The rejection of spices

The reconstruction of certain people's story starts with random facts about them that can become, when being followed consequently as a trace or representation for the bigger picture, an unexpted plot:

The kid used to reject spices in its food. In case of obvious overdosis of pepper or salt, it would fold its arms and refuse to eat its food.
The mother would sometimes come and pour some milk over the hot stew to soothe the kid. Sometimes the kid would not eat at all and look forward to a bland piece of bread in the afternoon or some oat flakes with milk and tiny pieces of chocolate.
The kid grew up and the spices it feared most continued to be the spicy ones- the red powder the father would put on his meat or the long peperronis with their strong green and red color that the father would tow into his mouth like dead wet insects. It was a world of senses that was unknown, strange and dangerous to the kid.
By the time the kid craved for spices, the kid had become a full-grown woman, unaware yet of her grown up status, still a kid inside in many regards like all grown ups usually are. Its hair  had become darker, its nails stronger. She did not know if the father was still eating pepperonis or if it was true what the mother was saying: that the father had decided  to spread raw onions on his bread instead. So did also change the kid's tastes. One day, it was dining with two Indian men who had prepared butter chicken and invited her to their small apartment on the eighth floor in a skyscraper of a small town somewhere in Western Europe. She had swum with her generation, enjoying the new flavors of a cosmopolitan world. She became curious and wanted to taste not thinking about her fear of spice anymore. With surprise she noticed that she could take the spice with ease and the two men were also surprised of how well this unexperienced Westerner was eating spoon per spoon the curry that was seasoned with ginger, chilli, turmeric, pepper and many spices more. When the woman that once was a kid went out on the balcony to test the view from the eighth floor a cold breeze went through her hair. Her nose and ear turned red and her eyes became all wet. She saw the woods with their soft and round crowns, the concrete buildings and she felt the warmth inside of her, the explosion of spices provoking a little vulcano to go through her esopaghus. She had always wondered how one could feel the esopaghus since in her dad's esopaghus the food had often got stuck and he had to run to the toilet and spit it out. She looked back to the two Indian men in the little flat.
Leaving behind earlier ideas of disgust and dislike was like crossing the border between a world of a self-induced spartan existence and a world of voluptuous experiments and ambiguous explorations. She knew now that something she had experienced as a fear of compostable organic material had in fact been the fear of allowing herself certain earthly pleasures.
She had to think of how she was vaulting as a small girl on the back of a snorting horse. The horse was going in circles in a hall. Afterwards her toes and hands were blue from the cold and when the horse peed, it produced a smother of ammoniac and warmth.
Another girl was dressed in a princess costume. Her name was Laura and she never smiled but always got the leading parts when they had shows on Sunday afternoons.
The woman was remembering this moment from her childhood, when one of the Indian men stepped outside now on the balcony and lit up a cigarette.
"Did you like the food ?", he asked and made little smoke rings that disappeared into the scenery.
"Yes. Thank you so much", she said and lost herself for a moment in the warm brown eyes of the man.
Some days later the kid that had become a woman, the woman that used to be a kid, lost her appetite. It started with a common flue, a high temperature and for two days she was so weak that she would only eat tiny pieces of apple without really enjoying it. When the flue had passed she waited for her body to tell her what to eat. But she was off  her feed. The Indian lunch had become a distant memory and the smell of food a burden. After one week of hardly eating anything, the woman started to lose the interest in any interaction with the environment. No food for energy exchange, no smile for smile, no tit for tat.
She was relieved to feel the exhaustion in her body, walking on a field of cotton, no anger, too weak to have an opinion about the course of the day or the day itself.
She had this feeling of regret, a feeling of having betrayed her past conditions when she had been a child that rejected spices. She felt ashamed for having enjoyed that Indian lunch so much that she had started to see the world in a comforting light. There was no way back. She was born as someone who refrained from common wordly pleasures and now she lived this early decision to a perverted maximum.
She still saw the first snow of that winter falling. She was in a mind state between alert and sweet dreams. The horse was walking in circles and she was on its back, going with the small vibrations of the horse's legs, the forth and back of its strong neck.
The horse did not leave her until she took the last breath.


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