That tasted like more . . .

Glom. The word is in the dictionary meaning to grab onto someone or something or to be strongly attached to something. It’s also the one I use to explain the way in which I eat certain things that . . . well . . . simply must be glommed. Eaten all at once, in a single sitting. Glommed.

This is not to say that the act of glomming something precludes actually tasting it or savouring it. Speed is not the key factor, rather the obvious satisfaction of the eating -- the putting the food in the mouth, closing the lips around it, allowing the tongue and roof of the mouth to caress it, the teeth to detect its density or lack of resistance, awaiting the actual instant when the taste buds kick into gear and send the message loud and clear to the brain -- this is good. I need more.

The mere word sounds messy, but glomming need not involve wet cloths or newspapers spread on the table surface. Great finesse and care go into each bite so that nothing goes to waste. This is no food orgy to be compared to the scene in the movie Tom Jones with Albert Finney and Susannah York slurping and devouring dishes with unbridled lust. Apart from politely licking one’s fingers to get that last smear of sauce, a good glom does not require having a shower afterwards.

Some foods should never be glommed. As much as instant gratification is my middle name, I prefer to partake slowly and over a period of days to make some delicacies last. Excellent cheeses, for one example, should not be consumed all at once.  What a treat days later to find you have more of that mild, creamy Wensleydale to enjoy! I avoid glomming most pasta, too, but for reasons more to do with comfort than appetite or economy. Cannelloni or linguine just seem to make me full so fast, that I only eat them in small amounts. Certain seafood, like scallops, is just too rich to glom.

Ask anyone who has ever shared a table with me; I am a slow eater. Ever the last one finished, I’ve had to threaten to stab several people in the back of the hand with my fork if they reach for the remaining two shrimp and three noodles of my Pad Thai. “Cate, are you going to eat the rest of that?” I’ve heard that question more than I care to admit. Their dessert is being brought to the table and I am still finishing my entrée. The server is hovering, waiting to clear my plate away and put my dessert and coffee down. This is a common scenario.

So, it’s not in public that I glom, not usually anyway. With family and friends, it is accepted more, I suppose, because we agree on the glommability of certain foods:  a huge bowl of fresh, sliced crimson strawberries in late June, with just a sprinkle of sugar to pull the juice out even more; homemade macaroni and cheese, (accept no subsitutes!) with sharp, old cheddar morsels suspended throughout and buttered, crisp breadcrumbs browned on top.  Chocolate chip cookies, warm and gooey from the oven, accompanied by cold milk in a glass with condensation drops on the outside, are perfect for glomming with abandon. Ribs. The crispy bits stuck to the pan after roasting a lovely leg of lamb or the crackling on roast pork. 

And so, in the comfort of our homes, in the kitchens of our siblings, cousins and friends, I unapologetically glom. And so do you. You know it.