tomato sauce

I don’t want tomato sauce anymore.
It’s not that I don’t like tomato sauce.
I do.
It’s just that I’ve eaten enough of it.
I’ve had it straight and spiced up and served hot and cold and in between.
Layered over, seeped into, accompanying anything imaginable.
I’ve enjoyed it alone, tête-à-tête, and in a group.
Fresh and aged to bring out its subtle flavours.
I’ll never turn my nose up at it,
nor push it aside.
And I certainly appreciate all its versatility and merits.
I can’t really even find in it any fault or shortcoming.
I could never overlook its worth and value.
It has saved me more than once from starvation,
when nothing else could stir my appetite enough to make a meal.
It’s just that I know everything I can imagine knowing about tomato sauce.
I know everything I want to know about it, and more
(maybe I’m just limited).
I don’t choose it anymore.
And when it sits before me
ready to nourish my every need,
eager to appease my hunger,
I often find myself eating without tasting, wishing it were something else.
I’ve just had enough tomato sauce for one life time.
And this wouldn’t be much of a problem,
if we were really still only talking about tomato sauce.


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