* voices >
The Hunger for Ecstasy
OREGON'S LGBTO NEWSMAGAZINE
Kathryn adjusts her prayer shawl to rest
upon her bare shoulders. “The word ‘seder’
means ‘order,m she explains, “because there is an
order to this meal. We won’t just be eating—we
will be enacting a ritual of remembrance. And
during this ritual,” she states, pulling a riding
crop out from beneath the table and smacking
it in her palm, “I will be keeping order.”
Despite my not being Jewish, Kathryn’s
Sexy Seder is the one religious holiday I never
miss. It’s my fourth year o f sitting at this Pass-
over table, candlelight dancing off the rough
surface of the matzo plate before me. I feel my
boyfriend’s hand on my knee, slide my hand
atop his. Across the table, Leigha pours herself
a glass of wine, Gordon laughs with closed
eyes and open mouth. Kathryn snaps the rid
ing crop against her palm once more and we
all snap to rapt attention.
“God damn,” my boyfriend whispers to me.
“I’m so hungry.” As if on cue, my stomach rum
bles in agreement. “W hen can we eat all this?”
Kathryn overhears, languidly walks over
with the stiletto heels of her boots clicking
against the wood floor. “The hunger is part of
the order,” she says. “This is, after all, a re
membrance of the horrors of slavery.” She runs
the end of the riding crop along his jawline,
red lips curling into a smile. “Anyway,” she
purrs, “a little longing can be a good thing.”
The things we are hungry for are
symbols, ritual objects imbued with
far more meaning and power than
simple chemical equations.
I pour sparkling grape juice into my wine
glass. Blame it on getting older, or sobriety, or
even on taking too many semiotics courses in
college; in any case, though, I have recently
found myself fixated upon the meaning of
hunger. Nutritionists have identified at least
six different kinds o f ways that our bodies sig
nal a need for food, ranging from thirst to
headaches to the sense of an uneasy presence
around us. However, these signals don’t clearly
indicate what it is that our bodies actually
crave. We know that we are hungry, but what
are we hungry for?
Sometimes it’s basic—1 want that matzo, and
then that glass of wine, and then to hide in the hall
way and make out with my boyfriend. »At other
times, the hunger is more complex—I want the
people at this table to like me, I want to be in love
forever; I want to feel like my life is worth saving.
The desires, from most mundane to most exis
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chopping carrots on a wooden board and mea
suring out flour in heavy glass cups, feeding
herself and her family, finding bliss among the
dirty pots and pans.
tential, link themselves together and become an
Now, the dinner is done. We sit around the
unbroken mass, the way my voice merges with table full of dirty plates and burnt-down can
the others around the Passover table as we pray. dles, my boyfriend leaning back in his chair
“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha full and sated, Kathryn pouring her fifth glass
olam\” we say in unison, holding our glasses o f wine, everyone’s faces lit up with light, heat
high in the air. The scent of roasting lamb and and joy. The things we are hungry for are sym
simmering matzo ball soup wafts out of the bols, ritual objects imbued with far more
kitchen and surrounds the table. Blessed are You, meaning and power than simple chemical
King of the Universe, our voices call out together equations. O ur bodies cry out for wine and
before we drink our glasses ravenously.
matzo, lamb and drugs and kisses in part be
I think o f Carol Flinders, a brilliant writer cause our souls cry out in hunger, too. We eat,
who is in my opinion one o f the clearest-eyed drink, pray and fuck because we are hungry
observers o f the spiritual experience in the for ecstasy— longing to be part o f something
modern world. She is brilliant at erasing the larger and broader and more important than
line between mundane rituals like voting ones the simple boundaries o f our lives.
conscience and the rituals o f spiritual practice.
W ith a waxy hiss, the last o f the candles
W hat I really love about her, though, is how sputters out. All of us sit still for a moment,
she got her start as a writer: penning the land no one moving to turn on the lights, our bod
mark cookbook Laurel's Kitchen, a thick and ies and hearts sated by the meal as we observe
thoughtful volume that treats food and the the great peace that has fallen over us. In the
experience o f nourishing oneself with the sort darkness, we smile, ecstatic. J [# ]
of reverent verbosity usually left to scripture.
As lofty and philosophical as Flinders can N ick M attos left out the part of the evening
be— and as a feminist writing on the numi that rightly brands it a Sexy Seder—you can fill
nous, she’s prone to both— in her work she al that in yourself Send meaningful recipes to nick-
ways returns to that simple point o f origin, mattos@justout. com.
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