nor are they cattle to be strung to a pole.

After crushing all of her tender affections, pouring all the venom of your life into her chalice, and even taking the very solace of sleep from her, are you still not satisfied? You do not even deign to come back repentant, instead lusting after what you lost, like a dog baying to get back the bone it already sullied with its slavering teeth.

Make no mistake, I am neither saint nor martyr, but should you ever knock on this door again, you will be met not by a man, but by the barrel of a musket. I regret failing to bestow its lead upon you last time you dared darken our doorstep with your presence. And you'd do well to pray that my regret remains such; if your answer isn't what I expect, I shall not wait for you to come seeking her—I will be the one seeking you. Remember, I know exactly where to find you, in that decrepit hovel where you lay your head.

Sit alone and gaze upon the trail of my gifts.

Silently they fall, shimmering; feeding the pigs before the feast.

For I love those who dive grunting into the bottomless abyss, swift and uncaring of how laughter and cries sway to and fro.

Abide by those most ancient of laws, the laws of hunger and intoxication.

Forsake the sins of the past, for before you stands the king of gluttony and its empire of nectar.

Call me the one who allays naught but regrets.

None here shall judge your plump cheeks, nor the swelling of your throat, full of perilous passions.

Call me thief of lives, deceiver and perjurer.

Hear me speak with the voice most dear to you, that which shone into starry skies.

Breathe in the foul air, wafting menacing from the dens of beasts,

cutting open new paths wherever it floats,

eating through the mind like the first worm on an apple.

Through the vast deserts of boredom did I witness your hungers never sated.

From the dark of holes and lonely nights did I see the gleaming foam of pleasure,

of desire that grows and multiplies, forcing infinity into the mind's deepest recesses.

At long last did my voice reach a bard to sing my songs of mystery, to search the night for the most exquisite of corpses.

My love, I wish things could have played out differently for you.

You had something rare within you, you know?

They tried to convince you that you didn't fit...

And once you started to believe that, you changed.

It was painful, seeing you like that. Angry, so angry.

You hurt me too. Remember?

I thought I could save you, but I was mistaken.

But they're mistaken too, when they deride and insult you.

They sully your name to feel better about themselves,

but your faults are theirs too.

I kept hoping until the end, but I couldn't go down there with you.

It was just too dark. I hope you understand.

But tonight, the sky is clearer than usual.

And while I know I shouldn't, I feel like coming back.

Don't worry, I won't stay.

I wouldn't want to keep you from your recipes and your writing.

I'd just tell you that I saw you, and I'd hold your hand for as long as I could.

And you could read me something you wrote, if you so wished.

And then, I'd leave.

Yours,

Stella