Dear Mudge,
I love black licorice. That weird multi-colored bridge-mix. Australian soft. Whips, dips, spirals and the archaic but cherished Good n’ Plenty.
One of the reasons that I enjoy this candy so much is that, for a moment, when I eat licorice I forget about how absurd and pointless the universe is. The flavor is ancient. Anise, fennel, and even the licorice root itself (which is actually bad for your heart), provides that distinct flavor and odor. I’m sure it’s been in use for millennia.
But even a mouthful of candy-coated black-colored unctuousness cannot compensate for the feeling of falling into the void of futility that gapes like a hungry maw. A mouth that hangs open for every diverting thought I send its way—The Universe is Absurd it whispers.
What simple pleasures do you find that ease this sense of emptiness?
Your friend,
‘Mole
Anonymole - apocryphal agitators 
Beer.
Come on. You saw that coming.
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Well, black licorice is in there with Bleu Cheese for me. But red licorice…the old greasy ropes, not the new stuff.
And Mexican food.
Simple words. Clear thoughts.
Sex? What’s that?
Escapism. If I could not play or write or dream my way out of here, I would be dead.
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At the end of 10 hours of this ultimately pointless coding, my spent mind struggles to crawl from the hole it’s dug in the fabric of reality. This surreal world, one where we think work has meaning or purpose, is the void I continuously fail to escape. And yet here I am, a slave in this software salt mine.
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Were it not for children, “responsibilities” and the right thing I would be, unencumbered, writing with a pen, in a tent, selling some hippie woman’s jewelry on weekends and weeding a vineyard in the fog to clear my mind. So. I hate a wasted day as much as the next man. Which is why I see my miserable peers with their big houses, fancy cars and deep scars and say, well, I should feel guilty for having some fun while I got paid. But I don’t. How do I know there’s a God? I sat on a piano bench playing tone poems with Herbie Hancock, felt the electricity become sound from Eddie’s 5150 right into my face. I don;t care to explain the cosmos, or order or how chaos becomes magic. But it does. And I don;t feel guilty because my portfolio is non existent, or my daughter’s a successful attorney or the oil business brutalized my friends. Because we all pay a price.
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I’ve never understand why people find cilantro “soapy”. But I do find relief from the existential void by working in the garden. That’s why I hate winter so much.
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That’s why God made greenhouses.
I’ve come across two people with soaplantro syndrome. One from Ghana, one from here in Oregon — vastly different genetic origins. It’s a quirk, I’m guessin’.
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I need a greenhouse where I can grow cilantro 😊
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The absurdity of the universe is a comfort to us writers. We can write whatever nonsense we want and it doesn’t matter. I like the idea of ancient flavours in black licorice. Bitter chocolate too.
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https://aeon.co/essays/forget-plato-aristotle-and-the-stoics-try-being-epicurean
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Same as you. The Universe would be Absurd without ancient flavors.
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I just read of a recipe that used shredded carrots, vinegar, garlic and coriander. It comes from Koreans who escaped late 1800’s, early 1900’s to Russia. They were then displaced to Uzbekistan where cabbage for kimchi was rare. Coriander was a local spice that apparently grew all over a million square mile area.
Some people find the taste of cilantro (the leaves of coriander) to be of soap. Strange no?
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Very strange. I suggest they make themselves a nice bubble bath.
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Seriously? One food writer in Austin likened the smell of cilantro to body odor. And you know what? They were right.
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Cumin and Arabic armpits seem to share a common scent. A little in humus works though.
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I make a badass, hot, summer salsa verde. Cilantro required. Even if it does smell like my neighor’s lawn guy.
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The thought of a woman.
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So, we’ve got food and sex. Could man live on just those two?
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