bento box

He eats the real sushi. Not the stuff with avocado and faux crab. His plate holds firm, semi-translucent cuts of fish, carefully pressed onto rice. I wonder how they would taste...how they would feel. What does his meal say about him? Brave? Refined? Oh G-d - I must like this one.

I gravitate to the playground of a bento box. So many things to do, so many textures and flavours, I don't know where to begin. There's the cloudy soup of miso with rectangles of dark seaweed, and cubes of soft tofu. This alone is pretty enough to paint. Smooth creams, beiges, and winter whites soften the stark textured greenish grey. Then there is the salad. I could drink the ginger dressing, which more than makes up for the ubiquity of iceberg lettuce. There is just enough tempura for a bite of shrimp, eggplant, and zucchini dipped in salty sweet sauce and surrounded by crunch. Next, a handful of california rolls with tiny orange bursting bubbles and then sweet teriyaki salmon. It makes me kid-happy, like the way I used to feel hiding in a fort made of strategically placed blankets. I wonder what that says about me?