I had a delicious osso bucco for dinner. My husband said, as he watched me sucking chunks of bone marrow directly from the knife blade: “that is very decadent of you.”
I said, “no, this is barbarism. If I were being decadent, I would have the bone marrow fed to me on a filigreed platinum spoon by a eunuch wearing a purple silk loin cloth embroidered with children’s dreams as I lounged on an ivory chair wearing a dress made of gilded hummingbird feathers, with my feet resting on a live sea tortoise encrusted with eyeball-sized emeralds. Then I would slide said feet, their toenails painted with a polish made from black coral and the death rattles of clubbed seal pups, into my kitten fur slippers and go defecate the bone marrow into my solid gold toilet while reading a copy of Star magazine printed on pressed orchid petals with ink expressed from the blood of bald eagles. Then I would have the eunuch wipe my ass with the pelt of a Siberian white tiger and moisturize it with passion-flower-scented whale blubber.”
He said, “oh.”
Then we had chocolate cake.