Food, Love, and a Raw Food Pie

Perhaps I should have clued in when the hubby first told me he doesn’t “get” the combination of food and sex—the combination being gross and dirty. That should have tipped me off that before me stood a man cut off from his body, a man who lives in his head—at least he appreciates good food when he finds the time to eat it.

When I talk of food and sex, I’m not referring to a bowl of strawberries and chocolate brought to bed (although that sounds like a good idea to me), I’m talking about food as a prelude, a stirring of the senses, a preparation for or igniter of passion. One should always be suspicious of Puritans and those who eat plainly. But don’t confuse plain with healthy or simple. A ripe, juicy mango is a perfectly sensual food, more so than greasy fish and chips I’d say—and a mango won’t weigh you down, thereby ruining your appetite for you know what. Although, when it comes to “healthy” diets, I got to say, the macrobiotic diet has to be the unsexiest diet I’ve ever heard of.

Sure, a lot of foods that are considered sexy sound cliché, but that’s probably because they’re “tried and true.” Think about it. Imagine elegantly nibbling the top off a crisp asparagus. Now imagine trying to stuff a Reuben sandwich in your mouth. Which image was more sensual? (I suppose the cliché “different strokes for different folks” could be applied here, too—but you don’t need to invite me to that dinner party).

Of course the sensuality of food goes beyond the mere carnal act of eating. Remember the scene in Amélie, where Amélie Poulain couldn’t resist the temptation to slide her hand wrist deep into the bin of lentils? Pure bliss. We touch food with our hands and tongue—and what could be more intimate than experiencing something than through our hands and tongues? Do you see where I am going with this? Then there is the act of cooking. Elizabeth Bard was wooed by her future French husband with remarkably simple yet gourmet meals produced in his tiny, ill-equipped Paris apartment—something her American mind couldn’t fathom. When I was sixteen my (then) boyfriend invited me over for dinner and fed me Mr. Noodles—he never understood why I always responded with a firm “No.” My hubby wooed me with microwave dinners and spiced things up with fancier resturant dinners.

My friend, who is now living in France, is lucky enough to have a man who knows his way around a kitchen and market stalls. As Isabel Allende writes in her book “Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses,”

“We cannot resist men who know how to cook . . . epicures who lovingly choose the freshest and most arousing ingredients, prepare them with art, and offer them as a gift to the senses and the soul, men who uncork a bottle with style, breathe in its aroma, and decant the wine into our goblet to taste, as they describe the juices, color, tenderness, aroma, and texture if the filet mignon in the tone we believe they will later use to refer to our own enchantments . . . While we watch him clean, spice, and cook the shrimp, we imagine that patience and dexterity applied to an erotic massage. If he delicately tastes a piece of fish to test whether it’s done, we tremble, anticipating a similarly knowing nimble on the neck. We suppose that if he can remember how many minutes frog legs can tolerate in the skillet, how much greater reason he will have to remember how many tickles our G spot demands. Of course, that isn’t always true; in real life he may be much more interested in the frogs’ legs than our own.” (pg 43)

Like acts of love, food engages all the senses beyond those most immediately discernable. I admit to lacking any skills in the art of presentation. Food is placed on handed-down plates, that while are perfectly functional, don’t do anything to inspire the senses. Perhaps new dinnerware would cause me to artfully arrange the food with as much love as I use in the cooking of it. As for the dinner table, there is no ritual candle lighting (but in the winter we eat near the woodstove) or centerpiece. The only reason there’s a tablecloth is to hide the ugly tabletop beneath—and even that’s a handed-down Christmas cloth! I’d love a more bohemian setting with a touch of whimsy (always loved the increasingly disheveled tea party scene from Alice and Wonderland). At least natural alfresco scenes and picnics never fail to get my heart pumping—and the scenery is free. I once ate atop this rock which turned my ordinary tuna sandwich into a treasured memory.

All of this was a very long preamble to a recipe that conjures up images of breezy summer beaches. So, to help you sweeten your sweetie (without making your sweetie feel too full and icky to give you proper gratitude), here’s an easy recipe. Imagine you’re enjoying it on a beach in the Florida Keys. If it’s warm enough where you are, serve it in a bikini! Set aside some of that coconut oil for latter. (Let me know if this works. I haven’t tried it, for when I served this dessert the hubby was absent and I don’t own a bikini).

Lime Pie with Chocolate Macaroon Crust (adapted from this recipe)

Lime Filling:
1 ripe avocado
¼ cup lime juice, freshly squeezed
1tsp lemon juice, freshly squeezed
1 tbsp extra virgin coconut oil
½ cup honey (or agave)

Directions:

Place all ingredients in food processor and blend until creamy and smooth. Pour into Chocolate Macaroon pie molds (see below) and refrigerate for at least one hour and/or until ready to serve. Makes one pie or four, 4” tarts

Chocolate Macaroon Crust:

1 cup pecans
1 cup chopped dates
1/3 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
3 tbsp cocoa powder
1 tbsp honey if needed to hold it together

Directions:

Add all ingredients into food processor and mix until all ingredients are finely processed and starts to stick  Press firmly into pie form, or for tarts, divide and press into 4, 4” tart molds – place in fridge while making the filling.