there is something in the tearing of fresh pita bread* that feels like the desire for flesh.
it is like a soft leather. the dry dusting of flour on the surface may not, unfortunately, yield to my organicizing notions (not only like something organic, but like an organ), but pita nonetheless persists as the most animal of breads. it contains hints of some imaginary or platonic form of skin, an analogy or synecdoche for life. it is the skin of some mythical pre-Christian beast.
one side peels, delicately, from its opposite, like skin peeling obligingly from muscle. but they are all the same surface.
i am not the type to hone in on the erotic qualities of food, for all my gastronomic preoccupations. the erotic dimensions of bread/flesh are manifest, but only because of powerful eclipsis of sex. there are other pleasures of the flesh that reside in its shadow. i am suddenly struck by the ambiguity of the phrase “pleasures of the flesh,” for it denotes both the pleasures arising from the flesh of the subject, and those deriving from the flesh of the object; and pleasure/the pleasures themselves (forgive me) oscillate wildly between the two. the erotic does not exhaust the carnality of food, just as it does not exhaust the pleasures of the flesh. because for all that it immediately invokes sexuality, the carnal has meant meat as long as it has meant sex.
flesh and blood, making people crazy. Brundle knew it.
perhaps most satisfying, in this separation we find the desire to bite through something finally liberated from the necessary constraints of sex.
* fresh-ish. fresh enough. i never really understood pita bread until i encountered pita of this quality, this state of comparative freshness. it is really quite seductive.