Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

the foreign daughter

yeast I enjoyed crumbling up. The cool feel of the leaven just out of the fridge and the way it sticks together as I knead provokes a strange pleasure in my fingertips. I am sure the sensations from this tiny area of my skin go to a very precise part of my brain that then spreads them all around. That’s what I’m like, and how I work, not that I intend telling anyone. Finding pleasure in things that in themselves have no reason to create any, multiplying the moment of pleasure exponentially and transferring it to every corner of my being must simply seem a suspicious, quite abnormal carry on. I don’t know if other people are like this, but I’m not going to risk enquiring. If the leaven has this effect on me, pouring the tepid water into the hollow I made in the flour, starting to break the

mound up, feeling the dough form and stick to my palms, to the delicate skin joining one finger to the next, to each fold of my hands, all this rushes in and out of me in a flash. What reaches my hands first sinks deep into every corner of my body, and I feel them, though I don’t know their names and can’t imagine their shape and shiver all over but in a way nobody sees or notices before I appear to spread in every direction. This must be what they call communing with the world, an inner, private ecstasy. I’ve always had to strive to conceal this over- the-top sensuality. If I could I’d change myself so I felt things less intensely. When I’ve mixed the ingredients, I place the earthenware bowl on the ground so I can knead with my whole body. I can’t imagine a more sensual act

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