You know when you eat a dry cracker? Not a biscuit or a scone or even a bagel. It has to be a cracker. Like the kind you find at the end of a posh meal, nestling beneath a grape and some European cheese. Accompanied perhaps by a glass of port. Those sort of crackers. You know when you eat one of those? Completely dry? Devoid of the lubricant of butter or jam? Just dry. Like the cracked skin of an empty riverbed? And you crunch and munch the puzzle-pieces of carbohydrate up, slowly, in your mouth. Savouring the sensation and allowing your saliva in mix with the wheat to form a bland paste that clings to the fillings in your teeth before you swallow it down. You know when you eat a dry cracker?
I love that feeling.
Maybe I should have been a cement mixer?