“Oh yeah,” my husband said. “I ate like a hog. May as well put booties on feet and just roast me.”
Yeah, that’s right. Put me on a spit and roast me slowly with an apple in my mouth. Nothing else can be done at this point – I ate too much.”
I had the pleasure of eating with my brother-in-law, recently. The man loves to eat. I asked if he was a comfort eater, and he said ‘No. I’m a festive eater.’
My Taurus friend who loves sushi constantly makes mention of it on his Facebook and Myspace status. The man updates it just to say the same thing. I love it.
As to the festive eater, that reminds me of Stiva Oblonsky in Anna Karenina:
“Levin could eat oysters though he preferred bread and cheese. But it gave him much more pleasure to watch Oblonsky. Even the Tartar, who having drawn the cork and poured the sparkling wine into the thin wide glasses was straightening his white tie, glanced with a smile of evident pleasure at Oblonsky.”
In my class on the 19th century novel last year, there was a lot of focus on communal eating, rejoicing, pleasure both in books and class. Anna Karenina was the culmination of the meal, bookwise. Our class had two great feasts as well as others and our teacher frequently brought wine to class. The first feast in class was one of the most festive meals I’ve ever had. The table was covered in good food, cheese, and wine. There was so much open handedness. My teacher is the most festive eater I ever met, or at least the most festive meal maker.
We’re here for a good time, not a long time.