David's Harp: The eyes, nose, mouth, brain ans stomach talk

EYES: “That looks like delicious chulent. I like the way it appears chunky with meat and potatoes. I see beef flanken and some chicken on the bone. There seems to be some slabs of kishka as well. The beans and barley appear to be compact and not too runny.”

NOSE: “I have been smelling this chulent for so long now. It first was a faint aroma from the other room, but now it permeates through everything. It’s filled with richness and heaviness and sates each and every inhale; and even the exhale carries the savory and sweet heated scent and strength of the chulent.”

MOUTH: “I want to chomp down and chew it. I know the taste is going to be an extraordinary combination of elements and textures. I will need to cautiously maneuver as to not burn my buds killing off well needed taste sectors or crunch into a bone and crack the new crown that I needed like a luch in kup in the first place. I want to savor the taste by guiding the morsels without biting my tongue during those choice opportunities when this yente who operates me stops talking for just a few moments.”

BRAIN: “I have to sit in the correct seat where the chulent is accessible and easily attainable and not next to a fresser who will get in there and grab and sift and surgically excavate. I also need to leave some room and pace myself and refrain from the other carbs and proteins on the table and take the appropriate amount of all the particles with a portion that will satisfy me without making me regret it later. I have been watching my calories and fat intake all week, so I must direct my mouth to keep in mind my waistline.”

STOMACH: “I don’t care.”

EYES: “Here it comes. It’s right in front of me. No, no it passed by. Where’s it going? That guys taking it to the other side of the table. Oh, here it comes. It’s staring right at me. I can see it perfectly. Look at it. It’s bigger and brighter and beefier than when it was just sitting in the kitchen.”

NOSE: “Wow. I can taste it; and I can’t taste anything. It smells so fresh and still there is a hint of a bit of burnt meat, which probably was kvetched into the edge of the bottom of the pot, but I oddly enough enjoy this singed aroma.”

MOUTH: “Ooh ooh. Hot hot. Nice and easy. Don’t do anything stupid. Just a little bit of bean and a flake of meat to start with. I’ve got to go for that potato. HOT. Blow, blow. What a carnivore’s carnival. It’s a meat medley. A much mashed mush of many. Chew and taste and slur the sauce of small baby lima and quietly capture the kidney bean.”

BRAIN: “Oh this is Shabbos. I can feel it and touch it and taste it and see it and satiate myself with the entire day’s significance with each and every sense of chulent. I understand all the secrets and meanings of the moment. The work and pleasure of the week is of no concern, it is the soul’s turn to enjoy and regroup, to revitalize and become wise. The chulent is a dance and a poem and a nigun and a collage of artistry for a day when it does all the work while we luxuriate in its toil of boil and bone and banter. I could partake and rationalize away the ladles and dollops, the pounds and the pants and the Weight Watcher’s points. But I have got to think about my belly.”

STOMACH: “I don’t care.”