YOU MAY SING TO YOUR supper, exalt your soup of the evening, apostrophise your haggis, or even — as Neruda did without obvious irony — assure onions that they resemble Aphrodite’s breasts. But none of these eatables will respond: they are all dead.
If you want your nourishment to register your utterances, it must, at least, be alive, like the witchetty grubs, plump with wood-pulp in their guts, that Australian aboriginals chew to death,
