WORKS ON DIGITAL PAPER

I marvel at how I fill my head. I fill my head constantly. Rarely is there a moment when the buzzing bees of mediocrity do not swarm about my thinking parts, in and out of every imagined orifice and corridor in those grey halls. On Saturday I decided I would not eat wheat for a week. It is a standard sort of abstinence, many swearing by its mood and health altering efficacy. I am beset by seasonal allergies of the most persistent kind and have been since prepubescence. They wreak havoc on my senses, dulling my patience, perturbing my perspective, piquing my exasperation. So I thought, on Saturday, to take a possible allergen out of the mix, gluten being an easily enough identified culprit to said many. So far I have succeeded in curbing the wheat and have been mostly unsuccessful in curing the mucus. That, however, has turned out not to be the point. Last night, while Marina read to me a tastey sounding recipe for a fried puffed brioche filled with cheese and tomato, it occurred to me that not eating wheat, and the religion that practice has germinated, is a bit of a red herring. It is not wheat that I ought to avoid, but that which is unnecessary. Wheat in delicious Italian pasta has a point, eat it. Wheat in delicious beer has a point, drink it. Wheat of all sorts of nibbly, small manufactured varieties which come in any number of ingeniously bland tailored packaging, inevitably has no point. Second rate pretzels? Forget it. Second rate croissants, no thanks. Crappy bulbous bread fashioned to bloat the appearance of two slimy slabs of miserly cut ham? Keep it. Only the best wheat for me, at the appropriate time.