I do understand that some people think waste is wrong, and, after careful reflection, I tend to agree.
But I’d been brought up to think very differently;
Mummy always said that only peasants and grubby little worker ants worried about such trivial things.
Mummy said that we were empresses, sultanas and maharanis in our own home,
and that it was our duty to live a life of sybaritic pleasure and indulgence.
Every meal should be an epicurean feast for the senses, she said,
and one should go hungry rather than sully one’s palate with anything less than exquisite morsels.
She told me how she’d eaten chili-fried tofu in the night markets of Kowloon,
and that the best sushi outside of Japan could be found in São Paulo.
The most delicious meal of her life, she said, had been chargrilled octopus,
which she’d eaten at sunset in an unassuming harbor front taverna one late summer evening on Naxos.
She’d watched a fisherman land it that morning, and then sipped ouzo all afternoon
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